“Search for meaning in sores

–“Sympathy” by Sleater-Kinney

I have the amazing power to make people’s heads explode.  How do I do it?  I can merely just out myself.  The problem is that this usually follows a bunch of questions that I really don’t want to answer (either because I’ve answered them before or they are put in an invasive/offensive way).  This superpower and the consequences of it could most likely primarily be traced to the audience of this information.

I may have mentioned before that I go to a pretty progressive and liberal campus.  You would think that I would take advantage of this fact by hanging around with as many understanding and informed students as I could.  Well…It didn’t really work out that way in terms of where I mainly haunt on campus (when I am not pacing up and down). Of all the places I could pick to spend my time, I picked hanging around with the Orthodox Jewish kids.

Now, this not to say that all Orthodox kids are sheltered and completely aware of LGBTQ identities, because that’s certainly not true.  Actually, my two best and most accepting friends on campus happens to be a straight, cisgender Orthodox guy and his girlfriend. Yet, on the whole, it hasn’t been a pretty picture.  There are people who have known me for almost a year, have heard people refer to me as “he” or as a guy, but still call me “she” or include me in statements such as “we have x number of girls right now”

There is now a well-known incident amongst my friends in which a person, being told that I was male-identified and that there were certain questions that are rude to ask. Well, what kind of questions am I suddenly ambushed with by this person at dinner? “So…What are you biologically?” I kid you not.  I nearly had a panic attack after that whole event because I was afraid of what kind of questions that I’d get from other people or what she’d try to get me shunned/ousted from being a part of the campus Hillel for religious reasons.  Luckily, she didn’t…But it is easy to tell that she seems quite uncomfortable with my presence.  Plus, I am rather sure her grandma gave me a weird look when her family visited recently (oh my…Did someone do the “Guess what I just met!” phone call home?).  Another, lesser-known incident (with a different person) involves being told at Shabbat dinner that Levi is a great, Biblical (and male) name and that she’d love to name her future son Levi…But then about 20 minutes later explicitly referring to me as “one of the women” that was there.

At this point, I really don’t try to correct some of these students when they get my gender identity and pronouns wrong. Partially because I don’t want a repeat incident, and partially because being the first trans person that someone has ever encountered can be pretty rough. There are some fellow queer students that keep their relationships an open secret around the same circles because they don’t want others to be uncomfortable.  So, I can’t tell whether or not they already know and just refuse to deal with it or if they are just going off my appearance and voice (which I have said before honestly does not “pass” as male very well).  It is an interest contrast to the rest of campus, where when they hear someone call me “he” enough times or a friend say “Levi’s a boy”, almost always tend to either correct themselves without fanfare, or profusely apologize for thinking/calling me otherwise.

Personally, I don’t want to be anyone’s representation for the trans community.  I don’t want to be the first person to try to explain the difference between gender identity and sexual orientation.  Honestly, I’d prefer not to have to clean up brain matter after I tell people that I’m trans and gay. But I guess that I may have to if I want my identity to be respected.

By Russss, taken from Wikimedia Commons

“I’m so tired, sheep are counting me
No more struggle, no more energy
No more patient and you can write that down
It’s all too crazy and I’m not sticking round”

–”I’m So Tired” by Fugazi

There is this intense feeling of numbness and exhaustion in the days following a horrific event in a family (or family-like circle of friends,) especially when one hasn’t really been sleeping anyway. The headache that I had for a week probably wasn’t helping to cure the numbness and exhaustion either. But at least now I have classes as a reason to force myself to go to sleep in order to be mostly functional.

Being away from home is probably a blessing and a curse in this situation. The blessing is that I no longer think about it every single day, because I have to focus on other things like classes and interacting with people. It is a curse because I feel out of the loop with that is going on, am not physically around to be helpful anymore, and most worrisome of it all, I have no idea whether or not I’m still a powder keg of emotion and rage. Is it still going to hit me at some random time that this traumatic and ongoing thing happened? What will happen when it does?

I honestly don’t know how the rest of my family is currently coping, everything seemed really normal after initial event. Quiet, but it was relatively normal. It confused the fuck out of me, but I tried to go along with it. Now that I am away from my family, I can’t look to them to see the correct way to act about things…I’m essentially on my own when it comes to this. Then again, I feel roughly the same about my transition…And I’m barely handling that well. With the forcing back into socialization through returning back to campus, my ability to deal with both trauma and the daily (and increased dysphoria) is compromised. I feel like the walking dead, but am also horribly hyper-aware of a lot of things. It is a really odd feeling, kind of creepy and unnerving in a way.

I know there is a road to recovery; I’m just trying to find out what it is and how it will work out for me. How have you all coped in these kinds of situations?

A few weeks ago, I suffered a birthday. At my age, I no longer care to celebrate birthdays. I merely endure them, as inconspicuously as possible, and hope no one else remembers. I am none too thrilled about getting older. I feel okay, but age does strange and disturbing things to the body. Plus, society in general tends to be a bit youth-obsessed, and gay men in particular can be extremely ageist. I’ve tried to keep myself in relatively decent shape; however, over the years, my skin has lost a considerable amount of elasticity, and I find that exercise doesn’t have quite the impact it once did. Mercifully, people rarely think that I look my age. Although, I’m not sure how my age is supposed to look. I consider it to be case-specific. I believe that genetics and self-improvement play a substantial role in determining how one does or does not display the influence of time. Personally, I often think I’m gross. And occasionally, I suffer, to varying degrees, from feelings of obsolescence. I’ve tried to rise above it, but it never fully dissipates. Being single doesn’t really help all that much.

Something happened recently that more or less put things into perspective and possibly made me realize how silly I am being about the whole aging experience. Several months ago, I registered on an online dating site. In creating my profile, I decided to list my age as being three years younger than I actually was. Let me just say that I am generally a very honest person. I am a huge proponent of full disclosure. But, for some reason (insecurity, a momentary bout of vanity, plain old stupidity, etc.), I fibbed. At the time, my online age seemed more palatable than my true age. In my mind, three years made a world of difference. A rounded number seemed more aesthetically pleasing. In hindsight, I realize this is completely absurd. It’s embarrassing to even admit it.

Initially, online dating was a less than pleasurable adventure, and a true exercise in futility. There were very few user profiles that caught my eye, and when those few were pursued further, the profiles and pictures never quite accurately portrayed what would be encountered during the face-to-face meetings. The whole experience was rapidly shaping up to be a huge disappointment. However, eventually, a few days before my birthday, I was contacted by, and subsequently met, a rather incredible younger man. Our first “date” exceeded my expectations, to say the very least. He was smart, funny, charming and absolutely adorable. We had a drink, then dinner. Everything went well, and we ended up seeing each other a couple of more times that week. On my birthday, we spent the day in Central Park, and it was undoubtedly one of the most enjoyable birthdays I have ever had. I was in the process of changing jobs at the time, and I wasn’t working the following week, so we saw each other almost every day. The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted to see him. In the short amount of time that we had known each other, we established quite a rapport.

One Saturday, we were at my apartment, and he happened to see my passport. He opened it up to look at my picture and, of course, noticed my birth date. When he asked me why my age online was different than my actual age, it took me a minute to remember what I had done when composing my profile. I explained to him that, at the time, I was feeling apprehensive and insecure about my age, and that I had completely forgotten (which I genuinely had) that I had even portrayed myself as being three years younger than I actually am. We continued on with our plans for the day, but things were different, and the mood deteriorated as the day proceeded. He was a little distant, and made several off-color comments about various things. Eventually, I asked him if he was okay and his response was, “Actually, no, I’m not.” He was bothered by the fact that I had been dishonest about my age. In other words, my being three years older than he originally thought I was didn’t bother him – it was the fact that I felt the need to shave three years off of my age and lead potential dates to think that I was younger than I really was that he found upsetting. He said it was a symptom of a larger issue, and that he felt his trust had been compromised. After a very uncomfortable evening, which included dinner with friends, he went home to his apartment. I have to admit, it was more than a little disheartening.

Attempting to analyze and rationalize what happened has been an eye-opening process, mainly because I always end up looking like a colossal hypocrite. I’m tempted to say that he completely overreacted to something that really isn’t that big a deal. But isn’t that exactly what I was doing when I lied about my age in the first place? I’d also like to be able to say that three years difference in my actual age and my online age is such an insignificant amount that it really shouldn’t matter anyway but, apparently, it was significant enough for it to matter to me when I created my online profile. And finally, with regards to my aforementioned disappointment upon meeting a potential date, only to discover that their profile and picture didn’t accurately portray the real thing…again, I wind up looking like a total douche. Granted, my deception was on a smaller scale, but it was deception, nonetheless. In the end, I can’t continue to beat myself up over my unnecessarily dubious online dating profile. I’ve already updated and corrected it. I’ve learned my lesson. It’s time to grow up and start acting my age. And that just pisses me off.

Me and some of the musicians that performed at Easton Mountain

Terrified. I was terrified to leave my apartment, to leave my city, and to leave my state. A thousand miles away I was being waited for on top of a mountain. I was not friends in real life with anybody that was going to be on that mountain. I left Tampa with myself, my music, and a circulatory system charged with anxiety.

