Thursday, December 31, 2009
Lost and Found in Limbo
We built forts out of worn-out couch cushions, synthetic pillows, thin cotton bed sheets, metallic folding chairs, the wooden bunk bed, whatever we could get our hands on. They were the places of imagination where war's only casualty was the fake death of a brother or friend and mansions were an eight feet by eight feet square that you couldn't even stand in. Anything could happen as long as you forgot who and where you were and had a sliver of creativity. Even the creativity could be forgiven, you could always play out classic stories or Saturday morning cartoons, if you knew how not to be you. There were dragons to slay, Princess Leia's to save, robbers to catch, COBRA to destroy, murders to solve, Carmen Sandiego to fin. The scared, manic boy was a fearless, reserved villain. The shy, quietly seething kid was a brave, calculating warrior. The high energy, laughing youngest was a secret weapon set to explode on either side. Worlds constantly transformed before your eyes making the infinite seem possible.
But we all knew that while the infinite might seem possible, it was in fact as imaginary as Transformers, and He-Man, and Scooby-Doo, and The Jetsons. There was no Krypton or Gotham or castle. It was just two chairs with a blanket hung between them and me dancing in my Batman underoos. And while our imaginations soared, it was bound by the limits of heterosexual masculinity. It was always a princess that needed saving, a war that needed waging, a clear division between right and wrong.
In the land of fancy, I couldn't be a fruit.
The dissonance between fancy and reality, villain and fruit grew until it became harder to distinguish one from the other. Forts transformed into hand-written plays casting me in the role of Jacob Wetterling and Jeffrey Dahmer. Batman underoos became invisible masks worn just as frequently but with much less zeal. High school was as foreign and faraway as Krypton. Manically happy and depressively sad looked exactly the same.
One wintry night, a few years later, when the snow fell in slow lulling rhythms, I could no longer tell whether they were snowflakes or ashes. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a familiarly unrecognizable face. I listened to the clatter in the hallways outside my dorm room, and I heard the whispers of sexuality telling secrets about someone that was supposedly me. I was lost in limbo.
Shortly thereafter, I came out and in doing so learned that reality and imagination are boundless and blurry. The underoos, the masks, the forts, the plays are all reflections of self, real and perceived. Neither one more or less significant. They tell a story of truth. That was the gift of coming out: I no longer needed to leave limbo; rather, I needed to share its story.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
1-976-THERAPIST
I was sent to a counselor in the eighth grade to cure me of my homosexuality. Obviously, it didn't work. I am a happily queer man.
The signs were there for many years before -- my favorite sport (and the only one I played for an extended period of time) was gymnastics, I was in musical theater, my dad walked in on me playing with a boy's prick -- but were denied or not acknowledged. They were the types of things that just made me flamboyant or weird. My family was fine with weird. In fact, from old stories told by my dad and his mother, I'm positive my dad was also labeled weird in school. Being a fag was something else entirely.
It became too hard to deny when I was in the eighth grade because of a large telephone bill my grandma received. Grandma got me a job washing dishes a the Catholic retreat center at which she cooked. It was a weekend job, and my dad worked at the grocery store right next to it. When dad was working, it could sometimes be a couple of hours before I got a ride home. So I'd walk to grandma's for the afternoon. She often still had cooking duties, so I would sit in her apartment fiddling with the organ, flipping television channels, or raiding her fridge for a ham and Miracle Whip sandwich.
Her apartment was filled with bric-a-brac -- free calendars with birds from gas stations, glass candy dishes, needlepoint wall hangings, Reader's Digest, lace doilies -- and the flowery air of old people, a combination of rose and gardenia and lavender, permeated her home. It was filled with things that wouldn't entertain a thirteen year old boy raging with hormones and extremely horny.
One afternoon while walking to grandma's apartment, I picked up a copy of the alternative weekly paper -- the kind with the personals in the back -- hoping to pass the time masturbating in her bathroom. She was still at work, and I let myself in. I settled in by making something to eat and relaxing on the arm chair watching People's Court or The Jeffersons. I flipped through the paper lingering on the picture of half naked men (the escort page) and on the "men seeking men" and "women seeking men" personal ads. I got hard and stupid and noticed in between the pictures and the ads a 1-976 number for a gay chat line complete with a code for a free trial offer. The tingling sensation in my head urged me to pick up the phone and dial, justifying, "No one would ever know it is me as long as I hang up before the trial ends."
I took the telephone in to the bathroom -- I was smart enough to know I didn't want grandma walking in on me wanking -- slowly dialed, and listened to the instructions. I came five seconds later to the automated voice telling me to record my name. I hung up and was immediately addicted to anonymity and risk.
Picking up the paper for a new "free trial code", dialing the number, and whacking off in the bathroom passed many afternoons. I became so obsessive that I didn't notice that the free trial was over. I was lost among anonymous liberation and sexual fantasies.
One evening, I overheard my parents talking about a large phone bill grandma received. I know I would be outed if I didn't do something, so I started plotting and planning how to get out of it. Crazy ideas about calling grandma and pretending to be customer service from Man Chat ran through my head. Here's how I imagined it would go:
"Hello. Is Mrs. Wyman there," I'd ask in my best imitation of a man's voice.
"Yes, this is her. How can I help you?" She'd reply innocent and old.
"It seems that there has been a mix up on our end, and you have been inaccurately charged for calls placed to Man Chat."
"Really?"
"Yes. We will clear your account momentarily. It may take up to two months to show up on your phone bill. Please forgive us for any confusion or headache."
"Oh. Okay. Take care and have a nice day."
