THERE ARE NO TALL PEOPLE AND NO SHORT PEOPLE

(We all just carry our human toll).

(That’s what Jared said to me two weeks ago at the counter). 

Let’s talk about where we live:

Question:  Who hangs out at MoKaBe’s?

Justin’s Answer:  Freaks.

What makes this place a comfortable environment?

Why do people feel that they have become more “themselves” since becoming regulars or working at MoKaBe’s?  

What makes it home?

Home might be where your heart is.  Or it might be where you leave your stuff.  Or it might be where your family lives or where you grew up or where your friends hang out or where you sit without moving for someone else’s entire shift. 

George (sitting at the MoKaBe’s counter):  Liza.  Move your shit.  You don’t live here.

Liza:  ?

George:  You don’t live somewhere unless you have two sets of clothing and a toothbrush there.

Results are in:  I live several places.  I live way too many places.  I have to say I think I like it.

But what place is home?

If my home is where my blood-and-bones relatives are, then I am a white-walled county brat, familiar with country clubs and private schools. 

If my home is where I go to school, then I am an eccentric attic hermit with four grad school roommates.  I avoid the kitchen and am scared to drive in the snow.  (Big hills).

If my home is where I sleep in St. Louis, then I am a vagabond, a highway explorer in a variety of cars and people’s clothes.

Several people have told me that MoKaBe’s is like a home to them—in different ways.

It is sort of...it is...my halfway house.

I live upstairs.  I manage this building.  My work is to fix broken things and broken hearts.

I was raised Southern Baptist and needed MoKaBe’s to help me quit lying to myself. 

It was a sense of…you know…coming home to a community.

It’s made me change my definition of what “having your life together” is.  Here, I’ve learned…that’s not fair.  Too much importance had been placed (in the past) on standard, white picket fence things.  I’ve realized here that you don’t need them.  As long as you’re making it work…that’s all that matters. 

If my mom could love it...anyone could feel comfortable here.

So…home. 

When I ask people to give me a few words to describe the MoKaBe’s environment, nearly all say home first.

But what makes it a “home?”

Firstlyletmejustsay that there are some things about MoKaBe’s Coffeehouse that make it distinctly unlike my mom’s house.  (Another place in St. Louis I might consider home). 

1.  No blood relations.

2.  I have to wear my shoes.

3.  I don’t say things like “fuck this shit” at my mom’s house.  (Wait, that was completely a lie—I lied).

4.  I don’t sleep with anyone who also lives at my mom’s house.  I’ve never wanted to do that.

Let’s talk about things that are not okay.

I just walked into a coffeeshop.  WHAT?  No.  I did.  It is in Brooklyn.  Where in Brooklyn I can’t say…it still all looks the same to me.  Dry Cleaners.  Garage.  Alley.  Church.  Nail Salon.  IPhones.  Dry Cleaners.  Garage.  Alley.  Church.  Nail Salon. 

Anyway, I’m in some place in Brooklyn that I really could never point out on a map.   The doors are open, there’s a tin ceiling, the light fixtures are hip, the walls are brick, and everything including the floor is fairtradeequalrightsorganicgoodforyou.

This coffee was exactly 200% of the cost that a MoKaBe’s iced coffee would be.  (A bargain in this cit-ay.)

I walked up to the counter…

CONVERSATION:

Guy:  (Silence…glare)

Me:  Hi!

Guy:  (Silence…glare)

Me:  How are you?  (Smile…the reallyImeanit smile).

Guy:  What having?

(Ps:  What?  Is this a text message conversation?  What?  I am too slow to talk like that!)

Me:  Uhh. Mm.  Iced coffee? 

Guy:  Size.

Me:  Small.

Guy: Three.

Me:  Thanks.

So then I sit down, and I cross my legs, and I sit at my computer, and I sort of look like the girl who is in front of me and I sort of look like the girl at the window, and I sort of look like the boy behind me except for the facial hair.  SO WHY IS THIS PLACE ABSOLUTELY NOT HOME?

BECAUSE I DO NOT FEEL AT HOME.

I DO NOT FEEL WELCOME AT ALL.

