Monday, January 25, the Pittsburgh Penguins met the New York Rangers at Madison Square Gardens. My boyfriend Marc-Andre Fleury, who sat out several games with a broken finger, was back in net for the first time since the injury. I was all set to marvel at the sexy athleticism on the Penguins’ side when I realized that opposite Fleury, all bedecked in catching gloves and giant leg pads stood… Rangers goalie Henrik Lundqvist.

Well, I’ll get to Lundvqist later. But because today is my twenty-fourth birthday, I thought I would share with you the hotness that is Marc-Andre Fleury!

Beware: extremely image-heavy below the cut.

I have been having a total shit week, very busy with doctor’s appointments and dealing with some extra-special obstructive, discriminatory shit at work, so I haven’t been up for anything that requires engagement. Just mindless reading. But I can always count on the Penguins to cheer me up.

Marc Andre Fleury made the most ridiculous save against the Philadelphia Flyers last night:

This is why he’s my boyfriend. And also why my husband doesn’t mind.

I feel like a five-year-old who just got teleported into Disneyland for the first time. I start bouncing up and down giddily and crying do it again! do it again!!

Philadelphia’s Jeff Carter rushes to the net and makes a shot, which Marc-Andre Fleury thinks he has frozen but ends up coming out for a juicy rebound. Philadelphia’s Daniel Briere works in front of the net trying to chip the puck in, and Fleury falls on his side reaching to stop the puck just outside his crease. Briere makes one last attempt, trying to chip the puck over the body of Fleury, and Fleury, still lying on his side, rolls on his back and curls up just enough to grab the puck out of the air with his glove, legs in the air, rather like a turtle on his back…

Paul Steiggerwald: — good save by Fleury — the rebound, loose around the net, Fleury can’t corrall it — OH! makes a good glove save on a puck that was going over his body and into the net off the stick of Daniel Briere.

Bob Errey: Absolutely sick save by Marc-Andre Fleury, laying on his right side, and Briere thought he had himself when he chipped it, but Fleury somehow got the glove reaching back! …

I am going back to tag all my photos. I have wanted to get my collection organized for over a year now.

Of course, this means going back through all my photos before I moved out here, too. From March 2004 through December 2006. It felt much longer than it seems, typed out like that. Feeling trapped. Controlled. Cut in half, the only person who loved me 2500 miles away. My friends, so loving, but my social circle so wrapped up with my family that I have not been able to keep up those beautiful relationships since the move.

It hurts. The good things hurt. The bad things aren’t documented, with few exceptions (me staring glassy-eyed at the camera with a distressed smile, forced to pose with my family at the church event celebrating my class’ graduation, where my family threw a fit because I spent some of my time with my friends and their families, and they felt betrayed). But I remember them immediately when I see the smiles. Because the happiness was never unfettered. The happiness was desparate, tenuous, fragile, aware of its own brevity. There was no such thing as a moment of happiness that was free from all the pain. It was all baked together, inseparable, each a part of the other. I could never have happiness without knowing it would bring even worse pain as soon as it ended, and knowing how soon it was set to end…

And now here I am, cut off from the life I had, no contact with anyone except the occasional email to my mother (though she seeks me out daily, by email, calls to my husband’s phone, invitations to myspace and twitter and facebook, finding my accounts by association with my friends) living a totally different life, much calmer, freer, and finally now able to feel happiness… unguarded.

I had to have my shield, then, and it had to be strong, and always ready. My self, the person I truly was, was holed up in a fortress deep inside, very small, restricted, not allowed to explore, grow; too dangerous. I was saving it, unable to nurture it, but protecting it for the day when I might be free from the constant assault, safe.

Here I am. I don’t need a shield here. I have, in fact, grown accustomed to living  without the weight of the armor, always protecting. Grown accustomed to just living, just doing, just being what I am, and enjoying it.

But whenever I dip into my past, I find that I am vulnerable again. I have to fumble for that shield. Shit, I forgot it. Shit shit shit shit. Overwhelmed, crushed under the weight of everything rushing back.