And she would accept it all as fact and hang up the phone. Then, I'd collect all my paychecks, pay the bill, and no one would be the wiser.
I never got the courage to make that call. Nor would my grandma have just accepted that explanation. She would want to know why the mistake happened in the first place. I probably could have thought of something, but I was afraid everyone would see through it and figure out it was me.
Even without that call, they did figure out it was me, and I was confronted. My parents were confused and crying. One of them called the number and found out what it actually was. They were not going to have a fag in the family. It was sinful and punishable by a fiery torment in hell. All of us were Catholic, and nothing was going to jeopardize that.
My parents found a counselor. They ushered me an ultimatum: see the counselor and stop being queer or get kicked out of the house. I was thirteen and opted for "stop being queer".
We drove to the therapist's in silence. I sat in the back of our paneled station wagon terrified and practicing my responses.
"No sir. This is just a phase. I am not attracted to men. I like tits. Yes, it will never happen again. Really, I don't like men. Well, yes...but only as friends. Girls. I like girls."
All three of us met the the counselor first. He told us he was recently on Oprah and was an excellent and trusted family therapist. My parents outlined the problem and what needed curing. He just listened, and then he told them he needed one-on-one time with me. They left the room, my mother crying, my dad silent.
Once the door closed behind them, the therapist looked at me with his brown eyes and messy hair and said, "Contrary to what your parents say, homosexuality is nothing to be cured."
I stared at him dumbfounded, mouth slightly open. Here was a chance to finally say it. I bordered on tears and the ultimatum reverberated through my head. I responded with waht I practiced in the car.
He excused me from his office with the diplomas and certificates and picture with Oprah and asked me to send in my parents. They exited five minutes later and we all hopped back into the rusted station wagon with the slightly flat tires.
I don't know what he said to them, but I wasn't kicked out or sent back. It was another five years before I had the nerve to say I was gay and another seven after that to finally admit to my family I was queer.
The second and third time around they were more prepared and accepted me for me. Time and distance are forces that change people, circumstances, and situations. Fortunately, my family changed in a manner that opened their hearts and minds. For that I am grateful.
My grandma forgave me for racking up the phone bill, and met my soon-to-be husband many years later. I'll never forget the way her eyes lit up when she met him. She smiled the way grandmothers smile when they know you've found "the one". She was in her wheelchair and asked me to sit by her. She grabbed my arm and looked at me.
"Jason. He sure is handsome. You've found a lovely and nice man. I love you, and I wish you all the love you deserve."
That was the last conversation I had with her before she died.
Gay 90's on Roller Skates
There was a drag queen who always performed on roller skates at the Gay 90's. She lived in my building off of Loring Park and threw amazing parties. I cherished our friendship and her shaved eyebrows. It was a casual friendship one with only a greeting as we passed each other coming and going from the apartment complex.
One night, I snuck in to the Gay 90's to see her perform. All I remember was disco and yellow and the feeling that I'd love to be a drag queen. It scratched the itch of theatrics. I wanted to hide the still quivering and shy boy of winter behind the loud color of an illusive summer. Sometimes I still want to be an illusion.
True to Self
If I had to pick a religion or a spiritual path, it would be Taoism. But I am loathe to pick just one. I do not believe in mono-, poly-, pan-, or a- theism. I do not believe in a singular way to truth. Rather, I believe in being true to your self.
I set down this path after reading Stephen Mitchell's translation of the Tao Te Ching in 1997. Every year, I pick up that dogeared book and reread it cover to cover. I highlight or underline passages that spark my interest or raise a question. Over the years, different passages resonate. It is amazing to tangibly see how a year of life's experiences change resonance, mark the passage of time, and shift perception. In that way, Taoism is a rock firmly beneath my feet. It helps me find truth in who I am.
Little Luncheonette of Drag Queens
In the eighth grade, I was in Little Luncheonette of Terror. It was a spoof of Little Shop of Horrors for theatre companies and schools too poor to purchase the rights to the more famous musical. The jumpsuit I wore was detailed with bubble wrap spray painted a bright leaf green to give the impression of some swamp thing from outer space. My face was also painted a verdant green with black grease accents on my nose and eyes. It was my first starring role. I was thrilled.
While I no longer perform in musicals (Did I really think I could sing?), the flair for the dramatic, theatrical, and illusion live with me. It is why I still love wigs and make up and drag queens.
The Not So Silent Signs
He came all over my retainer when I was 11. Right after, my dad caught us doing the deed. None of us have ever spoken about the incident ever again. These are the not so silent signs that your life is queer.
What's Queerer?
It is a weird thing to find yourself one of a finite number. 18,000. My husband and I are one of 18,000 couples. What's queerer:
Being segregated from your own community by date?
Or not having these rights at all?
Or being a part of an institution that still doesn't recognize you?
Or believing that that institution has any validity or bearing on who I am?
Or not giving a fuck and claiming your own freedom?
Seeing More Than Gay
She was the love of my life for six plus years. I am queer because of my love for her. I was no longer gay because I loved the feel of her smooth, supple body next to me -- the way her breasts pushed against my back. She was not the first. She was the catalyst. I am forever indebted to her for showing me so much more than gay.
The Seminarian Visits
He visited me often after I left the seminary. Partly, I pitied him. Partly, I loved him. His conflict and turmoil excited me. His willingness to let go gave me power. I never wanted to give that up. But his tears finally washed away my contempt, and we had to say good-bye. I never forget him. I hope he forgives me.