I was one of the performers scheduled at “Out In The Woods”, a two day fest of LGBT performers taking place on Easton Mountain, a queer spiritualist retreat an hour north of Albany. All of the names on the bill were familiar to me. Heavy hitters. Legends. Some of them I’d been emailing for years.

I boarded my flight sour-pussed and finicky. A thousand worst-case scenarios zigzagged through my head. I am secure about my music performance. I don’t get stage fright. It’s what happens before and after the performances that terrify me. What if no one talks to me? What if I get on everyone’s nerves? What if everyone gets on my nerves?

A three hour layover in Philly left me in a food court full of tired and weather-worn Northerners. No one smiled. I sent a dozen texts to a dozen people. I wanted company. My Sbarro pizza was lukewarm and the person I hoped would text back the most didn’t. Color me sour.

As I boarded my plane to Albany I longed for the safety and seclusion of my warm bed. There’s no danger in seclusion. There’s no risk in hibernation.

The Albany airport was eerie and quiet. It was 10 PM and the shops were closed. My Albany snow globe and Snickers would have to wait. I waited for my ride.

Sean picked me up. Sean was a conversational redhead with a thorough knowledge of Albany’s history. This introduction to Albany was friendly and smooth and I knew I was in good hands. I was taken through downtown and enchanted by the historical tales of a quiet and beautiful city.

Upon entering Sean’s apartment I knew I was on safe ground. I was introduced to the other house guest – legendary queer music historian J.D. Doyle. The night’s conversation was varied and fulfilling. In Tampa there is no one to share my thoughts on queer music with. To uncage this interest with other people interested in the same thing was a liberation. If sleep weren’t a necessity the conversation may have never ended.

Early the next morning I was to meet festival organizer Stephen Sims at 9am. Would the hour car ride to the mountain be awkward? Walking into Stephen’s house I felt a coziness that had nothing to do with temperature. Not only was Stephen warm and accommodating – his house guests (fellow out-artist Norine Braun and her partner Alice) were an immediate delight.

The drive into the country was serene. As memories of my childhood in Western New York emerged a surge of regret and nostalgia came and went. As a teenager I recalled driving on similar roads under similar skies. I ran from those northern skies years ago.

The final stretch of road before reaching Easton Mountain is not paved. My cell phone reception was becoming dodgy and I knew I was at the mercy of the mountain. To endure the next 48 hours meant releasing all control of my life and letting the moments take me where they may. I was a willing prisoner of fate.

The first two hours at Easton were a whirlwind of introductions. Within 120 minutes I’d matched a half dozen faces with names I’d known for years. Tom Goss. Terry Christopher. Roger Kuhn. Scott Free. John Small. Morry Campbell.

Over the next few hours I heard possibly the best live queer music I’d ever heard in my life. Each artist was different. Each artist was emotional. In addition to everyone I already mentioned Sister Funk and Jeremy James also performed. There was no ego on the mountain. A supportive harmony between the artists presided. These artists cheered each other on and there was no sense of competition.

Night one wrapped with a mystical campfire underneath a full moon. A dozen queer voices known for their separate bodies of work united to sing sloppy and spirited cover tunes. Under a moody midnight northern sky we became one loud boisterous queer voice. Stevie Nicks could you hear us?

Day two unfurled another powerhouse lineup. Dan Manjovi. Arjuna Greist. Robert Urban. Lucas Mire. Susan Souza. And I played too.

We ate one final dinner together before we had to leave. I looked out the window at the peak of the mountain and the beautiful pond beneath it. I was reminded of the other times over the last few years I traveled alone and found myself enjoying a memorable view. Like the one outside of my hostel in San Francisco in 2009. Or the view of the sky from the Nancy Drew cruise I took alone in 2010.

I made a vow to myself at that moment to never fear again. I promised myself I’d never be enslaved by the shackles of my comfort zone again. I’ve never left my safety net and not come home with new friends. What if I’d let my fear and anxiety preside? A part of my world from that weekend on will always live at Easton Mountain.

I arrived at Easton Mountain a stranger and went home a member of a strong and vital family. I’m homesick already.

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I just had sex. There was an awkward silence afterwards. He ran to the bathroom to wash his face. I was hoping he would leave. He was okay in bed but his conversation was grating and simple. I reached for my cell phone to pretend I was texting someone. Saved by the cell again.

I was at a concert. It was one of my favorite artists of all time.  I missed my artist’s grand entrance because I was on my cell phone attempting to tweet about being at the concert. By the time I figured out how to send the tweet the first song was half over. Damn that cell.

I was at work waiting tables. The pretty girl was sitting alone while she awaited the rest of her family to arrive. I approached her to take her drink order. She didn’t notice me. She was on her phone texting someone. Or pretending to text someone. I was avoided by the cell.

I rarely make calls on my cell phone. Looking at my call log I see I have spoken to a human being for over eight days. I realize I have used my phone over seven times in the last week to deflect socially awkward situations.

My phone was once a way to keep in touch with the people in my life. Now it’s a become a tool I use to avoid people who aren’t in my life.

Once I stopped to ponder I realized how many dinners I’d texted through while avoiding the person I was with. More often than not, because of my phone, I am only half present in most of my real life situations. I see the same behavior in almost everyone I know.

Over the past week I’ve forced myself to leave my phone in my pocket. It was a miniscule victory but this time when my friends left me at the club I stood with my hands in my pocket and my head tilted upwards. A stranger smiled at me. I would have never seen his smile if I’d been texting. I got his phone number.

I was at a restaurant waiting for my party to arrive. I was tempted to check an inbox I knew was empty just to avoid the uncomfortable feeling of sitting alone. I kept my phone on the table. I scanned the crowd and got to see an old couple kiss each other. It was a sincere exchange of valid affection. I would have missed it if I’d been on my phone.

Technology has enabled our modern lives to be quick and easy. But how much of our lives are we missing enslaved to these devices? Have they made the technology to rid us of our dependency on our damn cell phones yet?

My cell phone often feels like a ball and chain or a life support. I am trying my best to learn how to breathe without it.

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Photo Credit: ArtisticZen on WikiCommons

Everyone was talking excitedly when you came walking over to the buzzing cluster of girls standing close together near the lockers. You hadn’t had a sleepover with Kim, Sara or Patti since you got bumped into honors English and you all didn’t have the same lunch hour, but you were excited to catch up with them between passing periods. When Kim’s eyes, lit with laughter, caught yours as you approached, she grabbed Patti by the hand. You felt the mood change immediately, but didn’t know what to say. Feeling brave, you just came out with it. “Where you guys talking about me?” They weren’t, they told you truthfully. They weren’t talking about you at all; they were talking about the party that you weren’t invited to.

For most of us, if we ever had to endure this devastating realization, it has been more than a decade since. For me? It happened 2 weeks ago; actually three times this summer. Much to my disappointment, there were no lockers around, but Facebook, email and text messages create that same sort of “girls crowded together giggling” ambiance so much so that I feel like I might have 29-11-82 scrawled on the back of my hand with a purple pen. My best girl friends from high school, who’s changing friendships I have always been glad to hold, have not been shy about mentioning their exciting birthday gatherings that I haven’t been invited to.

I’m aware that things are changing between us as they get married, move out of the city, and settle into serious careers. I know this because I’ve attended their wedding showers, bachelorette parties and weddings. In light of those experiences I’m starting to wonder – if I was following the same path, if I was getting married and moving out to the burbs would our friendships have lasted?

Am I now only a wedding guest, like some botox-faced second cousin in an iridescent dress, and not a best friend, 30th birthday party guest?

Has my non-traditional (gay) life trajectory finally split us up?

I’ve spent a lot of time educating and arguing that queer and straight people are the same: that our love and our relationships and our lifestyles are the same. But now I’m wondering if even my best allies believe that. I feel like I’ve gone back to being “other” after so many years of coming closer to feeling like we were all the same. We have never had a serious conversation about this subject, but once, a couple of years ago, one of my best high school friends said she felt like while I was growing distant with her I seemed to only want to hang out with my “gay friends.” While the implication that I’d choose friends based on who they sleep with is ridiculous, I have to wonder now if as the bonds I share with women who are enjoying marriage, the financial stability of a two person household, and children are stretching and thinning, the bonds I share with those in a situation more similar to mine — that is, connected to our sexual orientation– are strengthening. Are my friendships with queer friends still strong because are lives are staying on a similar path?

Can I still maintain friendships with straight women if I don’t get married, move to the suburbs or have children? Is heteronormativity ruining my friendships?

“Hold me, hold me in your arms
Well, now heal me, heal me with your touch
Your touch keeps me hangin’ on”

–”Hold Me In Your Arms” by the Black Keys

I don’t hug people. It is something that people tend to learn about me rather quickly. Every time someone comes in to hug me, I tense up, unsure of what is going on or how to react. It ends up that most of the time that I either awkwardly accept the fact that I am being hugged or that I do the ‘one-armed half-hug’.