MY HEAD HURTS!  And why is it not socially acceptable in this place to smile at people who enter a room?  Why do people not do that?  Is that weird?  Am I like…really weird?

Here’s the thing.  In my hotpinkAmericanApparel (ohmygoddon’tsayhipster) crop top, I might sort of fit in here.  But I am not MYSELF here.  I don’t know WHAT I AM here.  I am a stranger to a bunch of strangers.

At MoKaBe’s, even when I was a stranger to strangers, I still felt at home.  Why? 

Home might be where your heart is, where the homos are, where you drink your coffee black or where you keep your toothbrush or where you are with that special someone you like so much, but it also might be WHERE YOU CAN JUST BE.

"With so many different personalities…it’s fun.  It’s different every day.  We were so freakin goofy.  Every night. " 

Yaknow?  Where you just ARE what you ARE and there are no apologies for it.

So you don’t have to wear a certain thing, be a certain way, hide away some pieces of yourself that aren’t okay in your mom’s house. 

You just.  Are.

“And that was the first moment where I was like…wow they must think I’m really annoying.  But they at least know who I am.”

There are no tall people here.  Or short people.  Or, maybe, Jared, there are tall and short people, but you’re right:

They are just carrying their own human toll. 

The VARIETY of the people at this place make it that way.

The experiences.

The clashes.

The differences.

The hopes.

The whatever.

D’y’knowhatI’msayin?

Something about this place makes it just OKAY TO BE. 

Justin:   It’s the coffee shop that people go to that feel like they don’t fit anywhere else.  I don’t want to say outcasts, but I feel like it’s this place where it’s safe for people who don’t always feel welcome.  The politics are part of that. 

I feel welcome at a lot of places, I might be an outcast, but I’m not really sure.  What I am sure about is that I don’t have to look like or talk like the people around me at MoKaBe’s to feel at home.  When I walk up to the counter and am immediately insulted by someone I trust, I have to say I like it.

Because it’s home.  It feels like coming home.

It’s no wonder that when I say at school that I’m “homesick,” I’m not envisioning Creve Coeur or my childhood bed.  I’m remembering a counter with a bunch of stools, sitting between people I know and don’t know, who look like me or don’t, who are regulars or tourists, who are just carrying their human toll.

I don’t know what my human toll is yet.  Or what yours is.

But let’s think about that for next time.

I PUZZLE MY MIND TO MIX MY HEAD (PRIDE TIME)

Let’s be totally real and personal about some facts.

Let’s talk about Friday.

1.  Friday, I BEGAN Pride Weekend hungover, which left my Tuesday state of being a little off the charts.  I wouldn’t know what to call it.  Those words aren’t invented.  Friday, 8am (opening time), was the earliest I have ever been at MoKaBe's.  I walked there.  I was not fully healthy.

2.  IN BETWEEN Friday and Tuesday, lots of things happened.

There was so much:

PRIDE

PRIDE

PRIDE

PRIDE

PRIDE?

Apparently my surroundings are so queer that it doesn’t faze me a whole lot when suddenly everything is covered in rainbows and assless chaps. 

It’s hard to remember which day was which day and where exactly I went, but it started pretty headache-y and toasted on Friday, and it ended rather crispy and nauseous on Tuesday, when I tried to eat some Kashi.

I felt like there was A LOT GOING ON the weekend of Pride.  I feel like there is A LOT GOING ON in general amongst the friends I know from MoKaBe’s, but when I said to Reeny…

ME:  Reeny…I feel like when I come in town, I think there’s a LOT GOING ON.  And then I think…is it always like this?  

REENY:  It’s always like this.

Dear Liza,

It’s always like this.

Love,

Liza

PRIDE weekend brings out some stuff I think.

Firstly, it brings A LOT of homos to Tower Grove.

I haven’t even seen some of them before!

Secondly, it brings a lot of DEBAUCHERY.  (I’mnotsurehowproudIfeel).

This year, MADDY says that she feels that PRIDE meant a little more to her.  Suddenly, it came to light for her that the whole world isn’t a gay parade.  There are times on this planet when the people of South Grand are not on South Grand, and sometimes, it’s shockingly dicey. 

There aren’t always open arms to androgyny, homo-hand-holds, and asymmetrical haircuts. 