The Church of Rocky Horror
It all started innocently and ended maliciously. I loved the movies, especially the trashy midnight ones at the Uptown Theater. Mostly, it was the Rocky Horror Picture Show complete with a live, d-list cast performing along with the film. It was divine -- filled with smut, nudity, and fornication. This was my new church.
The seminarians said they loved Rock Horror even though that week they were trashing Priest. It was a lie. I knew. So I invited them to a showing that Saturday. Pride said yes, and the mischievous trickster smiled.
I arrived at the Uptown before everyone else. I told the performers about the special guests. My friends sat far away from me giggling. The seminarians arrived, and I showed them to their seats. The spectacle started and no seminarian, except me, stayed for the climax.
Media Memories
I have memories of Star Wars and Scooby Doo and of being so afraid of snakes I had to leave Raiders of the Lost Ark. I remember Family Ties, Who's the Boss, and Facts of Life. I remember the not too distant future of Fahrenheit 451, the mythic past of Dracula, and the land of the Wild Things. And they rattle and reassemble themselves as pieces of my history more real and tangible than actual memories for I have revisited them more frequently than the memories of fights, arguments, and tempers. Yet they are not real, which reminds me that the fights, arguments, and tempers might be real, but they are not truth.
Moments of Coming Out
There are moments of rebellion of taking risk, fate, and chance and mixing them into a combustible concoction set to explode at a moments notice. Those are the moments of coming out of being who you are regardless of what others think. Those are the moments you know love. I've had many of those moments. For that, I am grateful.
Crying under the Stairs
She could be found often under the stairs or in the tiny space behind the bathroom that wasn't finished, and often she was crying. I visited her there to calm her and reassure her that everything was going to be okay. And after she was comforted and returned upstairs, often I stayed behind and cried.
The Boy Who Loved Snow Angels
There was this boy that loved making snow angels. He plopped right down in the freezing snow without a care in the world and energetically moved his arms and legs back and forth. He'd get up, look at his work, and then make another. By the time he was tired, there were dozens of snow angels, and he was sopping wet. That boy is now a man and hates the cold and the snow. He never makes snow angels. But the memory still makes him warm.
The First Coming Out
I came out as gay when I was in seminary. I remember going into seminary already questioning myself. I was attracted to boys/men at a very young age. In fact, I can't remember a time when I didn't like boys. All of the social stigma that still exists around being LGBTQ existed then, and I knew I couldn't say anything. Sure there were glimpses of my latent homosexuality -- I called 1-976 numbers when I was in 8th grade from my grandma's phone thinking I wouldn't get caught. But that didn't mean I would verbally admit to those attractions.
Coming Out Again, and Again, and Again
I came out at 18, but also at 8, 13, and again at 23. Each time, I found a new piece of myself and lost another. It was a constant opening and shutting of doors, of answering different people's knocks in the early morning hours. Partially, it has been about me and my identity. Partially, it has been about conforming to others' constructs. It is a vacillation between breaking free and being bound. In reality, I am still coming out. I always will.
Priestly Bathroom Encounters
Father Paul claimed he talked to God and divined his greatness. It was Father Paul that recruited me in to seminary. He approached me one day to talk about why I was there, about the trouble I was causing by being who I was. "Jason, my son, can you tell me why you are here?"
"To be closer to God, Father. I want to be a priest." I replied.
"Well my son, I am afraid you can't be a priest because of who you are. I think you should leave the seminary," he said.
I saw Father Paul a few months later in a public bathroom cruising for sex.
The god of the Library
God always visited me in the library ever since I was a little boy checking out the How to Draw books. It wasn't the God I was raised with -- the God of the Trinity, the God of morning prayer. This was the god of exploration, knowledge, information -- the god that lead me to the wonderful 100 section of the Dewey Decimal System and to the photographs of Robert Mapplethorpe and Nan Goldin. It was the god that didn't care about redemption. Rather, it cared about love. It was the god I couldn't find at seminary, so I came out and left.
One Semester Seminary
I was raised Catholic. Very Catholic. In fact, I went to seminary to be a priest when I was 18. I only lasted one semester. It was the most insightful and informative four and a half months of my entire life. I would never change that experience. I would also never relive it.
Morning Prayer Revelations
Morning prayer was a ritual and requirement, and every morning I reluctantly attended hoping I would be forgiven of all that took place the day and night before. Instead, I was greeted by my fellow seminarians with "Hey fag, you shouldn't be here." Or "Look at that fucking queer." The ones who visited at the early morning hours were the loudest, especially him with the confederate flag. These men were and are the future of the Church.
Early Morning Faggot
He knocked on my door at 3am. I was sound asleep, dreaming of possibilities of freedom and openness. I awoke to "Faggot! Open up!" And possibilities faded to the four confining walls of my dorm room.
I opened the door knowing the seminarian with the confederate flag and constant hate speech was on the other side waiting impatiently for his early morning blow job. I complied.
Coming Out Day Connection
We first met at a Coming Out Day celebration at the University of Minnesota, but he doesn't remember it. He was part of the event team and was busy meeting all of the attendees. I was there alone trying to figure things out.
We met again at a state-wide conference to help craft the lgbtq agenda. I was a tragic mess. I was extremely poor and got there because my ex-boyfriend helped organize the event. I was supposed to be volunteering.
Instead, I drank and made a fool of myself. I grabbed the microphone and performed horrible songs and dance routines. At one point, I serenaded him. That is how we started our now 13+ years of friendship.
High School Halloween
I went to high school as Marilyn. It was Spirit Week. I didn't care what would happen, but I feared the worst.