Actually, I distinctly remember one girl flat-out telling me, “I really need to teach you how to hug properly”. She gave me instructions on three different hugs, and the next time she saw me I tried to follow her directions to the letter. “Better”, she said, “though you don’t have to be focus on doing it exactly right”. I smiled slightly, though a bit embarrassed that my mechanical nature to basic human acts had still shone through.

In high school, I would make it well-known that I disliked hugs or any kind of unwarranted invasion of my personal space. The underclassmen that were so fond of running up and giving hugs were quelled from these actions by my promises of physical harm and/or death. I eventually relented somewhat and let them pet me on the shoulder… but not before first asking if it was okay. For the most part, I would greet my friends by ruffling their hair or with a near-punch done in surprise attack. When I got to college, the approach changed to surprise raptor attacks, but at least I no longer threatened people if they tried to hug me.

My dislike of hugs has taken a new turn the past couple of years. No longer can my discomfort be strictly pinned on my life-long reluctance towards physical contact. It has definitely become a dysphoria issue at this point.

The fact of the matter is that I haven’t had chest surgery and probably won’t be able to for at least 3 or 5 years. Try as I might with layering, binding, etc… the chest exists. I can cover it up as best as I can, but I am hyper-aware that they can be felt when someone hugs me… or at least that’s what I worry. I also worry that it prevents the other person from really just thinking of me as just a guy with no adjective in front of that word (and no unwelcome flesh in front of me). Doesn’t matter who it is hugging me, the person could be queer, straight, cis, trans, whatever; it is always a concern in floating around in my head.

The queer community is a very affectionate one. As opposed to my experiences with cis and straight spaces, queer spaces are filled with a lot of kissing, hugging, and other friendly touches. It was quite a surprise to meet adults who would physically embrace me while still an acquaintance. The first time I met this one person at college the day I moved into the dorms, she hugged me while wearing only a bra and pants. It does make you feel welcome; but when you hate your body, being that close to a new person can be rather jarring. I am still trying to figure out how to handle this as well as my own bodily malcontent. At least I have a few more years to sort it all out, if you want to try to spin it positively. Damn, this sucks.

A night out with my friends

I don’t ever want to grow up. Thankfully because I am gay I’m allowed a longer lease on my youth.

I am 36 years old. I still have rock star posters on my wall. I love my stuffed animals. I go out and dance three nights a week. I leave my house at one am. I wait tables and love it. Many of my habits haven’t changed since I was eighteen.

My friends Michelle and Jessica were recently talking to a forty year old girl they knew. Distastefully they chastised the girl for being forty, unmarried, and still going to clubs. “People shouldn’t be going to clubs when they are over forty!”

“Ladies,” I replied. “I plan on still tearing up the dance floor when I’m sixty.”

“It’s different,” they said. “You are gay.”

Michelle and Jessica reaffirmed what I already knew. As a gay man I am relieved of the expectation of having to raise a family, move to the ‘burbs, and lose my soul after twenty nine. Homo say what?

Many things have changed since I was 18. I am much more mature with conflict resolution. Years of soul searching has made me more self aware and more genuine. I find myself to be more insightful than I was in my teen years. Personal growth aside, if one were to view my daily schedule on paper…not much has changed! Many of my gay friends in my age bracket are in the same boat. Without biological clocks ticking in our gay ears do we allow ourselves to feel young longer without the straight guilt?

I don’t drink. I am not enslaved to a chemical dependency. I just love pounding my thirty six year old feet on the dance floor with a big smile on my face. For years I’ve mourned my single life. Perhaps these are the years I still should be enjoying it.

I see many of my gay friends settling down once they are in their mid forties. Perhaps for straight people adolescence ends at twenty one and for gay men it ends at forty five.

I plan on enjoying my gaydolescence while it lasts.

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What does interest me is that fact that I was 19 when I had my first real girlfriend, so this year I am marking my ten-year anniversary of Queerdom. As I’ve mentioned before in this column, I wasn’t a child or a young person who ever considered the possibility that I was queer. It was not until college that any of those feelings surfaced, and I worked out pretty quickly that I was mostly into girls.

It’s just sort of hard to believe that for far more than half of my dating life I have been dating women, and because I consider myself to be queer and not necessarily lesbian, this statistic is some how surprising. It was more than ten years ago when I last seriously considered that I would have a male partner, that I would have a hetero-normative lifestyle, that I would be “just like” my sister, brother or best friends. For 10 years I have been openly queer.

At this point, coming out memories, or fears of holding hands in public, or worry about being out at work are distant. To me, being queer is as a part of me is having dark hair or wearing glasses – some things just are. This is what makes it even more difficult for me to understand how I can still have such an awkward relationship with anyone and everyone blood related to me due to the fact that I date women.

My family and I aren’t close enough to share personal details of our lives – I never talked to my mother about high school boy friends or my sister about crazy college exploits. Or my brother about anything. We co-exist pleasantly enough, on a surface level, a few times a year even though we now all live in the same city. My sister and I are actually friends, have a lot in common, and, I think, like each other even more as we have gotten older, but it has always been commonplace for me to leave my relationships in the shadows that sometimes I forget that that isn’t normal.

They absolutely know that I date women. I told them a long time ago. They were aware when I lived with my girlfriend in DC, they were aware when we broke up. I refer to my current girlfriend frequently in conversation but never a question is asked about her, or about us, or about the future. Isn’t your family supposed to ask about marriage and babies? Isn’t that annoying nature in the job description of family members?

I am the type of person who would be happily interviewed at a Pride parade about being a part of the gay community. I have been writing a weekly column for TNG for more than 2 years. I am in a serious relationship with a woman. But I have never brought a girl home for the holidays. I have never given a joint gift to my mother from my girlfriend and I. I have never talked to my family members about the possibility of marriage or having children. In ten years of being queer, I have some how managed to be both extremely outspoken and uncomfortably quiet about my sexual orientation.

Should I be content to be a confident queer woman to the world and a distant daughter and sister to my family? Is it my responsibility to try to work on these relationships, or do I just get over it?

It was as sunny a day as I’d ever seen on October 11, 2009 in Washington, D.C. The breeze was crisp and cool with a hint of autumn on it. Somewhere around 250,000 people were gathered under the sun at 12:00 pm ready to march, when we all looked up and saw a small, crescent rainbow in the sky above us. The solitary cloud in the sky that day had drifted just past the sun and dispersed enough to create that tiny, arced spectrum of colored light that shone like a beacon of hope above us. And for those few moments when that rainbow shone above us, we matched the sky. And later, when we ascended up on to the capitol lawn, the gay men’s chorus of Washington, D.C. sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” And somewhere, over the rainbow, Judy Garland smiled down at us.

The rainbow is such an amazing symbol and one that I am so proud to have as a representation of my community. The rainbow is about lots of beautiful things individually coming together to create something even more breathtaking. Nearly every person at the National Equality March was sporting a rainbow of some kind, be it on their shirt, a small flag, a bracelet, a home-knitted scarf, or even a flag that stretched across the entire street and had to be held by over 30 people. And that color and light was reflected in all of our faces.  I often found myself just looking around in awe of all the smiling and beautiful people around me. There was a palpable energy in the air. It was a mixture of excitement, hope, anger, and laughter. But, like the rainbow, the combination was breathtaking.

Similarly, there were people in attendance of every color and creed. As a community commonly renowned for our complicated acronyms, let it be known that we had more than enough representatives for every letter of our alphabet. There were queer people of color, bisexual people, queer families, straight allies, Christian groups, transgendered people, outspoken socialists, leather daddies, people from red states, people from blue states, disabled people, LGBT people for immigration reform, celebrities, and every other type of person imaginable in attendance. Don’t even get me started on the youth. Young people from all over the nation were passionate enough to drive or fly across the country to fight for this. My roommates and I drove from Austin to Washington, D.C. and back for it. We could feel the pull. We knew that this was our time and that this was our fight.

And, most importantly, we, the youth, will all take this amazing and historical experience home with us, where we can continue to bring its lessons to our own, local activism. Like the incomparable diva pop-goddess known as Lady GaGa said during her speech, “We will come away today and continue to do the work in our own back yards. With our local politicians.” We will take this experience and plant it in our home soil and, once again create a rainbow that spans the whole country.  And this is, ultimately, why I am writing about this experience. Because working with the Texas Civil Rights Project in the Safe Schools Program is part of the work I am doing in my back yard. And I want to inspire people to do the same all across the country and start healing the damages of homophobia and heterosexism that have infected even our schools.

You know what? Skittles can eat it. We didn’t just taste the rainbow that day, we ate it. We smelled the rainbow, we felt the rainbow, we heard the rainbow, and we bled, sweated and cried the rainbow. We consumed the rainbow.  We are the rainbow. We, all different people from different places, came together to create something bigger and more beautiful than ourselves. Out of all this nastiness and hatred and oppression, we were able to come together and create laughter, love, and hope. Even though we are denied so much, in the true spirit of our community we danced, painted funny sings, sang and came up with clever chants.

This is, in fact, my favorite thing about my community. I don’t pretend to know where it comes from or if every person within my community experiences, expresses, or possesses it. Nor do I pretend to know if it is, in any way, exclusive to us.  But, from what I have seen, which is a lot, my community has the amazing and unwavering ability to create beauty and laughter from even the most ugly of things. We have a spirit that cannot be broken or swayed. And this is why we will win this fight. We are the rainbow.