I lose touch with the world I sit in, right now, in this chair with the windows open and streaming in light and noise from outside, the locusts foreign to me when I moved here, my cat sleeping comfortably on the floor, the kitchen in a mess as we reorganize where we keep the spices and the dishes. The kitchen where I can cook, now, without fear that I will be yelled at, guilt-tripped, physically pushed aside, my work taken over, can’t even put a pot of water on to boil without it being changed, always wrong, never able to do anything and have it just be mine.

This kitchen now, where I enter, I pour my tea from my refrigerator, I put my pot of water on to boil, I take my box of pasta down from the cabinet over the sink, I clear the dishes out of the drainer and put them away. And that’s that. No one behind me to move everything I set down, chastise me, ensure I am never allowed to do a single, small, petty little thing for myself.

I am caught up in the old kitchen. Where my hand is grabbed as I fry up the pork for tacos, held, and another hand does the same thing I was just doing, while telling me that I was doing it all wrong. Where I find my pot of water mysteriously moved, set on different heat, on a different burner, after having been yelled at from the living room about doing it wrong. The laundry in the back, where I am instructed on how to operate the washer as I try to set a load of clothes to wash, even though I have capably done my own laundry many times, I am assumed to never know, never understand, never be capable, never be self-reliant, always someone else’s burdensome extension.

Going through these pictures of the good moments, the fun, the smiles and sun streaming, this is where I am, caught up, again guarded.

And suddenly I start, and wake up. And realize that the person I am waiting for to come home is not my mother, but my husband. That it has been a year since I have seen my mother, and a year and a half before that. I have not set foot in California in two and a half years — now the same amount of time between when I finally got my first digital camera and when I packed all my belongings in flimsy cardboard with layers of packing tape and stepped on to my much-anticipated one way flight from LAX to PIT.

I am sitting here as the locusts make their locust-noises, I hear the rhythmic hum of the ceiling fan in the downstairs neighbors’ bedroom, I see my cat sleeping peacefully on the unvacuumed carpet and the bucket of cleaning supplies ahead of me. I realize that I have a bed not fifteen feet from where I sit, a nice queen size bed with a memory foam topper, in which I sleep every night, happy and secure, with my husband. Happy. And secure. Unguarded.

It’s a hard transition.

I will be updating this post as information breaks and coverage progresses.

Last night around 8PM, a man entered the back door of a Bridgeville gym, carrying a duffel bag. He entered the aerobics room, drew out a gun, shut down the lights and opened fire, then turned the gun on himself. As of this writing, three women are dead and up to a dozen more injured.

Scary enough, especially since I live within ten minutes of the place. But today, the man has been identified — leading journalists to his Internet postings. The Observer-Reporter posted a PDF of them; I am reproducing the images here. The text is available at his website (I’m back and forth on linking directly to it).

This man was deeply resentful of women who rejected him, deeply racist (but sadly, his views are not out of the ordinary either in the Pittsburgh area or the country as a whole) and clearly deeply twisted. He reproduced the name and address of a preacher who he claims said that he could kill a bunch of people and still go to heaven, then asserts that it is faith not works that earns entrance to heaven (and thus he is still bound there). It is deeply disturbing.

I really hope, in the coverage to come — and surely the feminist blogosphere will be all over this — that we do not resort to tired and dangerous images of mental illness, and find some way to blame this man’s sick heart on some neuroatypicality. I hope, but I know in my heart I will be proven wrong. Please, don’t do this. Don’t make this worse. Just don’t.

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Continued thoughts:

I really need to get the hell away from this story, but I just can’t. At least three women dead. He watched them on a regular basis. Plotted to kill them. He remarks about watching the “college-age” girls in the area. And masturbating to them. That could be me. Just walking around going about my daily life. He could be one of the random men out there and I would have no idea. What he was thinking or what he was capable of doing because of it. All of a sudden you realize you aren’t necessarily as safe as you want to think you are. These women living next to you are gone. And while most people will not pick up a duffel bag of guns and open fire, the things he thought and expressed are not out-of-the-ordinary. They’re things that a lot of men think, at least occasionally. Looking at you. Thinking that. About you. This isn’t out of the blue. His thoughts are not out of the norm. His actions, maybe. But our society fostered, fed, tended these beliefs. Made him feel safe in them. Make many more people feel safe in them. And when you feel that safety thinking these things? Why wouldn’t you feel safe doing something about it?