I forgot that I had a site visit scheduled. She came from Washington, D.C., to ask questions about our federally-funded program. She couldn't get past the red vinyl pants, army jacket and cap, the three ratty wigs piled on top of each other, or the gothed-out make-up. She laughed the entire time. It ended with a great report.
Later, a student visited me in my office. He was Dracula -- face painted white, blood red lips, plastic fangs, polyester cape, and black pants and t-shirt. "Thanks," he said. "You make it okay for me to be in this."
I smiled and skipped as I walked home that evening. Everyone loved the costume, even the principal. As I was crossing the pedestrian bridge over the 101, my pants split wide open. I laughed hysterically. It felt fabulous being my self and not giving a fuck.
Surviving Faith
She saved my life even though she doesn't know it. It was her depression that did it. I saw her hurting and sad, and it reminded me of something. I felt resonance deep within my bones, right near the marrow. We became friends, boyfriend/girlfriend, acquaintances, lovers, and dear, dear friends.
The fact that she survived meant I could too. Her resilience inspired and inspires me. Her faith seeps out into the places and relationships around and beyond her. And when I feel that feeling in my marrow, I remember her, and I am hopeful.
First Grade Fondle
We first fondled each other when we were in kindergarten or the first grade at a sleepover when everyone else was asleep. I was excited. He was excited. It felt good.
We continued fondling each other through the eighth grade. Then puberty stopped it. It was no longer childhood innocence and exploration. It was sex and sin.
We ended up at the same college. One afternoon, he knocked on my door and asked to talk. He wondered if what we did as children made him gay. I said, "No. It was just childhood innocence and exploration." He smiled and asked me not to talk about it ever again. And we never spoke of it or to each other again.
The Saviors in San Francisco
They were my saviors, though not in any religious or co-dependent sense. They were the ones who helped me find gay San Francisco and provided the resources to be a part of it. They gave me a job go go dancing in all of their clubs. They invited me to all the parties. They brought over food when I was starving. They provided the drugs.
One night at one of their clubs, another boy came up to me and said, "You know they're going to get tired of you. You're just fresh meat."
I responded, "I don't give a fuck. I'm having fun now."
And they did tire of me. I also tired of them. Well...I didn't really tire of them, I was falling for one of them. They were and are a couple, and I knew I had no chance in hell.
I still see them about the City, and I smile each time. I am whisked back to the podiums and bar tops, the flashing lights and pounding bass, the mesh Calvin Kleins, the free drinks, the easy sex. I am not that person any more, but boy do I enjoy him.
Marilyn Discovered
Her name was Vamp. Then it was Wednesday. Now, I am not quite sure what it is. To me, she will always be Vamp. Her class and perfect make-up, her gothic look with lace and rock and roll remain with me.
I still look for her in clubs when I can muster the energy to go out. Sometimes, I see her perched against a wall with a tall cocktail in her gloved hand, the straw twitching from her impatient tongue. Most of the time I don't find her.
She was the one who discovered Marilyn. It wasn't my first time in drag. It was the best. It was Halloween in San Francisco.
This Sucks
She was my girlfriend in the ninth or tenth grade. I can't exactly remember, and it doesn't really matter. She was shorter than me with ashy blond hair that fell to the middle of her back. She liked me a lot. She also wanted to lose her virginity. I did not.
She came over to my house because my parents were at work. My siblings were elsewhere, occupied. She threw me on the bed and pulled down my pants. Hers were already off. My penis touched her labia -- wet and sticky. I screamed "No." She yelled, "Yes." I was inside her.
"This sucks," she said, climbed off, and left.
I laid there violated.
The next day she broke up with me. She never knew that after she left I sat there with a knife to my wrist all night long. I was relieved she broke up with me because it meant I could put the knife away Little did I know that that wasn't the first or last knife.
My First Gay Kiss
He wasn't my first boy-boy kiss. He was my first gay kiss. I was researching a project on LGBTQ discrimination for a sociology class and ended up at the queer center at the University of Minnesota. He was the receptionist or something like that.
We sat on the couch in the lobby surrounded by windows passionately making out. In retrospect, our degree of making out on that couch was tacky. At the time, it was hot. We were both exhibitionists.
We exchanged numbers, and eventually I went over to his house to continue our passion. I mistook passion for love.
He opened the door and led me upstairs. We immediately picked up where we left off. Suddenly, he was on top of me, condom over his prick, my pants around my ankles, ass in the air.
"No. No! NO!" I screamed.
He didn't listen. My ass burned. It was my first time.
I wish I turned and slapped him.
Lovers Become Friends
We met at a Catholic retreat designed to manipulate emotions and destroy your ego in an effort to find Christ. I remember seeing her for the first time so clearly: her hair curly, a brownish-blonde, and cut below the shoulders; her beauty marks on her distinguished face; her lighting of candles. I loved her instantaneously.
Gone are the curly locks, now replaced by short straight hair. More prominent are the distinguished beauty marks. Instead of wax candles and Christ, she lights the fire of spirituality in anyone she comes into contact with.
We are no longer lover. We are dear, dear friends. I still love her.
Hot Tub Terror
The hot tub was large filled with tepid water and small coves for hook-ups. The lights were dim covering everything in a fog that blurred distinguishing features. The music was typical gay house music played at a level that made conversing impossible. None of us were there to talk.
He approached me from across the hot tub. He wasn't the first of the night or the last in the hot tub.
We kissed and caressed. He slipped inside me. His cock unsheathed. He came and slipped out.
I waded over to another cove shaking. Everything I knew about safer sex gone. I was in ecstatic terror.
It took me months before I could muster the strength to get tested.