A cousin of mine — a straight man — has worked on the railroad for decades.  About ten years ago he had to get glasses and, because of the nature of his work, had to get a glasses-necklace to make it easier to switch them off and on.  When he picked out a holder, the store had a black one and a rainbow one.  My cousin (bless his heart) is not the most aware guy.  He thought “oh, these are snazzy” and bought the rainbow ones!  He wore this rainbow glasses-necklace every day while working the railroad.  He noticed, from then on, that men were honking at him and yelling “nice ass” at him much more often.  Not one to turn away flattery, my cousin thought he must be lookin’ pretty good!  Finally, a coworker informed him that a rainbow is LGBTQ Pridewear – he was rather disappointed that the rainbow caught these guys’ attention more than his ass.

His ass, though, had not changed.  Only when he wore this rainbow glasses-necklace, not knowing what it signified, did men catcall him.  The fact that he was perceived as gay brought on this attention.

There has been a theory for decades that chauvinistic straight men are homophobic because they fear that gay men will mistreat them, just like how they mistreat women.  Many homophobic men will actually admit that’s why they’re homophobic (sometimes with pride).

Yes, there are predatory gay people and, yes, my cousin’s situation is only one person’s.  However, his story implies that the fear of these homophobes is unfounded.  Many gay men won’t catcall straight men, either out of fear of retribution or because it would be pointless.

While I’d like to say that a gay man wouldn’t hit on a homophobic man, the fact that women date chauvinistic men suggests that such logic doesn’t apply to reality.

When I decided to start blogging about my experience with quitting my job and leaving the city behind to work on a farm I thought about many things related to being “out” as a gay man in the country: in my case not just the country but what has been described as the Appalachia of Pennsylvania- where the affectionate term Pennsyl-tucky is derived from. Some friends have even mentioned that they hear the Deliverance banjo playing when ever they start driving over the mountain through the county where I live.

I live in a rural county full of stereotypes from Kentucky: hicks, close-mindedness, and general homophobia (as described by others; I have yet to come face to face with any of these stereotypes). The fact that I picked a place that is characterized as “Kentucky” is actually quite humorous given the fact that I am a Kentucky boy at heart/birth! I guess I should feel at home here. But, given my surroundings, I definitely second guessed my decision to out myself in a blog or otherwise. First, I did not want to become known as that gay farmer. Second, leaving the comfort of the city, where I never second guessed holding a boyfriend’s hand or kissing him on the street corner I became a little aware of my personal safety in being out in a place full of people that might not be so accepting as those found in a city.

Ultimately, however, I decided not to be the wolf in lambs’ clothing.  I decided not to cover.

Covering most recently has been written about by Yale law school professor Kenji Yoshino in his book “Covering, The Hidden Assault on our Civil Rights.”  In his book, Yoshino provides a summary of the history of covering: covering that racial minorities sometimes feel the need to shroud themselves in when entering the workforce and covering that he argues sexual minorities must hide under when interacting with mainstream straight society.  His description of racial minorities covering reminds me of a scene in the film Philadelphia, where the African-American paralegal is describing an instance where one of the lawyers she worked for suggested that she wear less ethnic earrings to work.

paralegal: Mr. Wheeler’s secretary, Lydia…said that Mr. Wheeler had a problem with my earrings.  Apparently Mr. Wheeler felt…that they were too…”ethnic” is   the word she used.

She told me he said he would like it…if I wore something a little less garish… a little smaller and more American.

Lawyer: What’d you say?

Paralegal: I said, “My earrings are American. They’re African-American.”

When I was in law school I encountered a similar situation.  My friends and I were protesting  JAG’s (the armed forces Lawyers) employment recruitment on our campus.  Since JAG followed the military’s Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy they were in violation of our school and the Association of American Law Schools non-discrimination policy, which includes sexual orientation.  The military being the military however, they were allowed to recruit on campus.  So in protest we went to the information session and asked questions about if we as gays and lesbians could  get a   job with JAG. The JAG officers instantly equated our gayness with sexual misconduct and responded that as long as we didn’t flaunt it and as long as we didn’t engage in orgies we didn’t have to worry about it.  Our identity was instantly equated with sex. There was never any assumption that we could just be a boring old queen with a less than salacious sex life.  However, to illustrate my point of hetero-normative bias, when a straight class mate asked about health insurance benefits for their spouse or child care options for a child, not an eye was batted.  Why? Because, being gay implies something about illicit sex but asking about health care benefits or child care is well just normal- in a straight world.

Covering expands to other scenarios as well.  Yoshino writes about the covering that racial minorities and sexual minorities must hide under in the academic world.  He talks about the perils of being an academic and engaging in scholarship that pigeonholes an individual to covering subjects related to one’s identity.  He writes further explaining how current civil rights laws and constitutional protections do not encompass issues surrounding covering, i.e. is one protected by civil rights laws when they are expected to conform to an employer’s idea of what is acceptable for the workplace when many of those ideas of what is acceptable are molded by individuals’ own rooting in what is normal (hetero-normative bias?)

I would argue that such covering takes place in our every day life and would describe covering as the modern day burka of queerdom.  In a workplace, do I refer to my boyfriend as such or just as a friend?  One allows me to hide under the lambskin of sexual ambiguity the other instantly “outs” me.  Another type of covering takes place in how we present ourselves to others and how the rest of society sees us.  Do I have a conservative straight haircut or go for more of a gay fauxhawk?  Do I hide any implications of my sexuality or talk about them in a normal healthy way- like straight co-workers would talk about their partners, boyfriends, or spouses?  All of these questions raise some of the thorns that I routinely find myself navigating as I interact with new coworkers, friends, and people in general.

So as I write my blog I find my self asking how much of my blog should I whitewash/self-censor to get rid of any indication of sexuality?  Do I adhere to a “don’t ask don’t tell policy” with regard to my blog and my sexuality?  Isn’t all this a form of covering rooted in heteronomivity?  I could write this blog, not identify as a pasture-raised queer or use innuendo in some of my writing, and just be a city boy on the farm,  but wouldn’t that succumb to hiding under a lambskin?

The other animals in the barnyard are pretty comfortable in their own skin, so I think I will take their lead and lift up the burqa of the modern day queer.

“So it’s you who’s been stealing my razors,” she said.

I looked down at my legs, one covered in blood and but both freshly shaven, and realized that this was the first “growing up” conversation my mother and I had ever had, and, it turned out, was one of the only I’d ever get.

I had started shaving my legs the previous school year – in the 6^th grade – because we had mandatory gym class everyday and even though I didn’t wear a bra yet or have my period, wearing shorts with the other girls required shaved legs. I started shaving because the other girls did. Fitting in is the goal, right?

Later, I met women who didn’t shave for different reasons. Hippies who wanted to be as natural as possible, lesbians who identified with more “masculine” characteristics or behaviors, feminists who felt that leg-shaving was something women did because they were bending to a standard of beauty set by magazines, advertisements, society, and, ultimately, men.

Even in times when I have been engrossed in feminist literature, or have argued principles of beauty and societal pressure and misogyny, I’ve never considered not shaving.  I don’t think I would date a woman who didn’t agree with me on that point. For me, shaving is as important as showering.  But why do we do it?

Leg and body shaving has a long and winding history from Egypt and Greece to today’s massive market for body hair removal products. Most actual and internet scholars  agree that shaving in the U.S. became common place when hemlines on dresses became shorter and sleeveless “flapper” dresses came into vogue. More or less, some advertisers took this moment, around 1915, to take advantage of a weakness and began shaming women into shaving. (Hairlessness is beautiful!!)  It seems like nobody thought that body hair was wrong until the magazines started telling us. Which is pretty much exactly how people develop body image problems – because magazines tell us what is beautiful and when we compare ourselves to their benchmarks most of us fail.

Today, people shave their bodies for a multitude of reasons aside from fashion or personal preference. Cyclists often shave their legs because leg hair makes road rash worse and takes longer to heal. Swimmers, even at the high school age, hold shaving parties before swim meets. The kids who are really good shave their bodies for speed – the rest of the team members grab a razor for solidarity. Drag Queens or Kings may shave, or not shave, as a part of their alternate persona.

Body hair is one of those things that homophobics mention in that cliché explanation about why its “Ok” or “Hot” for two women to hook up and not for men. The classic comment goes something like “Two chicks making out is all sexy and smooth, two dudes making out is like all hairy and gross.” Yes. I like the smoothness of women…but if hetero guys like the smoothness of women so much maybe they should shave their bodies and give their women the same courtesy. Does smoothness or softness play a role in who we are attracted to? Is body hair “masculine”?

Some women who identify strongly with traditionally masculine traits – short hair and men’s clothing – still shave, but frequently very effeminate men don’t. While men and women both desire slimmer bodies, nice teeth and clear skin – why has body shaving remained primarily a standard for women?

Guys, do you shave your legs or underarms?
Girls, do you reject this practice? Why?