Maddy reflected on spending time out in St. Louis county, feeling like she was being judged.    

On Tuesday, Mo handed me some casual wisdom about the progress of gay and trans rights.  It might seem now that things move slowly, but relative to racial conflicts in this country and civil rights in general, equality for those of us gathered at the sunny Sunday parade are zooming along. 

But let’s get back to debauchery.

This year, for me, Pride was a lot of time out and about on blankets, dancing (Icallthatdancing), and...Jameson?  No.  That was red wine.  Wait.  Newcastle. 

And a lot of time explaining to my mother that my new light bulb (ohmygoddon’tsayhipster) tattoo was not a symbol of lesbianism, gay pride, or woman sex in general. 

(Semi unrelated)

Conversation:

Mom:  Is a strap-on a kind of bra?

Me:  Can we talk about this after dinner?

Mom:  No. 

Me:  I can’t talk about this right now.

Mom:  Is it the opposite of a bra?

What is the opposite of a bra?  And is there anyone who would feel comfortable in this moment?  And is there anyone who would give their 4’11”, eighty-pound red-haired mother a genuine answer?  To that?  What kind of thoughts would that put in her head?  NO THOUGHTS THAT I WANT IN MY MOTHER’S HEAD.

So, to go along with the clown show that is messy, the puzzles that mix our heads, and discomfort, let’s talk about Saturday.

I don’t remember which parts of Saturday were different from Friday, but there was a Midwestern Monsoon and I stood on the patio of Novak’s (ten dollars poorer) barefoot, slugged by skinny elbows, wading in several inches of water. 

Inside (it took ten minutes to get to the dance floor), there was some dancing and creepy-watching some people dancing on the bar.

Ummm okay, so dirty water but more important…key word…creepy.

EVERYONE IS CREEPY!

LET’S HAVE SOME PRIDE!

I can celebrate that!  I am pretty sure that no conversation I had this weekend did not include people calling themselves not creepy.

You know?

"I went to the mall because I am creepy."

"All of my friends are creepy.  And.  I’m definitely a part of that.  People do creepy things to me.  There are people who say they they’ve come in to MoKabe’s, not knowing who I was or anything about me, and just watch me.  You.  Were one of those people." 

"I just go up to them and say…come here.  Come here.  Come here.  Give me a kiss."

"You were created to marry a man, love that man, have sex with that man, and only that man.  Homosexuals are abusing themselves and will not inherit the kingdom of heaven."  

(NOT PICTURED.  BUT CREEPY).

"You can put my picture next to something that says creepy."

Messy, creepy, debauchery.

Pride.

And you know something?  When Jared told me last weekend “I puzzle my mind to mix my head,” I didn’t understand him.

But then there was PRIDE weekend.

My mind was puzzled, my head was mixed, messy, flooded, dizzy, and creepy. 

Let’s talk about things that are embarrassing.

1. How creepy am I?  (See second blog post for evidence).  I even wrote a song on the ukulele about my own creepiness.  

2.  The general amount that I think about certain people is assuredly, positively, absolutely 100% creepy.

3.  Wait…did you just…catch me…looking…at you?

Why are we creepy?  And does this coffeehouse contribute to our opportunities to creep?

I have a lot to say about creepiness.  I think that we are extra vulnerable creatures in these parts for a million reasons.  I think by trying to save ourselves some shame and forwardness, we shame ourselves in NOT forwardness.  We creep.  We go to the mall.  We learn things about people that we should NOT know.  WE SHOULD STOP BUT WHY SHOULD WE STOP?  SOMETIMES IT WORKS?

And this week, I realized another secret of the universe.

(Beinaweofme).

Being creepy isn’t always good for us.  And we ALL DO THINGS THAT ARE NOT GOOD FOR US.  We all do.  No really—I really think you do them and it’s not even insulting.

We puzzle our minds to mix our heads.

We ask our daughters what strap-ons are at dinner.

We protest gays on GAY PRIDE.

We learn everything we can about people we’re creeping on even when it just feels like getting hit in the head with a brick that was recently in an oven. 

