![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Friday, Day 6, At Sea
To come back up North [as we had, at this point, just began the return journey] is like coming home. When I was at school in Walla Walla, I felt the same thing on those long drives south. In the last two hours I would come back into a land of evergreens and fog, of water and growth, a richness of the land that the desert end of Washington refuses to offer—and as the view out the window went misty and dark (even in the warmth of summer) it would tug down to the deepest part of me that was—this is—home.
The temperature has dropped an easy 20 degrees, and we sail today into the wind--a wind to lean into, a wind strong enough to knock knots from the boat's speed. The sky mists at its borders, and the waves are rich blue again. This is like coming home. It's almost a relief to know that, when shoved south for a week, I don't suddenly realize that I love the warmth--my world is not rearranged, but rather what I assumed to be true is true: these dimmer, darker, deeper days are my days, they are my comfort and my home. I don't have to move to Mexico.
And to think, these aren't even the cold, salt-bitter Pacific coasts of my home state.
Tonight, meanwhile, is the big family night—the actual anniversary, and a formal dinner no less; we're taking group photos in just a few minutes and first I need to brush out my hair, because a walk on deck has turned it wild. I am not looking forward to pictures—but perhaps the rest, the closeness of the family, for a reason, with direction, perhaps even with good food--perhaps that will be nice. But there's no time left for wishful thinking—Devon's just finished using the comb.
Further thoughts, four days post-cruise
The anniversary celebration did indeed go well.
I had the same quibble about family photos as I always have: I have no problem with a commemorative group photo or two, but feel it's offensive to peer-pressure or demand others take part in numerous other photos (of individuals, small groups, family groups, etc.). I understand why some people would want to have those photos (I don't like or keep snapshots, but for those who do they can be pleasant mementos), and I think it's perfectly acceptable to request someone allow their photo to be taken—but more often than not, it's not a request but a simple assumption which removes the individual's ability or right to refuse. And, you know? It's unacceptable to take away that right, especially when it comes to someone's body—even if you're just transferring their image to film. That this assumption exists isn't my family's fault; it's wider-spread than that, it's cultural. And no, being photographed didn't do me lasting harm. But it made me resentful and uncomfortable, in part of the standard of assumption that lies behind it*, and that counts for something.
As for the rest, well, I'm not sure what to say.** The actual anniversary, the actual family event, it was lovely. By nature of my grandparents's personalities and relationship, the dinner was laidback, lively, humorous, and yet still authentically touching. But my memory is limited and inconsistent, and already a summary of that evening has fled me. Instead what I remember is this: Despite a few glasses clanged and words uttered, there were no formal toasts. There was, instead, my grandfather rising simply to say they were blessed, to thank everyone for coming, and to pledge that in another ten years, we would meet again. Ten years ago we celebrated 50 years while on a ship touring Alaska. No one knows where we'll be ten years from now (and general consensus begs it's anywhere but another cruise ship) or who will be around then, but we will be together to celebrate family and love.
And that—that is beautiful.
* For further reading: My body is not your property, by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shadesong writing for the Boston Area Rape Crisis Center blog. This essay is about the assumption of consent (or the assumption that consent is unnecessary) for physical contact, but the two issues are hardly unrelated.
And while I'm on the topic, I also had issues with assumptions related to physical contact and consent while on the cruise. I'm hyper-sensitive to issues around touch because I avoid most physical contact, and so what bothered me probably wouldn't bother most: the instances of unasked physical contact were all fairly "safe" (being touched on the shoulder by our waiter) or occurred between family members (being hugged by my grandparents). But they did bother me—because for every majority that doesn't mind this sort of touch there is a minority, like me, which does; because even if each individual incident is minor, they all reflect a culture in which one (especially if that one is female) is not able to determine how and when others interact with their body. And that culture scares me.
** Am I better at writing critically than appreciatively? Yes, yes I am, thank you.
To come back up North [as we had, at this point, just began the return journey] is like coming home. When I was at school in Walla Walla, I felt the same thing on those long drives south. In the last two hours I would come back into a land of evergreens and fog, of water and growth, a richness of the land that the desert end of Washington refuses to offer—and as the view out the window went misty and dark (even in the warmth of summer) it would tug down to the deepest part of me that was—this is—home.
The temperature has dropped an easy 20 degrees, and we sail today into the wind--a wind to lean into, a wind strong enough to knock knots from the boat's speed. The sky mists at its borders, and the waves are rich blue again. This is like coming home. It's almost a relief to know that, when shoved south for a week, I don't suddenly realize that I love the warmth--my world is not rearranged, but rather what I assumed to be true is true: these dimmer, darker, deeper days are my days, they are my comfort and my home. I don't have to move to Mexico.
And to think, these aren't even the cold, salt-bitter Pacific coasts of my home state.
Tonight, meanwhile, is the big family night—the actual anniversary, and a formal dinner no less; we're taking group photos in just a few minutes and first I need to brush out my hair, because a walk on deck has turned it wild. I am not looking forward to pictures—but perhaps the rest, the closeness of the family, for a reason, with direction, perhaps even with good food--perhaps that will be nice. But there's no time left for wishful thinking—Devon's just finished using the comb.
Further thoughts, four days post-cruise
The anniversary celebration did indeed go well.
I had the same quibble about family photos as I always have: I have no problem with a commemorative group photo or two, but feel it's offensive to peer-pressure or demand others take part in numerous other photos (of individuals, small groups, family groups, etc.). I understand why some people would want to have those photos (I don't like or keep snapshots, but for those who do they can be pleasant mementos), and I think it's perfectly acceptable to request someone allow their photo to be taken—but more often than not, it's not a request but a simple assumption which removes the individual's ability or right to refuse. And, you know? It's unacceptable to take away that right, especially when it comes to someone's body—even if you're just transferring their image to film. That this assumption exists isn't my family's fault; it's wider-spread than that, it's cultural. And no, being photographed didn't do me lasting harm. But it made me resentful and uncomfortable, in part of the standard of assumption that lies behind it*, and that counts for something.
As for the rest, well, I'm not sure what to say.** The actual anniversary, the actual family event, it was lovely. By nature of my grandparents's personalities and relationship, the dinner was laidback, lively, humorous, and yet still authentically touching. But my memory is limited and inconsistent, and already a summary of that evening has fled me. Instead what I remember is this: Despite a few glasses clanged and words uttered, there were no formal toasts. There was, instead, my grandfather rising simply to say they were blessed, to thank everyone for coming, and to pledge that in another ten years, we would meet again. Ten years ago we celebrated 50 years while on a ship touring Alaska. No one knows where we'll be ten years from now (and general consensus begs it's anywhere but another cruise ship) or who will be around then, but we will be together to celebrate family and love.
And that—that is beautiful.
* For further reading: My body is not your property, by
shadesong writing for the Boston Area Rape Crisis Center blog. This essay is about the assumption of consent (or the assumption that consent is unnecessary) for physical contact, but the two issues are hardly unrelated.And while I'm on the topic, I also had issues with assumptions related to physical contact and consent while on the cruise. I'm hyper-sensitive to issues around touch because I avoid most physical contact, and so what bothered me probably wouldn't bother most: the instances of unasked physical contact were all fairly "safe" (being touched on the shoulder by our waiter) or occurred between family members (being hugged by my grandparents). But they did bother me—because for every majority that doesn't mind this sort of touch there is a minority, like me, which does; because even if each individual incident is minor, they all reflect a culture in which one (especially if that one is female) is not able to determine how and when others interact with their body. And that culture scares me.
** Am I better at writing critically than appreciatively? Yes, yes I am, thank you.