Men who sleep with men – would you be bothered if your man chose to be hairless?
Women who sleep with women – would you complain if your gal quit shaving all together?

The descriptions of his decline, in whispered calls from back home, had a dreadfully familiar feel to them. Weight loss at a frightful pace. Losing interest in the world. Suddenly looking very old indeed. Most gay men of a certain age have heard those words, have seen the patient, have buried the friend. This case was different, though. It wasn’t AIDS, it was cancer.

And the patient was Dad.

The disease had swept rapidly through my father since his initial diagnosis. The inevitable was approaching, but the territory was completely unfamiliar to my family, who hadn’t seen a death in more than 30 years. They were about to get a tour through hell. I have traveled it many times.

“Well, he’s lost a lot of weight,” Mom said on the phone, “and sometimes, he will say the same thing more than once. That does scare me a bit.” You think you’re scared now, I thought.

“Have you checked into hospice care?” I asked. It’s exhausting for a man in his thirties to care for a dying lover. Mom was 75.

“Well no, honey, I thought we could wait on that…” Her voice drifted.

Something inside me went on AIDS auto pilot.

“Call the doctor and ask about hospice care,” I practically ordered. “They can help avoid another hospital stay, Mom.” The family would do anything to prevent that scene again.

I flew home within days. Still no hospice care. My family was stunned into inaction, it seemed. Had anyone spoken to dad about getting nursing help, about his illness, about how everyone was dazed into speechlessness? Heads shook slowly, eyes looked downward.

After 15 years living with my own HIV infection, my medical choices — powers of attorney, “no resuscitation” instructions — had long been settled. Mom was uncomfortable with the decisions, much less the reality.

On my second day home, I found myself alone with Dad. He was bundled on the sofa, and whatever his thoughts, they seldom found words. His condition looked hauntingly familiar, leading me to a nonsensical conclusion. “Dad has AIDS,” my mind insisted.

“Can I talk to you about what’s going on?” I asked him.

“Yeah..?” he said weakly.

“This is really horrible Dad, and everyone is freaked out and doesn’t know how to act.” His eyes never left me. “Mom is afraid to ask for help. You need a nurse. Do you think that’s okay?”

“Well… yes. I do.” He meant it. “Your mother… your mother works very hard.” I took his hand. “This is hard for your mother, I think…” he continued. “Your mother and I, we are one mind, together. One mind.”

I had never heard anything so romantic from my father. He saw it in my face, and he found the sadness, too.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and his hand tightened around mine. “It’s okay. I’m all right. This is all right…”

I wanted to say everything at once. Every declaration of love I had for my father, the retired Colonel who loved his family fiercely, laughed heartily, and equated only happiness with success.

“I will talk about you my whole life,” I said. “All the stories, all the things you’ve done for us… but how do I explain you to anyone?” My voice choked, and my attempt to properly organize my father’s last days was awash in unexpected tears.

I looked up and was stunned to see damp eyes staring back at my own. A tear escaped and rolled tentatively down and across his cheek, as if unsure of the path, so alien was the terrain.

We began words and abandoned them, floating silently in a moment I hoped could delay the inevitable. I thanked God for a gift that, in the distorted world of AIDS, I had wanted so badly over the years. I would outlive my father.

Only after having collected the courage before to say goodbye, to realize the fear and talk about it anyway, did I have the strength to address it with my dad.

This is not a story about AIDS. But it is a story because of it.

(This was originally published in The Advocate on May 22, 2001, but has never been posted to my blog. Thanks for letting me share it with you now.)

I grew up in a Southern Baptist family in the Bible Belt- Kentucky. As a kid and teenager, I went to church three times a week: Sunday school, Sunday worship, Sunday evening missions, and Wednesday choir practice. Also, I spent summers at youth camp. Even for a quick meal at McDonald’s, my family joined hands and gave a quick prayer- thanking god for the mechanically manufactured meat we were about to eat.

Since my childhood, my Southern Baptist past has faded a bit, theologically speaking. But what has not faded is a sense of community created by going to church three times a week. A community of people that watched me grow up, and when I go home always want to know about what I am doing with my life. This and a love of singing Hymns is why, when I go home to visit my family, I go to church on Sundays. My family church- for all of theology’s shortcomings- is a welcoming place. I know that I walk in and I have a church family that loves me.

It is no surprise that as I create my own communities as I become an adult that I seek out communities that are willing to embrace a stranger and accept me for who I am. I think this is one reason I am drawn to agriculture and its community of farmers. I’ve lived in the city, and tried to create communities: at coffee shops, on the bus, and at the farmers market I managed. I also tried to join communities of urban gays. But for all their vibrancy I have always felt they were a little lackluster. And so, I continue to seek out a sense of community: of support, acceptance, and energy.

The sustainable farming community has opened my eyes to a new sense of belonging. As a gay man that never felt like he really fit into the mainstream gay communities, I am starting to find a place in rural America. Just yesterday I went to an annual barn party at a local Amish farmer’s place. The real reason I go is to eat their fastnachts- homemade amish donuts that are only made one time a year – the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday(though these were made on the Saturday after- apparently some rules are meant to be broken.)

So as I was milling around the barn with a room full of Amish hats, beards, bowl cuts, and bonnets, I spotted a red bearded Amish brother of mine. Emmanuel approached me and started talking. This past summer I would stop by his farm and pick up eggs for us to sell to our CSA customers. Emmanuel remembered my name- probably because I have a good Christian name: Luke. We stood and talked for a long time, about how we raise chickens, milk regulations and my former life as a lawyer. While the two of of live in two very different worlds we had some commonality besides our red hair. We were both producers of food.

I am constantly amazed by the open arms that others in the sustainable agriculture community offer. I am an eager beginning farmer looking for opportunities to learn and there are lots of farmers looking to share their knowledge. I am glad I am part of a community, a community of farmers.

Whether it be in the church pew, a coffee shop couch, or while eating donuts at an amish barn party community is every where, you just have to cultivate it.

The first time I saw an erect penis was in my friend Christine’s kitchen. A group of my friends were in the basement laughing and listening to music. Mike unzipped his pants and showed me that he was full salute. I remember shaking uncontrollably. My teeth were chattering audibly. I was terrified and enthralled. Those thirty seconds alone with Mike in that dimly lit kitchen changed my life. I probably went home and masturbated thirty times.

My mind became fixated on Mike and his penis. No one knew he was gay either…and the secrecy of it all only added to the intrigue. A couple weeks later my and Mike’s second tryst happened in Christine’s piano room. Neither of us climaxed. It was dangerous and quick experimentation.

Mike and I never talked about “the incidents”. The third time happened in my bedroom. This time we were fully naked. We were bathed in the inkiness of a black light and there was lint in his pubic hair.

Midway through Mike pushed me off and told me he wasn’t interested. I remember being fully charged up but tucking myself in the protection of the corner of my bedroom. Mike sat in the opposite corner. Distant. Closed. Uninterested. An eye blinked and Mike went from turned on to turning me away. I didn’t understand the coldness. Dr. Jerkyll morphed into Mr. Hyde-Your-Dick.

A couple months later Mike and I messed around one last time. It was a repeat situation. After a couple minutes of activity he froze and told me to go away. I have eczema. He said my skin was too dry. I knew he didn’t want to touch me. It was a hypersexual game of tug-of-war. No one ever won. I can still conjure the stillness and the silence.

And then twenty years went by…

Last night I saw Mike’s picture. I was caught off guard. Usually he made me grimace but instead I felt this intense urge to be held by him. To smell his hair. To love his voice instead of hating it like I did for two decades. I connected with a long-buried disappointment and realized that underneath all my hate for Mike was a long unanswered love.

What if my heart hadn’t been exposed to subzero temperatures at such a young age. Would I be a lot less cold than I am now, thirty years later? How much different would I be today if Mike had let me continue laying on top of him?

I laid in bed for hours with this eerie ancient longing. I always thought it was Mike’s coldness that damaged me. Last night I realized it was really the hunger left by his warmness.

find more Jeremy Gloff on Facebook.