Our society told this man what he deserved. And our society told this man that certain methods in obtaining it are acceptable or even encouraged.

Our society tells men that women exist for men’s purposes. Our society tells men that violence is an acceptable means of achieving their goals, asserting their dominance, establishing their identity.

Domestic violence is the prime example: you can’t say it’s just bad apples. Because women die every day because of this entitlement. Women suffer violence every day because of it.

We don’t tell men: “It’s ok to beat a woman.” But we do tell them: “She probably provoked it. She shouldn’t have dressed like that. She shouldn’t have mouthed off. She shouldn’t have rejected you. Who does she think she is? She’s just after your money. Stupid bitch.” And we tell them: “You aren’t a real man if you don’t present as tough. If you aren’t willing to fight. You aren’t a whole person if you aren’t a ‘real man.’ You have to perform violent masculinity if you want to be taken seriously and retain control over your own life.”

And then we act surprised when men take 2+2 and end up with 4.

Most men will never do what this man did. But that doesn’t mean he’s a bad apple, that he’s unusual, that he stands out, he’s not like all those other men. To some extent, yes: he just happens to be the one who really thought the way to react was to open fire on a women’s aerobics class. Most men will never do that. But that doesn’t mean that the use of violence to assert one’s right to women one’s own purposes is not accepted, encouraged, in this society. Because it is. And this man grew from those same poisoned roots. Maybe most branches don’t rot the way he did. But that doesn’t mean they’re clean.

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Update, 1:25PM Eastern: Here we go. I knew it. Let me repeat: mental illness has been repeatedly shown in scientific studies not to be linked to violence. This association is harmful to mentally ill people who are just trying to live their goddamn everyday lives. Because people will look at them, and their illness, and assume that means they have the capacity to become another Sodini. And mentally ill people face serious consequence because of it. In housing, in employment, in health care access, in their social lives.

It’s not going to do anyone any goddamn good to turn Sodini into a “psychotic” “mentally ill” man. Maybe he was mentally ill. That has no goddamn bearing on this. Mentally ill is not a prerequisite for being violent.

It won’t bring back the dead. It won’t heal the wounded. All it will do is make life even shittier for the mentally ill people who are still here living their lives. Confuckinggratulations, you’re helping so fucking much.

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CAUTION: This content is disturbing.

Quotes from his diary:

Planned to do this in the summer but figure to stick around to see the election outcome. This particular one got so much attention and I was just curious. Not like I give a flying fcuk who won, since this exit plan was already planned. Good luck to Obama! He will be successful. The liberal media LOVES him. Amerika has chosen The Black Man. Good! In light of this I got ideas outside of Obama’s plans for the economy and such. Here it is: Every black man should get a young white girl hoe to hone up on. Kinda a reverse indentured servitude thing. Long ago, many a older white male landowner had a young Negro wench girl for his desires. Bout’ time tables are turned on that shit. Besides, dem young white hoez dig da bruthrs! LOL. More so than they dig the white dudes! Every daddy know when he sends his little girl to college, she be bangin a bruthr real good. I saw it. “Not my little girl”, daddy says! (Yeah right!!) Black dudes have thier choice of best white hoez. You do the math, there are enough young white so all the brothers can each have one for 3 or 6 months or so.

[...]

Just got back from tanning, been doing this for a while. No gym today, my elbow is sore again. I actually look good. I dress good, am clean-shaven, bathe, touch of cologne – yet 30 million women rejected me – over an 18 or 25-year period. That is how I see it.

[...]

[Omitted] Church in Pittsburgh, PA – “Be Ye Holy, even as I have been Ye holy! Thus saith the lord thy God!”, as pastor [omitted] would proclaim. Holy shit, religion is a waste. But this guy teaches (and convinced me) you can commit mass murder then still go to heaven. Ask him. Call him at [omitted]. If no answer there, he should still live at [omitted]. In any case, guilt and fear kept me there 13 long years until Nov 2006. I think his crap did the most damage.

