He seemed nice.

I read yesterday that Andrew Martinez died last weekend. I was sorry to hear it. I don’t think I was ever introduced to him, but I knew him on sight. At the time he was campaigning for on-campus nudity, I was living in a clothing optional co-op, so my housemates and I thought his stance on nudity was self-evidently natural and right and beautiful and why all the big deal anyway? Andrew Martinez was a good spokesperson for public nudity. He was beautiful and graceful, and for being such a big guy, tall, broad shouldered, he had an easy, relaxed presence. Naked or clothed, he never had the invasive or imposing feel that some large men carry.

Andrew’s public nudity really caught people’s attention; my friends who weren’t at Berkeley would often ask if I’d seen him. Seen him naked! On campus! It is possible they didn’t have much of a conceptualization of my living situation. The people who didn’t approve seemed to mostly have the same objection: how could you ever concentrate in class with a naked person next to you? They didn’t believe me, but I’ll tell you the same thing I always told them. Naked people are boring. Naked people are intensely interesting for a second or two when you check them out, and maybe marginally interesting for another five or six seconds, and then nothing changes and they are still naked and still looking the same and what is for lunch and did the professor say whether this would be on the test? Boring*. I promise.

Andrew died of suicide, in jail for serious crimes. In my few memories of him, he radiated health and kindness; I hate to think that he changed so much. I sincerely hope that those changes weren’t a result of the attention and costs of his campaign. I have no objection to public nudity, but it isn’t important enough to sacrifice him for. Rest in peace, Andrew.



*I have heard that naked people are not boring for as long as you are about to have sex with them, but I’ll have to take other people’s word for that.

Way to bring the child prostitution, lady.

Last fall I went to a new-agey dance class I’d heard about. The format sounded great: twenty minute stretch, hour and a half of free dance to dj’ed music, fifteen minute guided cooldown. For all that I’m about to make fun of it, the truth is that if the music had been just a notch more thumpy, I would never miss a week.

When I got there, I was a little put off that the class all seemed to be slightly older women (less thumpy music). There was one guy. He was in his mid-fifties, and you could tell that he had been a formally trained balletier. He's carrying a belly now, but his legs were completely cut and he was very flexible. You could see that he had nice legs because he was wearing the smallest french-cut leotard you can imagine.

I was also slightly dismayed to hear that I had come to class near the beginning of a series on dancing with our chakras. In general, people in Sacramento don’t have chakras. But I have my hippy co-op background to draw on, and I was not afraid. While I am more of a chi girl myself, I knew I could imagine my body bathed in a beautiful orange color, focus on my sexuality and creativity, and dance with my second chakra for a couple hours.

The dancing went fine. I did dance as I waited for the music to escalate, but I mostly watched the slightly older women dance all grindy, or do floor work. The balletier did a nice series of leaps. When the class ended, the teacher drew us all into a circle. She wanted us to talk about our experiences dancing with our chakra of desire, creativity and sexuality.

Our teacher went first, and she told us that it had been hard for her to keep her focus on her second chakra. She had been drawn into the dancing, and had to constantly bring her focus back.

A woman who had come in late went next. She was nearly in tears. She said that she wanted to come to class so much, but it seemed like everything was fighting her, her office, her car, traffic, her kids, her clothes. Her desire was just to be here.

The next woman said that evoking her desire had been a strong experience for her. She said that we spend so much time denying our desires and delaying gratification that actively seeking and expressing her desire felt really new.

The balletier simply thanked us all for dancing with him.

The next woman said “Dancing with my sexuality was a very powerful experience for me. It really brought me back to the first time I was paid for sex when I was seven.”

I was next, but I had absolutely nothing to say.

Correlation is not causation.

I was a pretty naïve sophomore when I moved into a sixty-person, vegetarian, clothing-optional co-op. I never entirely fit in, but it was an easy, tolerant place for me to grow up. My closest friends are still from Loth. When I first got there, though, there was a lot to the culture I didn’t understand.

There were half a dozen men in the house who always had one pant leg rolled up, and I just couldn’t figure out why. I must have worked on that for weeks. I watched them, and I thought about it, and I just kept at it. Why did they always have one pant leg rolled up?

Finally one day I put it together. I finally noticed that the five or six guys with one pant leg up were not the manliest men in this house full of sweet hippies. That was it!! They were bi! It made perfect sense … one pant leg up, one pant leg down … a little something for everyone.

And I was good with that. I never mentioned it to anyone, ‘cause I didn’t want to admit that I hadn’t known that one rolled pant leg meant you were bi. Really, I mostly forgot about it. Solving the secret code meant that it wasn’t interesting anymore, and I’ve never cared who anyone sleeps with.

Years later, at a different school, I rode my bike up to my early morning class, locked it real quick, and reached down to unroll my pant leg. Oh holy shit. I must have stood there in shock for thirty seconds. I had been so sure, and so serenely wrong, for years.

I guess I'll say two things in my defense. First, it was internally consistent and it fit the evidence. Second, it is no stupider than using an earring to announce a preference for boys.