I wrote this when I was younger and more idealistic. It was the summer of 2006 and three long years after the invasion of Iraq. I was working full time as an antiwar organizer and spending all my spare time involved in my local anarchist community. I still thought that grass roots organizing could stop the war and it was just a few months before I had my big activist burnout/meltdown. If I was writing this piece today I don’t think I would have used the same language or even have had the same ideas back then. I’ve decided to be gentle and kind to my younger self and not to edit her work too much.

c. MommyFiercest I met a couple I’ll call “Debbie and Brian” on the boardwalk at Venice Beach as I was serving a meal with Food Not Bombs. Like many of the folks who come to eat with us, Brian was badly sunburned with a deep tan and tired from walking around. I liked him instantly; small, handsome and muscular, he won my heart with his sweet smile and southern-boy politeness. He was accompanied by a pretty sunburned woman in a long batik wrap skirt and a macramé purse. She was younger and more earnest-looking than most of the young bohemians strolling along the boardwalk. They seemed new to the streets. I served them both plates of greens and potatoes and bread pudding. “I’m so happy you guys are here,” said Debbie. “We’ve been looking for a shelter all day and haven’t been able to find one that can take us.” I took a break from serving and sat with them in the grassy area we call “the Food Not Bombs Lounge”. The young woman, Debbie, played with the puppy of one of our volunteers. She told me she loved animals and had worked in an animal shelter for five and a half years while living in Alabama. She recently returned to California after being offered a job in the post office. But things fell through, and she and her roommate drained their bank accounts paying inflated prices for temporary housing in shabby motels on the West Side. Then they met Brian at the Greyhound bus station. The three new friends put their belongings in a locker together and headed for Venice Beach. “I used to think no one would mess with me out here hitchhiking, but I’ve been in some bad situations,” she says. “I don’t travel alone any more. That’s why I am so glad I met him-he keeps me safe.” “Food Not Bombs” Brian said out loud. “I like that” “You like those words? ‘Food not bombs’?” I repeated, smiling. He looked far off and dreamy “Yeah” he said in his sweet drawl, “but I think you guys would really hate me if you knew what it is I do.” I knew instantly what he meant. “I wouldn’t hate you,” I said. “I want you to stay home.” Brian is a Marine, on “Morale” leave from Iraq. At twenty- two, he’s spent the last seven years raising his son as a single father in New Orleans. “I joined the service to get out of my neighborhood,” he told me. I know first hand that the military steals our poor to send them to war. “My brother has been to Iraq two times,” I whispered. He looked surprised that I would have a brother in the military “My brother went because he had never done really well in school and my mom said he had to go to community college or go to the military,” I told them. “Yeah, my mom was all for it back before she didn’t think they’d send me to Iraq” he said. “Then after the first month when I got back from boot camp, I got my orders and she was real upset. I have everything set up though. If I die, I got it set up where my mom will get everything and she’ll get all my benefits. ” “I hate hearing him say that. I don’t even want to think about that!” Debbie squeezed her eyes shut. Brian has lost three friends already. “He has nightmares all the time,” said Debbie. “I’ve been thinking about smoking pot,” he told me. “Then maybe they wouldn’t let me go back. I don’t want to go back but I have to or I’ll get thrown in jail forever.” “Yeah,” I said, “but I think that’s better.” I was thinking “better than killing people” but he could read my mind and I didn’t have to say it out loud. “We have to do everything they tell us,” he said. “No matter what it is. They say “you go beat that guy up or you shoot that guy and you have to do it. Direct orders.” I was speechless. I couldn’t imagine what I could say that would have any meaning. I tried to tell him that I know of a conscientious objector-that I might go to a birthday party that’s a benefit for this courageous hero-but all I could really do was let him tell me his story. c. MommyFiercest “I’m pretty sure this is all about oil,” Debbie said to me, eyes wide and nodding her head. “Yeah, I think so too.” I couldn’t tell her I work for a feminist anti-war organization. That would sound scary and so far away and I wanted to stay close to these people. “My brother sews all you guys up in the tent hospitals,” I told Brian instead. He told me about being in Saddam Hussein’s castle; reporters came from Stuff Magazine to film them and reported back that they were all having fun. “We read that magazine” he said, “but we weren’t having fun, we were just building stuff there, you know, mostly doing construction work there.” He talked about downtown Baghdad. “It’s ruined” he said, “all the walls are falling down, it’s real pretty, where it’s not messed up. It was a real pretty country but it’s just a mess now.” All of a sudden he turned to Debbie. “They put some real nice roses on Jeremy’s grave this weekend,” he said. She smiled brightly and nodded. “That’s really good, baby.” He looked towards me. “That’s my seven year old son.” My heart sank for the second time. I thought of my brother who also lost a child. I wanted to say “I’m so sorry for your loss” but the words wouldn’t come out. “He was riding his bike before I came home on leave,” he said. “He was riding out of the driveway and got hit by a car.” I asked how his mother was doing. “She’s doing fine, I mean, she’s really sad too, but it’s my sister that’s having the worst time. She was the one that was watchin’ him at the time.” He reached into his wallet and soon I was staring into the bright intelligent face of a smiling little boy. He was big for his age and looked older than seven. Looking down at his picture, I couldn’t imagine that he was dead. “He looks really smart,” I said. “Yeah, he was, and he loves cars.” He nodded at his son, smiling. “I bought him a little toy car sometimes two every time we went to Target. ‘Daddy daddy can I have this one too!?’” He imitated his son, smiling and laughing, and I smiled and laughed remembering his son with him. But inside my heart was breaking. Brian pulled out his cell phone to check the time. I was surprised he had managed to keep his phone. “I will not lose this phone,” he said. “I sleep with my gun. I sleep, I mean, I sleep with my phone.” He stays alert all night, protecting Debbie and his cell phone. He has tried to call his Sergeant every day but it’s leave for the whole battalion and he hasn’t been able to make contact. Up until yesterday, leave had been great. But now his dog tags, passport and uniforms are all in a locker, somewhere in LA–only Debbie’s friend knew where the locker was, but she had disappeared soon after they arrived on the beach. Last night, they spent the night out on the beach where it’s dark. “That way no one can see us, no one will mess with us.” Peggy, another volunteer warned, “You ought to be careful there sleeping on the beach-I wouldn’t want to get run over by one of the county officers patrolling the beach in their trucks.” c. MommyFiercest They looked frightened. They hadn’t known the beach is patrolled at night. Peggy recommended they sleep near the pier and warned them about the “sweeps” that often occur before holidays. “What’s a ‘sweep’?” asked Debbie fearfully. “That’s when the cops come and roust everyone out of their sleep, a lot of time they don’t arrest you, they just hand cuff you and throw away all your stuff and yell at you. You know try to do really mean stuff to get you to leave town before the tourists arrive”. “You don’t want to end up on skid row, whatever you do, don’t let them throw you on skid row,” warned a man, JT, who’s been homeless for one year. “And whatever you do don’t go down to Hollywood- I’ve worked on sets out there for years. But the streets are a shithole. Skid Row is the worst but this place is a shithole too.” I was caught by surprise-I thought JT looked like one of those rich Hollywood guys who lives on the canals. “I’m dying of AIDS,” he said calmly as he ate his bowl of greens, “and I served in the Marine Corp for five years and when I got home and found out I was sick and I couldn’t get my medicine! Finally they’re doing something, but that’s only cause I went nuts. I went out of my mind here on the beach.” JT told them what emergency programs they may be able to qualify for. “You might be able to get a voucher for a motel room” he said. “But those are only good for two weeks every ninety days.” Debbie and Brian looked very interested and we began to write down the names of shelters and a place to eat and shower. I noticed goose bumps on Debbie’s arm. Brian was hugging his legs, clad only in his pair of swim trunks covered in flaming skulls. “Can you be here in twenty minutes?” I asked them. “If I run home and maybe see if I can find some sweatshirts for you guys?” They nodded. “Yeah, I’d love to have some more clothes! Last night it was freezing! We got stuck out here in our bathing suits!” I raced my bike home and returned with two duffle bags full of warm clothes, condoms, toothpaste and shoes. “Alright!” Brian started going through the stuff. “Hell, I ain’t ashamed!” he said exclaimed cheerily. We exchanged phone numbers and I told them to call me if they are in need of any specific items. This must be the first step towards peace, right? Extending this kindness to a soldier who wondered aloud in front of me “What if I didn’t go back?” I asked myself does the peace movement have a bed for this man? Would he have to become the conscientious objector poster boy? Would we ask him to be ostracized by his community to join ours? Couldn’t we find a place for him to sleep, in the meantime? For now, he’s still on Venice Beach.

Feminist club... no girls allowed!

I didn’t become a real feminist until I met my inner misogynist. I was surprised to meet her, but more surprising was the guise under which she had remained hidden for so long, in plain sight, since earliest childhood.

I was raised in an egalitarian Jewish community, in a fiercely gender-egalitarian family. The same things that were expected of any boy in our synagogue were expected of me and my sister. If anything, more was expected of me and my sister because we were ideological about our Judaism. We were out to prove something. We were as capable of learning as any boy and our Judaism was just as valid, if not more so, than any form of Judaism that denied that girls could do the same things as boys. When I was six, our congregation hired a woman as our rabbi. That was 1987. My grandmother had worn a tallit (fringed prayer shawl traditionally worn by men) in synagogue for as long as I could remember, and had vowed to buy each of her grandchildren, boys and girls alike, their bar or bat mitzvah tallit when we each turned 13 and were called to the Torah.

This was feminism as I knew it, as I understood it for most of my life. This was the foundation of my understanding of gender-equality, of what the culmination of the women’s liberation movement would be when we finally and inevitably won… this idea that was so mind-bogglingly simple that I couldn’t fathom how anyone could be so dense as to not get it. I could do anything that a boy, or later a man, could do. Moreover, I could, I would prove it.

This in itself should not have been a problem. This in itself wasn’t a problem. The problem was when I took this principle a step further, along one of its possible lines of reasoning: girls who didn’t do the same things as boys, who were “girly,” were inferior. In order to be taken seriously as a person, as a human being, you had to shun the girls and be like the boys.