[...]

I guess some of us were simply meant to walk a lonely path. I have slept alone for over 20 years. Last time I slept all night with a girlfriend it was 1982. Proof I am a total malfunction. Girls and women don’t even give me a second look ANYWHERE. There is something BLATANTLY wrong with me that NO goddam person will tell me what it is. Every person just wants to be fucking nice and say nice things to me. Flattery. Oh yeah, I am sure you can get a date anytime. You look good, etc. Pussies.

[...]

[The day before the shooting]

I took off today, Monday, and tomorrow to practice my routine and make sure it is well polished. I need to work out every detail, there is only one shot. Also I need to be completely immersed into something before I can be successful. I haven’t had a drink since Friday at about 2:30. Total effort needed. Tomorrow is the big day.Unfortunately I talked to my neighbor today, who is very positive and upbeat. I need to remain focused and absorbed COMPLETELY. Last time I tried this, in January, I chickened out. Lets see how this new approach works.

Maybe soon, I will see God and Jesus. At least that is what I was told. Eternal life does NOT depend on works. If it did, we will all be in hell. Christ paid for EVERY sin, so how can I or you be judged BY GOD for a sin when the penalty was ALREADY paid. People judge but that does not matter. I was reading the Bible and The Integrity of God beginning yesterday, because soon I will see them.

[I am having with the WordPress backend and cannot paste the full post here. Once I get WP upgraded I'll put the post here as well. Visit Feministe to see the post for now.]

In the run-up to Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Finals tonight, I have posted my photos from Game Six, Tuesday night (June 9th) at Mellon Arena.

I was in the midst of an awful whole-body migraine at the time, and ended up taking more painkillers than is technically safe to be able to attend the game. But this is the kind of thing that happens once in a lifetime, and it is one thing I firmly decided when I was a teenager in high school facing the choice between completing assignments or attending this or that social event (Prom and Grad Nite, mainly): there are times where I will sacrifice my physical wellbeing for the sake of participating in something that is important to me. I will not let my disability keep me from doing something fun, just because it is “fun” and therefore not allowed for the chronically ill (who face pressure to never, ever do anything that takes any sort of energy which is in any small way enjoyable to them — because then they are failing in their responsibilities to everyone else in the world, and seen as transgressing the dominant narrative of disability as a tragedy, something to somberly nod to one another about).

This doesn’t mean I abandon all responsibility and throw myself into every trivial thing that comes along. It means that I already have to sit out most events because of my disability, and I already have to put a disproportionate amount of energy into the basics of life, and I can’t let myself fall into that rut of always doing the more Serious and Important thing because that’s what I’m supposed to do, so yes, sometimes, I will say “fuck it,” bear the consequences, and go do that Really Fun Thing I was wanting to do, because I should not be denied participation in these things — sport games, concerts, art festivals, dinners out, parties, etc. — or shamed for daring to participate in them, just because I am disabled.

Anyway, pictures. I managed to get picturesof both Pittsburgh goals, as well as that crazy insane shift at the end of the game where Rob Scuderi stepped in front of the net and did some stand-in goaltending for the waylaid Marc-Andre Fleury. Enjoy.

The entire set

Me with Iceburgh, the Pittsburgh Penguins mascot (as posted previously here):

Inside Mellon Arena just before the game began:

It was a last-minute decision Friday night. My husband snagged two tickets to the Penguins-Capitals games at Verizon Center in Washington, DC and the next morning we started the five hour drive.

It was a great experience — I love the DC area and I was excited to go back. But five hours in a car makes for stiff muscles, and I was already dealing with some endo flareup. So I was dealing with spasms and pain even with my TENS on (here’s the trick: if you have a big bag, security doesn’t bother patting you down when you enter) and more painkillers than I should have taken.

We had nosebleed seats but whatever, they were seats. It was a great game, even though we lost. It’s hard not to enjoy an NHL playoff game. Especially being able to whisper at each other about the clueless fans behind us who had several amusing misconceptions about how the game is played. (It’s fairly doubtful that the linesmen are biased in calling off-sides. It’s one of the most objective and least arguable calls there is. But “they only ever seem to see ours!”)

