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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.

Personal Narratives »

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.

Personal Narratives »

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?

Columns, Not Your Average Prom Queen, Personal Narratives »

The long grass of my family backyard concealed a forgotten tool, which I discovered with the shin of my right leg on a Sunday morning the summer that I was 11. I had gotten up early to swim in the pool and play in the yard (because some middle schoolers don’t have any rules) and I caught the tip of this sharp item with my foot and took a tumble. The extent of the injury was uncertain, but I panicked when I saw the blood streaming down my leg and ran into the house. I woke my mother who gave me an old towel and sat me down on the floor to take a look.

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

Personal Narratives »

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.

Personal Narratives »

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.

Cynical And Southern, Personal Narratives »

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.

Personal Narratives »

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.”

Personal Narratives »

When I lived in India I played with these identities and throuroghly embraced the “going native” aspect of the anthropologist. Some might have even said I adopted an Indian identity. I after all did wear the traditional “garb” (I generally take offence to the term garb as it seems to fit into an objectified view of the other- but here I like to indulge in my pet peeves: so there). I wore kurtas, veshti (basically an Indian sarang), spoke Tamil, and ate with my fingers like a pro.

Now as a farmer, I don the Carharts, tractor supply baseball hat and revel in driving big loud diesel trucks. As I age, I find that I am less intrigued by the adventure of “going native” and rather enjoy bending those identities. Sometimes a pasture raised queer just needs to gay- it up a little.

Personal Narratives »

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.