Just Weird
I was called "faggot", "fag", and "fucking queer" from the sixth grade on. Before that, I was just "weird".
Fallen Towers
He was aware of the crash before it happened. It is why he woke up early that morning and turned on the television. There it was: two skyscrapers burning, billowing with smoke, crumbling to the ground. Immediately, he called his director to see what to do about program that afternoon. It was closed she said. He stayed glued to the television watching people jump to their deaths, and he knew everyone else was doing the same thing including the youth in his program.
He cried not only for the loss of life but also for the loss of innocence.
The next day he realized innocence was lost way before the towers fell.
Walking through the Tenderloin
Traveling through the desert brings me peace. There is something about the distant horizon, sand, and sunlight that illustrates both possibility and desolation. The landscape balances my optimist and pessimist.
The ocean does the same thing. So does looking at a star-filled sky. So does walking through the Tenderloin.
Introducing Chicken Boy
I worked the Renaissance Faire in bright, bright red tights, royal blue puffy shorts, a peasant shirt, and a purple velour cape all mad by my granny. Chicken Boy they called me because the tights accentuated my bowed legs, my voice cracked and garbled, and I was full of nervous energy. Buses pulled in filled with tourists, and we'd hop on telling them what to expect in our best, which were really horrible, British accents. At some point, one of my fellow actors would scream "Chicken Boy", and I'd cluck and flap my arms up and down the aisle in an old school Chicken Dance sort of way.
Chicken Boy was my role for two falls. I made it, and it made me. He's still somewhere inside me, and he comes out when I'm smashed. It's how I ended up in the middle of the street at 1am drunk off 12 glasses of red wine refusing to listen to anyone.
Hormones Raging
She had the biggest breasts I had ever seen, and it made me hard. The kind of hard only a pre-pubescent boy knows. She was two years my senior and a little more knowledgeable in the ways of sexual exploration. We became fast friends.
My hormones raged, and soon our friendship morphed into lovers. We'd hide in the Green Room when all the other actors were on stage and the crew was busy building sets. She'd throw off her shirt and unsnap her bra. I'd start fondling her. We'd both giggle.
One time my hormones took control, and I was unzipping her pants. She said no. I couldn't and didn't listen. She slapped me.
I returned to my body, my hormones subsiding.
That was the end of our relationship. It was the beginning of my understanding of power and control. I was afraid. So was she.
And We're in Love
She came out to her parents.
"What? Isn't he gay," they asked.
"No," she said. "He's queer, and we're in love."
The Broken Up Silk Road
We were in China with her parents, and we were broken up. Her parents didn't know. They had already paid for the entire trip.
We traveled the northern route of the Silk Road by train. We had a compartment to ourselves.
It was a difficult to be in a foreign country traveling with your ex and her parents and sharing close quarters. We made it work. We had sex. We even enjoyed the trip.
Upon returning state-side, everything changed. I resented her. If we were broken up, I couldn't continue sharing close quarters. I loved her too much.
She resented me too. We were trapped just like before the break up. So I took off for Des Moines for a week.
It was the best decision I've ever made.
The Undercover Condom Distributor
I love mischief. I wasn't popular in middle school. Who is? But I was desperate for friends. I went to the local drug store and stole condoms.
I was a huge kleptomaniac. It was exhilarating getting away with it, but looking back they probably knew and just didn't say anything. Such are the privileges of being white and growing up in suburbia: the authorities are way more forgiving.
I had no intention of using the condoms for sex, although I was highly sexually active. Instead, I used them as leverage for friendship. I was the condom dealer, except the other students used them for water balloons.
Somehow a tip of an exploded condom ended up in Sister Nancy's hands. That was the end of my days as an undercover condom distributor.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Expelled from School
I loved grammar class. I wasn't as huge of a fan of literature class. It was the dissecting and diagramming that did it. It was math.
I've always viewed math and grammar as essentially the same thing. You are balancing equations. You are looking for patterns. You see connections.
That is what I do: I lay bare connections. It gets me in trouble sometimes. Like the time I worked for Minneapolis Unified School District on their out-of-school youth empowerment program.
I was 20 and still naïve about how systems worked. I produced an anti-violence skit with high school youth that was performed at an elementary school. At lunch, the adults were screaming at the elementary students and calling them "stupid" and monkeys".
The high school youth were pissed. I calmed them down, and then we went to ask the adults, politely, to stop screaming and calling the students names. It went against what we had just been trying to teach. How could they not see the connections between violent speech and disruptive youth?
It ended with me being expelled permanently from that campus and the loss of my job. I still make the same mistakes. I just cannot not connect the dots and question authority.
Intervention X 2
He called me from my dorm room. I was confused. We were recently broken up; there was no reason for him to be in my room. He was my first boyfriend and 10 years older than me. I was more mature.
I listened to the message from a friends room.
"He Jason. Why did you break up with me? All I want to do is talk. Can't we talk? I love you. Please let's talk. I'm in your room. Come home and we can work this out. Why are you shutting me out? Call me. Please call me. I'm not responsible for what happens if you don't. I just might die."
I panicked, picked up the phone I had just hung up, and dialed my room number. He answered.
"Jason is that you?"
"What the fuck are you doing in my room? Get the hell out or I'm calling security."
"Please can't we talk? Al I want to do is talk. Can't we do that?"
"We've talked, and I'm done. We're over! That's it."
"No. No! I'll kill myself right here if you don't come over. We can work this out. You don't want your roommate finding me here dead in your room. Do you?"
I hung up. My friend calmed me down and told me to call security. I did. Then, I called him back.