Throughout the game, the people behind us kept tapping my shoulder and yelling at me for leaning forward. They “couldn’t see.” Of course, everyone else in the section was leaning forward, and I couldn’t see without doing it too. But most of all, my back was killing me, and doubling over stretches the muscles in a way that helps relieve some pain. (Ask mattw — I sleep in the same damn position.) I tried sitting back for part of the second period but couldn’t last.

After a few times of them tapping me, toward the end of the game, I turned around when they tapped again and stuttered, loudly, wide-eyed and annoyed, “I have a disability — in — back in a lot of pain –”

and they sneered and threw up their hands at me. So I turned back around.

I was steaming inside. I complained to mattw on our way out when the game was over, noting that my TENS was turned up all the way and I’d already taken way too much medicine. And when we reached the bottom of one escalator, the couple behind me tapped my shoulder and the middle-aged bearded guy said, with a smile, “They meant it nicely.”

There are several things going on here. We were wearing Penguins shirts at a Capitals game, and there’s a budding rivalry there. It’s a playoff game, and there’s the whole MVP debate going on (Malkin vs. Ovechkin), so of course it’s contentious. I severely doubt they would have bothered me if I’d been wearing red & blue rather than black & gold. So I understand it. All in good fun, in that respect. A little rivalry can make the sport more fun.

It’s a national sports game, though. At a huge arena. Some people pay attention to the game. Those people might lean left, right, forward, backward, so on. And as long as they aren’t standing up all the time, or wearing a very tall hat or something, that’s accepted, and you work around it. You lean one way or the other to get a better view. People move around as the puck moves around the ice to see better. You move too. And when things are really tense, they probably scoot closer to the edge of their seat and lean forward. So you do the same. And at the very end of the game, people often stand up. Which means you stand up too. IOW, it’s a rather ridiculous thing to complain about, no less multiple times, and angrily (not politely).

Finally, their reaction mattered. When I spilled out why I kept leaning forward, they didn’t do what I expected — look away awkwardly and quiet down as though nothing was ever said. I’m used to that. But instead, they kept gesturing and yelling at me.

That’s what’s so frustrating. It’s not respected at all. Or only respected for so long as it has to be — when you have any reason no matter how trivial to discount that person’s experience or opinion, respect goes out the window. People with disabilities are “protected” in this society only insofar as they are nonthreatening. And that protection is paternalism at its extreme. But that’s a separate issue. When they aren’t subjects of protection, they are objects of harassment.

It isn’t the worst case of harassment I’ve had related to my disabilities, but it bothered me.

the big screen on flickr

The greatest thing to happen to the world of sports since the advent of the telecast.

During their run for the Stanley Cup in spring 2008, the Pittsburgh Penguins, teamed with Consol Energy and Trib Total Media*, decided to put up a giant LCD screen facing the grassy area outside Mellon Arena, so that fans without tickets to the game could stop by — or camp out — and watch the game. For free.

Every game (weather permitting), home and away, was shown on the Big Screen. And fans responded. The place was packed. The energy was incredible. Even better the chance to gather and watch the games that did not take place on home ice.

As entrance (such as it was) was free, the team collected no direct revenue. But they set up concessions — barbecue grill and so forth — and made a good penny off of that. But you could still bring your own food, non-alcoholic drink, your own chairs/blankets/accommodations, and so forth. It was an open and free atmosphere. The area was not roped off, not guarded, not ticketed.

And it’s the most freaking genius thing ever. Yeah, they weren’t gonna make a buck off tickets, but they drew a whole lot of fans to the arena. They fanned the flame of fandom, cementing enthusiasm for hockey in the budding fanbase of Pittsburgh — an area that previously cared only about its precious Steelers. (My husband, a Pirates fan, has quite the complex about this, and I actually share his distaste for antagonistic element of Pittsburgh football fandom.) They found a way to make money off of local fans even when the team was playing an away game. And for once, more people than those who could afford the price of playoff hockey tix were able to gather in support of their team.