It’s hard to know where I picked up this notion… if it had to do with some deep innate sense of gender-discomfort which I wouldn’t find a name for until decades later, or if it had something to do with the people I was surrounded by in my childhood. It might have been as simple as my own child’s mind working out the logic and coming to this conclusion of my own accord. What matters is that it was borne out in reality. My experience supported my conclusion, and reinforced my sense that femininity was a lower form of humanity, to be avoided whenever possible.

The fact remained however that I was, in fact, a girl. It was evident every which way that I turned. It was evident in the way teachers always admonished me to “sit like a lady” even when I was wearing exactly the same clothes as the boys. It was evident in the way the boys shunned me on the schoolyard and even spit at me if I tried to join their games. For Chanukkah, our grandfather gave my brother a pocket knife. My sister and I got matching stationary sets. Pop took him and our cousin Paul fishing, and assented with some confusion when I asked to come along. My brother was offered little league. My sister and I never had been, though we’d taught him to throw and catch (when not dressing him up in Mom’s earrings and makeup).

There were times when I even tried to give in and give up, give way to the girl that the world seemed to want me to be. I asked to have my room, which had been blue since my birth, painted pink, I begged for lacy pink curtains for the windows. My sister, who shared this room, nearly killed me. In the end, I had to concede that the pink wasn’t me. My room turned gray, the curtains gave way to plain white blinds. I continued my confused journey down the winding road, the end of which I hoped would reveal, what I would later learn to call my gender identity.

Taking a knee, blending in with the guys

As my body developed, my confusion got worse. I had been a skinny little girl, but began to be what you might call “chubby” or “chunky” around the age of eight-and-a-half. When the time came for hips and breasts, I got more than my share. But as the other girls started to accessorize, accentuate, highlight, make up, I slouched my shoulders and slumped my back, hid my curves under baggy tee shirts and squeezed my belly and hips and thighs into straight-legged jeans two sizes too small. Restrict below, tent above. That was my strategy for hiding. I made excuses for my “lack of fashion sense.” Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs. I never learned how to shop. I didn’t care what other people thought. No one liked me anyway, who would care what I looked like? All of these things were true, or felt true at the time, but there was something else too. I was embarrassed that I was a girl, and that I couldn’t seem to stop being a girl. My body wouldn’t stop betraying me, growing and softening in all the wrong places, jiggling when I tried to prove my prowess on the frisbee or baseball field or basketball or tennis court. I occasionally surprised a few people with unexpected skill at batting, or a well aimed basket, but the humiliation of my body trumped my hopeless desire to be as good and as tough as the guys. I found my way into corners with books, befriended nerdy outcast boys, resigned myself to the lonely, unnamed no-man’s land of ambiguity, not knowing who or what I was supposed to be, what the world wanted of me.

Fast forward many years later, after many phases of alternately trying on and shunning my femininity, I enrolled in a single-sex school for the first time in my life. A number of factors went into this decision, and I had a feeling that it would be good for me, but I was apprehensive about being in an all-women’s environment. The people I considered my closest friends were mostly men, and I felt that I didn’t know how to relate to women. Serious conversations almost always happened with men and women tended to annoy me by fulfilling their stereotypes, ruining it for the rest of us. They always wanted to talk about how a text made them feel, giving so much weight to emotion and not enough to reasoned analysis.

And so it was that I came to find myself in a classroom of all women. The classroom experience started off as they usually do- the teacher starts talking, asks a question, there is a general hesitation, and conversation slowly gets rolling. Something was different here, though. I looked around the room and suddenly realized what I was thinking. I was assuming that the other women were judging me for speaking up, for raising my hand, for having answers and questions. One woman was looking at me as I talked and I noticed my thoughts whispering in my head “What the hell is she looking at? Who does she think she is?” The fact is, she was looking at me because I was speaking, and she was listening… But I automatically felt judged by her, and reciprocally was judging her.

The reason I noticed this now and never had before this moment was because usually, in a co-ed class, these thoughts are largely drowned out by my sense of competition and of seeking camaraderie with the men. I would take note of the men who were assertive, who had original ideas, who responded to points I raised, who ignored my contributions to the discussion, to whom I had to work to prove myself and gain respect… every once in a while a woman would surprise me and make her voice significant in the conversation, but largely in the classroom I saw myself as part of the boys’ game… and I looked down on the women. I didn’t take them seriously unless and until they proved themselves with a stunning insight or an aggressive argument. The men I gave the benefit of the doubt unless and until they proved themselves to be idiots.

As I looked around this room, however, at my classmates, at these young women with whom I was to study in the coming year, there was no one with whom I felt myself engaged, connected, competitive. All I saw and all I felt was judgement. It was with a shock that I realized that the entire foundation of what I called feminism was little more than internalized misogyny. Until that point in my life, though I wouldn’t have phrased it as such, my feminism had been based in wanting to be treated as a full human being despite being female. It wasn’t until that one powerful moment, alone among women, feeling the condescending judgement of my own gaze, that I realized where I had always been going wrong. It was time for me to beging to value women as women, whatever that was to mean. Further, it was time for me to value myself as a person as a woman, and to learn what that means. That is how my real feminist journey began.

c. Wikimedia Commons

In a society that still persecutes queer couples brave enough to show affection in the public sphere, the make-outs and grope-fests that spangled D.C.’s Capital Pride Weekend were a big, well-lubed middle finger to the heteronormativity that pervades even this thinly tolerant, vaguely progressive city.

My partner and I, each blessed with a unique queer identity and two X chromosomes, should have felt right at home amid the rainbow-clad masses. But, because my partner’s trans, we look like a straight couple. And in a sea of hyper-visible same-sex love, we stood out like a BYU t-shirt at an Ani DiFranco show.

There’s nothing wrong, in theory, with straight allied couples that come out (so to speak) to Pride Weekend events. Far be it from me to deny anyone, hetero though they may be, the right to watch greased-up Nellie’s bartenders grind the afternoon away on a bass-thumping float.

But I ‘m not straight. I wanted to feel solidarity in the crowds of people who shared some part of the growing pains I faced as a young queer girl. I wanted to feel my future reflected in older queer couples walking arm-in-arm down the sidewalk. I wanted to feel–pride. The sheer number of out, proud gays convened in one spot is what gives Pride its power. And I had to accept that–to the naked eye–I wasn’t contributing.

Before I inadvertently donned a heterosexual invisibility cloak at Capital Pride, I’d underestimated my need to broadcast my sexuality to the world. In fact, I was sick of sensing that my every public kiss with a girl was some big social statement. The leers, scowls and condescending smiles were tiring, at best, and threatening at worst.

So when I started dating my current partner, I relished the lack of double takes in our trail; we were just another straight couple out on a date. Our queerness was our little secret, like a hidden tattoo that’s more meaningful because it takes a deliberate unveiling to see. I even let my parents breathe a faint sigh of relief when I told them I was dating a “he.”

Soon, though, my hetero-charade began to nibble at my conscience–was I sending the queer movement backward by not telling the whole truth about my relationship? Or would I be indulging a self-important desire to feel like an outsider if I launched a personal PR campaign to let the world know that I ‘m not just dating any old dude–he’s a transdude! I’m still a sexual minority!

Dating a transguy, and coming to terms with the disconnect between my appearance and my true self, has given me new perspective on the contradictions that come with being queer in a society that presumes heterosexuality and rigid gender boundaries. Coming out to new friends seemed easier when I had girlfriends to bring around; now it takes a more complicated explanation. It’s a fine line to walk–being honest about my relationship without feeling like I’m treating my partner like a token or verging on TMI-territory with folks who want the finer details of surgeries and hormone effects. Ultimately, the trans-bomb is my partner’s to drop, but he’s open enough to encourage me to come out (again) to close family and friends and field their questions about trans life.

It was hard to admit to myself, but I now recognize the feeling that reared its head when I took grateful shelter in my newfound ability to blend in with other couples: homophobia. And now, I’m letting myself mourn the knowing, affirming looks from other queer couples that no longer come. They were nice, but recognition shouldn’t be the foundation of my identity.

Finding joy in my sexuality–without sanding down the rough edges to fit into mainstream society–has been the most rewarding part of my life as a queer. Here’s hoping that at next year’s Pride Parade, I’ll let go of my appearance anxiety long enough to really enjoy those grinding bartenders.

The memorial where Caylee's bones were found

Something drew me there. Part of it was morbid curiousity. Part of it was my fascination with criminal psychology. Part of it was my investment in the hype machine. America’s greatest soap opera this year didn’t cost a million dollars to cast…it cost the life of a little girl. Bombshell tonight.

How that little girl captured the heart of America. That little girl (and her family) are our neighbors. Cindy Anthony is one of my friend’s parents in a different body. I’ve seen George Anthony (in a different body) mowing his lawn with his shirt off. When the quintessential (troubled) family next door reveals itself to be a cauldron of dysfunction and murder we are all peeping through the blinds with our ear on the peephole. Myself included, guilty as charged.