We drink too much, stay out too late, don’t eat enough, eat too much, brood lonely in our heartbreaks, pick the people we know won’t be good for us, stay in relationships that we know don’t work, don’t save money, analyze, indulge, judge, wait, pine, ponder.

EVERYONE does (some of) these things.

Wait.

Right?

(Thatcan’tpossiblybejustme?)

Why?  You’d think we’d all keep ourselves busy with happiness…whatever that means.  (Consult post below). 

I certainly did a lot of things this PRIDE TIME that in the long run…or the short run…may not be so good for me.  (Superdehydratedstill). 

But with the mess and the mixing head and the creepy, didn’t we all have a good time?

I had a great sunburn flood head-mixed creepy Pride.  I don’t think it should have been different.  We can do things that are maybe not so good for us because we have a good time.  And we only get one official PRIDE TIME a year.

So I think we should be as puzzled and creepy as possible.  

THE CLOWN SHOW IS BECOMING A CIRCUS?

(AND WHY ARE PEOPLE LAUGHING ALL THE TIME?)

The CAMERA is HERE.

And people have been talking and dancing in its presence.

Question for Jared:

“What do you think stands between people and their ideal life?”

Answer:

“The Clown Show is becoming a Circus.”

Fact #1 about life around here:

The clown show is MESSY.

Of the six people that I’ve interviewed in these first ten days of filming, not one has not dealt with some sort of personal mess at Mokabes.

Regarding money:

“I must be missing the secret to life.”

Regarding relationships:

“I bought a house for the bitch.”

Regarding a first time at MoKaBe’s:

“I think I scared her.  She was reading and I was like…can I sit here?”

Regarding barista dating (or break-ups):

“We made everyone miserable.  Everyone here, and everyone walking in the door.  We’d be slamming refrigerators, crying, and yelling.  Well, mostly I’d cry, and she’d yell.”

Regarding queer life:

“And people say bi, trans, gay, but we’re just queer.  We’re all one queer community.”

Regarding friends at MoKaBe’s (social life of this world in general):

“Everyone I’m friends with?  I met at Mokabe’s.”

And FOR all the messiness of the “Clown Show.”  (Term used wisely by Jared.)…

People are happy.

What?  Happy?  People are Happy in Missouri?  People are Happy here?  Histoplasmosis, dirty river, gang activity, murder capital, syphilis capital, the arch!

I don’t know how to do math and I haven’t done any statistical research, and I don’t really know EXACTLY what I mean by HAPPY, but I’ve noticed…I think noticed…that when I ask people what would be the happiest life that they could imagine…it’s very much like the one they already have.

IS THIS THE SECRET OF THE WHOLE UNIVERSE?

OR

Are the queers of South Grand weirdly happy?

You wouldn’t think it.

I really would not have thought it.

For example, I think I was pretty sad for an entire YEAR when I was coming into my queer identity.

So…sometimes when I think of people of any age grappling with (or just existing in) their homosexual identity, I think of:

Angst, stalkerish tendencies, proclivity for dramatized storytelling, chain smoking in the bathtub, pet ownership as an attempt to mitigate loneliness, and...crying in restaurants.

Apparently, this...is just me.  (Or was).

At MoKaBe's, often (really often), Ronnie says:

"Liza.  Why are you smiling?  Liza.  Stop smiling."

Because it seems the ‘mos at MoKaBe’s.  Are like…pretty okay with their lives.

They especially love their friends.

“ALL OF OUR FRIENDS ARE SO FUCKING ATTRACTIVE.”

And St. Louis?  It’s so for real.

“This is St. Louis.  This Shit Is Real.”

I will say that I’ve seen three people from this community cry in the past five days.  (One on camera).  It seems to me that since I've been back in STL with my tiny camera, smelly TOMS, and really out-of-control-long bangs, a lot has happened.  Things don't change, but everything moves fast.  I don't get it.  It's been eventful, fun, full of dancing and touching my face in moments of discomfort. So while the CLOWN SHOW IS BECOMING A CIRCUS…

Who doesn’t like the circus?

Right?

So…as for mess part of the circus…here’s the title of the week:

Question:

“If there was a film made about your life, what would it be called?”

Answer:

“WHERE DID I LEAVE MY SHOES.”