"You want to kill yourself," I said. "Go ahead. Just be quick about it. I've called security and they are on their way. You better be either gone or dead by the time they show up. I don't want to clean up your blood off my floor." And I hung up.
Security didn't find anyone in my room. He never called me again. I was proud I stood up for myself.
Years later, I recounted this story to my dad. He gave a slight chuckle.
"What?" I asked.
And he told me that my ex had called him and wanted to meet. My dad obliged. He begged my dad to talk to me and get me to reconsider. My dad told him to go to hell and stay away from his son.
I have never been more proud.
It's So Hard When They Pay for Everything
At 21, I was old on campus. That isn't hard when you are one of only about 300 students. It was m second time in college. I was hopeful that it would be better than the last. This one was the complete opposite of the other: liberal, small, rural, and grade-less.
I waited in line to pick my classes silently observing. The conversations around me included: "This summer I traveled all over Italy thanks to mom and dad."; "Well my parents paid for me to..."; "It's so good to finally be away from my controlling parents. I mean really, they expect me to listen just because they pay for everything."
I was lost, out-of-place, a world away. I hated it more than Catholicism. I left at the end of the semester and moved to San Francisco.
Necessities Wrapped
He waited for his presents Christmas morning with the anticipation of a child. They were poor. The few presents were necessities wrapped. He was disappointed and sad.
He's never wrapped an necessity since.
Unexpected Friends
They were my friends in college, and thanks to them I see the world differently.
I was the only out queer on campus, though not the only queer. They were not queer but understood. I had more in common with them than the closeted ones. We were action-oriented and , at times, antagonistic.
There was a meeting of the Student Council to determine the policy on LGBTQ issues and clubs. Homosexuality is sinful in the Catholic doctrine. The council was split: half liberal, half conservative. The decision for or against could go any way and would determine if I could keep the LGBTQ club, continue facilitating anti-homophobia trainings, and remain an out student.
They were not a part of the LGBTQ club. Rather, I was a part of their Commitment To Diversity group. They were mostly folks of color dedicated to changing the University of St. Thomas. I was proud they accepted me, and in return I had to confront my privilege and racism.
They were with me at that meeting when I screamed in front of the entire council and their college advisers of professors and priests, "It doesn't matter who I fuck! I deserve the same god damn rights as you!" They applauded. I cried.
That was the beginning of the end of my stay at St. Thomas. I can't remember the outcome of the decision. I was emotionally spent trying to justify my existence and experience to powers that didn't care and active worked against me.
I lost touch with them afterwards, but thought of them often. Then, I joined Facebook. They were and are there. We reconnected.
I admire that they stuck it out. They all graduated and continued on to higher education. It is amazing to see, 14 years later, that we are doing what we set out to do: we are changing the world; we have committed to diversity as a way of life.
Summerfest Shenanigans
I was mean in middle school. It was part being near the bottom rung of the social ladder and hormones. Partly, I was just an ass.
Every summer, I went to a non-denominational Christian summer camp called Summerfest. The summer after the eighth grade was the most cathartic. Three thing happened that changed everything. One, I found out that a friend was being abused by her father and repeated the story to an adult so they'd call Child Protective Services. Two, people who were friends in fifth grade but decided to harass me sixth through eighth grade apologized. The third is this story.
We had gone to elementary school together. Then she went to public school. We were friends when we were younger. We both didn't quite fit in, and we were both socially awkward. Both of us were outsiders by the eighth grade. The friends we had when we were younger were no longer friends even though that's what we called them.
This Summerfest, she was there, and because of public school she was now lower on the social ladder than me. She wrote me a love letter -- a passionate, gushing one. Other teens saw it and teased me. They started calling em "Mauve" -- some vague reference to being gay as only teenagers can make. They told me that if I liked her, I had to be a fag. I was desperate to prove otherwise.
I found the video camera that was chronicling Sumemrfest and stole it. I took the note, one friend, and found a secluded place. We turned on the camera and pressed record.
I jumped in front of the camera and started mocking the love letter. I read it in that annoying voice of a teenager that knows everything. I made fun of her and called her names. I think I even made up a song about how much I hated her.
I put the camera back. No one had missed it. I was proud, momentarily, that my little tirade was recorded for posterity and that it would be seen by other teens. A day later, I regretted everything. I even tried to get the tape back and failed.
I never told anyone else about my actions in hopes the story wouldn't reach her. I'm sure it did. There was a witness after all.
If she is reading this: I am sorry, and thank-you for your current gift of friendship. It is good to know I wasn't and am not the only queer.
David Duchovony's Twin
I first met him one night when our church youth group went to serve mealy to the homeless in Minneapolis. He was a volunteer.
I met him again three or four years later while at Cafe Weird. We were sitting next to each other, and I recognized his white gray hair and David Duchovony looks. I flirted.
He said hello and flirted back. I lied about my age, and we left the cafe for a walk around Lake Harriet.
It was a warm fall night -- one with no moon and full of stars, one where all the bugs are out. We ended up at his home. He told me stories of sobriety and twelve steps, of choices made and regrets he had. I listened wanting him more and more as the stories continued. He led me to his bedroom and we fucked. I was in heaven.
We had a few more encounters after that evening, each as divine as the one before. I was falling in love, and I had to tell the truth about my age.
"I'm 20," I blurted out one evening. He looked at me and responded, "I have to go."
Two weeks or so later, he called and asked to come over. I made a candle-lit dinner and shooed away my roommates.
"This can't continue," he said. "I thought you were older. This isn't going to work."
I was devastated. I was sure he was the one. "No," he said. "I am not the one. You have a much bigger life ahead of you, and I will not be responsible for limiting that."