I become teary-eyed when I think too hard about what happened to Caylee Anthony. I am aware it happens to children every day. I am aware there’s millions of people in need of this energy all over the world. And despite this my heart still aches for this one iconic deceased little girl. We will never know if she would grow up to be genius, a thief, a bride, a prostitute, or a mother herself. She will be forever imprinted on our minds as that untainted tiny little child. Had Casey Anthony been murdered at three…the country would have fallen in love with her too. But Casey Anthony lived long enough to let her daughter go missing for 31 day without reporting it. And so we hate her.

A couple years ago I retraced the footsteps of serial killer Aileen Wournos around Florida. Florida is often ridiculed for being a land of prune-faced retirees or redneck imbeciles. That’s not the Florida I live in. I float around in a nighttime full of moonlit swampy magic and terror. I spent one August searching out a country road in the middle of the state that supposedly smelled like meth labs. It did. There’s never a shortage of mysteries to chase and discover.

The thick humidity cloaks my skin and protects me from the frost-bitten chills of my past. Florida is the freak show I get to watch from the front row. I’m always in awe and intrigued. Caylee Anthony and her legacy is yet another strange and bizarre patch on this quilt. I knew an hour and a half from my bedroom candles were glowing in the middle of the night illuminating Winnie The Pooh and his friends. The same thick forest that housed death now housed hundreds of stuffed dolls and helium balloons. I had to go there.

And so at 3 am last night, after a performance, four of us went. The air was still and the trees were cautiously majestic against the sky. The first drive down that road only yielded traffic cones on the left and trees on the right. If you blinked you’d miss it all and end up at a dead end near an elementary school.

U-turn. Passing by the woods a second time I noticed a glow emanating from within the trees and brush. Squinting my eyes revealed a glowing mound of white fur and silver balloons. We parked. A police officer was omnipresent – friendly enough to let us slither into the woods after we assured him we harbored no ill intentions.

And there we stood. In this spot a beautiful child’s bones were once discarded in a laundry bag. The same very spot that was on the minds of millions of Americans. The plush mountain of grief and sentiment quietly rested in these 3:30 am Florida woods. The spirit of a dead child and the evil voodoo that took her lingered within the still tree branches. One other man was also there. He’d driven two hours. He had to be there too.

After we left the woods the glow remained and the moon continued to bounce off the inky branches. We drove by the Anthony’s house. It was one minute away and some change. Cindy and George Anthony may have been sleeping inside with terrible and troubled night terrors.

We drove back towards the heart of Orlando. All those streetlamps and still so much darkness.

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I want to use that word because it conjures images of Paris in the 1920s, rather than words like nerd or geek which have the unending pejorative context of a 7^th grade locker room confrontation. But what does “intellectual” mean?

I always fell in with the “smart kids” growing up, because I did theatre, read a lot, and didn’t drink, but I wasn’t one of them. I already felt weird, like I didn’t fit in anywhere, and while I was almost a ”smart kid,” my sense of otherness was hard to deny, and it didn’t feel right. I wasn’t really smart enough to be one of them, and I struggled to find the right place for me.

Of course, as one gets older, and moves around, and makes group after group of new friends, the lines that divide jocks, nerds and goths begin to blur. The groups still exist, but individuals are able to float back and forth between groups, and often pass in their adopted group.

Intellectual is a nice word to claim because of its relationship to artists and thinkers, but I’m not a Fitzgerald, Hemingway or Stein. I’m not a serious artist, or even a serious writer. I feel a little lame about my MA when I’m in the same room with my JD brother and PhD sister.

But what am I?

My cubical is decked out with dinosaurs. I like documentaries and would prefer to be in a museum than anywhere else on earth. I get really excited when I talk about politics or science or literature, but I’m also extremely social and love concerts and cocktails. Not nerdy enough to be a nerd, not cool enough to be cool.

Over the 4^th of July weekend, I traveled up to Wisconsin to spend a few days among a conglomeration of friends accumulated over the last 10 years who are all connected to each other through schools and jobs and relationships. A nice mix.

As I tipped back my 4^th or 6^th cocktail of the evening, my abs aching from hours of laughing, we joked about how we had come together from six states to drink. I chuckled at how true the statement was: finding friends who like to (binge) drink isn’t as easy as you get older, but through my slightly blurred vision I was starting to see something else we had in common.

In a group of queer/queer-friendly/queer knowledgeable, highly educated individuals, our conversations ping-ponged from movie quotes and embarrassing stories to preferred gender pronouns, dinosaurs (which may have mostly been me) and Higher Education theory.

These people, playing drinking games in the middle of the afternoon, making jokes about the Virgin birth – these are the intellectuals. Somewhere in our nebulous early twenties, we moved from being nerdy to being intellectual. While New Glarus beers and games of “Cheers Governor” might not hold the same romance as whiskey and expatriates talking politics, a wild weekend in Wisconsin with people like these had a lot in common with a Parisian Salon.

In addition to being happy that I was with great friends, great beers and great conversation, I was happy to know that the art of the Salon hasn’t been lost. Happy to know that intellectuals still gather to share ideas and toss back a couple of cold ones,  just like Fitzgerald, Hemmingway and Stein, and to know that I might actually be one of them.

Just a A French Teenage Crossdresser & His Mistress, c. Mommy Fiercest

I had decided that I would fall in love with Émile Bonnet before I’d ever even met him. He was my junior high school boyfriend’s foreign exchange student. He was 19 and French. I loved Émile because he was smart and worldly and he did what I wanted him to do.

When he arrived we stayed up late sitting out on the picnic bench in my boyfriend’s family’s backyard.  The breeze cooled our sweaty skin and carryed with it the pungent aroma of the tomato cannery and the garlic fields that surrounded my tiny village. Émile and I laughed and flirted as the yard sizzled with the summer sounds of frogs and crickets and the air smelled wonderful like spaghetti. Émile  showed me photos of his college hazing, regaling me with tales of being made to run around Paris on a scavenger hunt covered in raw eggs and carmel sauce in only his underpants. In one such photo Émile was standing atop a formica table before a blackboard in a lecture hall. He wore a poorly fitting french school girls uniform that one of his classmates had brought with her from home. He sang into a child’s toy microphone, head thrown back, chest thrust forward. He looked positively radiant and not in the least humiliated. I had already begun dressing my boyfriend in my goth girl drag and my approval and subsequent titillation were all the incentive Émile needed to become my cross-dressing femme entertainment.

One summer afternoon I bleached his outdated Beatles bowl haircut and dyed it bright pink. He rinsed the dye out in my shower and he stained his entire face (and my bathtub) Manic Panic fushia. I sent him home on the skate board he borrowed from my boyfriend. I had no desire to make out with his tomato face.

He was a good kisser but his breath often smelled of anchovies, which he ate almost daily. I knew of no other teenagers who ate anchovies or hot mustard that stung your nose and made your eyes well up with tears when you swallowed.

We maintained a love letter romance for about a year before one of us eventually lost interest. But I will always remember him in photos. Émile as a naughty schoolgirl. Émile as a slutty goth girl in my driveway blowing kisses from beneath the shade of my Ren-Fair head dress. Émile the pink haired teenager in a red pleated skirt and silver thigh high stockings.

In America, in Gilroy, Émile was fearless.

Me as a blushing bride in 1992.

New York. The state in which I grew up. The state I fled from in my 20s.m The state where I frequently vacation in my 30s. I loved her. I hated her. Then I fell back into a whirlwind love affair with her. Oh New York.

As of this week gay marriage is legal in New York state. The same state where I got my head smashed into a locker twenty years ago. The state where I got called a fag all the time in high school. The state where I gave one of the basketball players a BJ under his Christmas tree, only a year after he tripped me in the hallway. On the streets being gay put me on the fringes. In the law books being gay made me invisible.

Gay marriage has been legalized in other states, but this is New York. This is the state that reared me. Iconic. A man can marry a man in New York. And a woman can marry a woman. Fuck yes.

And so I think about my last twenty years as a gay man. I think about all the guys I slept with while their boyfriends were at work. I think about how I never felt any guilt or remorse about being the adulteress because gay relationships never felt truly legitimate to me. The law said so.

I think about a night over the winter when I drove to have sex with a straight guy. I remember not feeling guilty that he had a wife and a kid. His world was a world that could never be mine. The law said so.

I think about how when my  gay uncle died my aunt made sure his boyfriend was left with nothing. Although my uncle’s boyfriend had lived with and taken care of him for fifteen years…he was left with nothing. My uncle and his boyfriend’s partnership was as vapid as air. The law said so.

I think about how even as a gay man I never  felt Peter and Stephen’s love was as legitimate as Erin and Scotty’s. Or that Jonathyn and Havis’ love was as legitimate as Glen and Tanya’s.

But New York state’s gay marriage law passed this week.

I finally see how real gay love can be. And should be. And will be. And always was. We can love just like the rest of society has always been allowed to. Even though I am in Florida I am feeling the magic miles away.

I don’t want to be the adulteress anymore. I don’t think I ever really wanted to be. I want to get married like every beautiful teenaged girl daydreaming in the mirror. If you want this then you better put a motherfucking ring on it.

I am sorry to all the relationships that I didn’t respect over the years. And more importantly I forgive the United States for not respecting our relationships for all these years.

Our time has come.

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