It’s playoff season again in Pittsburgh. We never would’ve thought it two months previous, when the Penguins were in such a slump that they aspired to a tenth-place finish in the Eastern Conference, but their fortunes rose and here they are: first round against their bitter rivals the Broad Street Bullies. If there’s one way to draw a crowd to a Penguins game, it’s to play against the hated Philadelphia Flyers! (I think it betrays Philly’s inferiority complex: why would they care so much about little ol’ Pittsburgh if they did not see us as a threat? Ha.) And fortune indeed shone upon us: the Pens get the home ice advantage.

And the team was smart enough to agree to put up the Big Screen again this year! A fan can’t help but be excited. Having had my share of bad experiences with booking overlord Ticketmaster, and being newly unemployed, I can’t exactly afford the price of playoff tickets. But I can afford the two-dollar T fare up into the city. And indeed, we are planning to go to every game possible. Because it’s an incredible experience, one I wouldn’t miss for all the world. I will always cherish the memories of the games we were able to attend last season, when I was new to the city, settling in to my new home. Forming an identity.

And I’m glad someone had the bright idea to do it. I can’t wait til tomorrow night.

See scenes from the May 4, 2008 game against the Rangers pictured above in my Flickr stream.

* Yeah, I’m not happy that my hockey team’s fortunes were sold to** Big Coal. And I know progressives aren’t a huge fan of the Scaife media. But one out of three isn’t bad, right?

** God, I’m going to miss Mellon Arena. Oldest arena in the country, and the city sees that as a bad thing. I love that fucking place, inaccessible as it is (and O, is it inaccessible!). But I’m still both a hockey newb and a swPA transplant, so I don’t get to make that call. Unfortunately.

I finally decided to buy an upgraded Flickr account so I can post my pictures without them all getting lost — I have, uh, a lot more than 200 in the works. I started uploading what I’ve processed so far yesterday. Head over to my photostream and browse around. :)

Photography is more than a casual hobby for me; it is something I genuinely love to do. And I like to think I do a pretty good job of it. Playing with color, angle, perspective, focus and detail — I feel the same thrill I feel putting brush to canvas. There is something about art that truly does reach into the furthest depths of self. My photography has carried me through several particularly rough times in my life, and added unsurpassable depth and joy to some of the best times. It is also an art I can put to work even when I am not at my physical best. I don’t know that I can express how valuable that is to me. And I can only hope that others find some enjoyment in the work I put out.

Right now the pictures are from two Penguins playoff games last season, with some kitty pictures sprinkled in between. There’s much more to come.

Incidentally, a friend of mine just posted some of his pictures, and he has more patience than I — he’s described each photo, and he manages to be rather funny doing it. It’s worth checking out, seriously.

Last Sunday, the Detroit Red Wings came back to Mellon Arena for the first time since our spring 2008 battle for the Stanley Cup.We haven’t been able to see a game so far this year. So when I noticed that there were still tickets available, I nudged my husband to take a look.

Unfortunately for us, the Penguins lost. Dammit. But I got a great picture next to my one and only crush, goaltender Marc-Andre Fleury. And I maneuvered the crowded gift shop to get a good look at the replica jerseys. There was #29. I remarked to my husband that of the three, I liked the white jersey best. He stood by silently. Little did I know.

He had told me a month or so back that my birthday present would probably come a couple weeks late. OK, I said. I did long distance for four and a half years — I was well used to flexibility on gift-giving deadlines (and actually somewhat preferred it that way).

The box finally came Thursday, while we were at work. He didn’t want me to see who it was from as he carried it inside, to the bedroom where I couldn’t see as he unwrapped. He asked me to close my eyes. I had no idea what I was going to see when I opened them.

I’m not really a person who shows surprise or excitement. But I stood there, eyes wide and mouth open, reduced to a one-word vocabulary:

Ooohhhhhh

The reason it was late, he explained, is that they are made custom for every order. This isn’t an appliqued replica. This was the real deal. Complete with the little strap on the lower back inside to tie the jersey down so it can’t be pulled off in a fight. (I had no idea. Come on — I am still a hockey n00b.)

My husband wubs me.