He may have been right, but he was wrong in one way. He was the one: the one that helped me see my possibilities. I left Minnesota the following fall and haven't moved back since.
Chicken Boy and Chicken Hawk
I wandered the Faire, on break from my tour bus duties, when I saw them. They were the first gay couple I could identify. It was something about the way they touched that did it. I followed them.
One of the men caught me and approached. He leaned in close, whispered "We know. It's okay. You're cute," and handed me his number. I was 15. They were in their 30s.
I held on to his number as a security blanket underneath my pillow each night. Sometimes, I'd pick up the phone and dial his number. I never spoke. I was too afraid that even saying hello made me a fag, so I hung up. I wasn't concerned that him handing me his number possibly made him a pedophile. In fact, it turned me on.
I jacked off to this thought until I came out.
Memories Worth Capturing
We fought the entire ride up to the North Shore, a total of 3 plus hours. It was a miserable car ride made more embarrassing by having a friend along for the trip. I didn't want her to see this side of my family, this side of me.
We got to the cabin, and it was beautiful and luxurious, something we could only afford because it was owned by a friend of the family. Once there, the fighting ceased for a bit. It picked back up again whenever a decision had to be made. Everyone wanted a hand in decision-making but didn't want to be the one to decide. She removed herself at these times. I wanted to but was too stubborn.
In the spaces between arguments, I drew, wrote, took pictures, and hiked. I had fun. My friend is responsible for these times. She helped me escape.
I thumb through my old notebook and photographs, and I see only these joyful and content moments. They were the only ones worth capturing.
Teachers from India
A lot of my teachers in elementary school were nuns from India; Calcutta I believe. They were the same order as Mother Theresa. I found it off that they were in the USA teaching privileged, 99% white, suburban kids. They told me they did it for their families. They converted because it provided opportunity and food. I didn't understand this at age nine.
Their hair was long, thick, blue-black, and covered by a habit. They took a vow to never cut it or show it to anyone. It was God's hair.
All of the students were fascinated by this. We'd flip and tug on their habits trying to expose their hair. I'd visit them at the convent hoping to catch them without it on. Someone even trued to sneak into their bathroom figuring he'd see it for sure. (They found him before he even got to their bathroom.)
I understand their choice to leave India (and their families) and the vow they took better now. I did something similar when I moved to San Francisco. I left behind all that was me. I cut familial ties. In doing so, I found my self. Once found, accepting vows, be it my marriage or the bonds of friendship, are empowering. You are committing to being your self.
Thrown Stapler
She was my second grade teacher. The year before, a student threw a stapler at her. For punishment, that student was held back a year; she wasn't mature enough to go to the third grade. I wish I had thrown that stapler.
Outcast Like Me
I remember him as an outcast just like me, but I think he had it worse. We were neighbors although he didn't live next door. Now that I think about it, everyone on our street was an outsider. We were all striving for something more than we were, wanting to climb and claw up the social and economic ladder.
Growing up there, I thought we were poor. When I visited Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, I saw poverty. We were not poor; we were working class. We were as blue collar as they come, union and all.
He was poor. I remember his mom struggling to put food on the table, and I remember bringing over lunches every now and again. I also remember hating him. He made me look bad, and I didn't need an help in that area.
When no one was looking, we were friends. We'd head over to the Witches' Tree and play spies or cops and robbers or some other boyish game. He took karate. I hated sports. We found that middle ground of imagination.
Remembering him reminds me that we all categorize and compartmentalize. We are taught how at a very early age thanks to money, school, religion, gender boxes, the list continues.
Thanks to necessity, we find ways to blur them.
The Border of Clarity and Reality
He sat in the sunshine enjoying the kids playing in the park and the shirtless men tanning themselves (even if the men were in Speedos). The music played in his head as an echo of the evening before. The scent of marijuana and cigarettes mixed with the memory of stale beer and sticky floors. A breeze rushed past, its coolness crisp from its long travels over oceans. He rode that breeze and lost himself among the borders of clarity and reality.
Stuck on Memories
I am stuck on certain memories that I know need to be shared, but it is difficult to write about them. These are not the moments of tragedy. Rather they are the moments of first connections and the mundane. It is important to recall these memories as they hold the narrative together.
They are also not real. That is what makes them so difficult to capture. They fall through the sieve of my pen. They are somewhere below the page.
Maybe it is the medium that loses them. They are not the things of words or ink.
Acceptance
There are no moments of regret or shame. I accept responsibility for what happened. Even the moments I was powerless.
My Brother Finds Out
The news hit my old high school before I could tell my brother, and he found out from friends. That wasn't how I wanted it to happen. I wanted to protect him and shelter him from the new as I was sure it would shock him. I didn't have enough faith in him. He handled it beautifully.
Winnie-the-Pooh in China
Winnie-the-Pooh greeted me on the door, welcoming me to their home. I looked around and saw a lot of Disney merchandise, white picket fences, and gates. I felt like I was transported to the Disneyland suburbs of Stepford. I was in a suburb of Hangzhou, China.
Later that week, I had a nervous breakdown.
Trannyshack Reno
We went to the first Trannyshack Reno. There were four of us. We drove up decked out in our best drag, marijuana and ecstasy in our pockets, blaring pop music. It was a fast and fun drive complete with strange looks at drive-thrus and gas stations.
The neon lights and crisp white snow welcomed us to the high desert bug small town. It was a warmer welcome than the one the concierge gave at the hotel. We set our bags down, washed up, and got read for the show still blaring the pop music, cocktails made of 90% liquor in our hands, bellies, and heads. A swallow of ecstasy and puff of joint later, we went to the show.
We danced madly and hooted loudly. We hit behind the stage curtains and tripped on steps. We drank and drank and drank.
We meandered the streets ending up at a nameless casino with a buffet, hungry and parched from the copious amounts of alcohol and THC. We sat ourselves and waited for the server. And we waited as our bladders screamed and our make-up faded until two of us had to visit the girls' room.
The left and we continued to wait for the server. She arrived.
"Excuse me," she started, "but we caught your two friend in the women's restroom. While it was okay for one of them to be in there, it wasn't okay for theother. We are going to have to ask you to leave."
"What," we both asked.
"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I know how this sounds, but it's company policy." She looked concerned hoping we wouldn't make a scene. She put her hands on the table and leaned in. "Listen. I'm a lesbian. I do know how this looks, and if it was up to me we wouldn't be having this conversation. But I need you to please leave."
A gentleman in a suit was watching from the corner, and a scream erupted from outside the restaurant. "But she is fucking beautiful! What the fuck? Get your hands off me. Can't you see she's all woman. God damn it! She's more beautiful than your ugly ass. Yeah. I said it. You have an ass of a face!"
The server looked nervous. We quietly got up and left.
"Fuck you! Get your hands off me you prick."
We gently grabbed her arm and started to escort her and our other friend out of the casino.
"This place fucking sucks! Can't you see how beautiful she is. Look at her. Look at her!" She screamed as we rode the escalator. "Fuck you! What are you looking at?" She yelled as we passed the slot machines. "What the hell just happened?" She asked as we walked through the door into the wintry early morning.
The snow was falling and the neon lights refracted against the crystalline flakes. It was bright for 4am and no one passed us on the street.
"It's warm, and I'm tired," she said, and she sat down on the sidewalk.
"We're fucking beautiful. I love you all," she said as she passed out.
We all looked at each other and laughed. We were beautiful and loved and no one could take that away.
The neon lights and crisp white snow welcomed us to the high desert bug small town. It was a warmer welcome than the one the concierge gave at the hotel. We set our bags down, washed up, and got read for the show still blaring the pop music, cocktails made of 90% liquor in our hands, bellies, and heads. A swallow of ecstasy and puff of joint later, we went to the show.
We danced madly and hooted loudly. We hit behind the stage curtains and tripped on steps. We drank and drank and drank.
We meandered the streets ending up at a nameless casino with a buffet, hungry and parched from the copious amounts of alcohol and THC. We sat ourselves and waited for the server. And we waited as our bladders screamed and our make-up faded until two of us had to visit the girls' room.
The left and we continued to wait for the server. She arrived.
"Excuse me," she started, "but we caught your two friend in the women's restroom. While it was okay for one of them to be in there, it wasn't okay for theother. We are going to have to ask you to leave."
"What," we both asked.
"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I know how this sounds, but it's company policy." She looked concerned hoping we wouldn't make a scene. She put her hands on the table and leaned in. "Listen. I'm a lesbian. I do know how this looks, and if it was up to me we wouldn't be having this conversation. But I need you to please leave."
A gentleman in a suit was watching from the corner, and a scream erupted from outside the restaurant. "But she is fucking beautiful! What the fuck? Get your hands off me. Can't you see she's all woman. God damn it! She's more beautiful than your ugly ass. Yeah. I said it. You have an ass of a face!"
The server looked nervous. We quietly got up and left.
"Fuck you! Get your hands off me you prick."
We gently grabbed her arm and started to escort her and our other friend out of the casino.
"This place fucking sucks! Can't you see how beautiful she is. Look at her. Look at her!" She screamed as we rode the escalator. "Fuck you! What are you looking at?" She yelled as we passed the slot machines. "What the hell just happened?" She asked as we walked through the door into the wintry early morning.
The snow was falling and the neon lights refracted against the crystalline flakes. It was bright for 4am and no one passed us on the street.
"It's warm, and I'm tired," she said, and she sat down on the sidewalk.
"We're fucking beautiful. I love you all," she said as she passed out.
We all looked at each other and laughed. We were beautiful and loved and no one could take that away.
Tighty Whities
I've only been paid for sex a handful of times. I've had sex for food, drugs, and booze more often. There is something about the exchange of money that made and makes me uncomfortable. I am always uncomfortable around money.
We answered an ad on Craigslist. He wanted a couple with a bisexual man. He was willing to pay a lot of money for me to put on some tighty-whities and fondle me as she watched whispering forcefully in his ear. He was older, discreet, not gay, full of turmoil. We were desperately poor and needed some spare cash. Halloween was approaching. Marilyn and Ling needed some new clothes and make-up.
We drove to Albany late that night when there were barely any cars on the Bay Bridge. His apartment complex was a left over from the 60s or 70s with lots of mirrors, glass, gold, brass, and chandeliers. I caught my reflection looking tired, stressed, strained. She was tentative and reserved. We rode the elevator up to his apartment surrounded by these reflections, unable to escape until the doors opened and they greeted us in the lobby of the twelth floor. We were in a maze of mirrors constantly reminded of the distortion of these events.
I knocked on the door, and he opened revealing a pitch black room. He was even older than he told us, somewhere in his 70s.
"Put these on," and he hel out a pair fo 36" Fruit of the Looms. I took them to the bathroom, stripped down, and obliged. I was a 28" waist. They were saggy and looked like a cloth diaper.
The apartment was sparsely furnished. Only a futon lay on the floor of the bedroom. He was in the same Fruit of the Looms patting the large, hard pillow.
"Don't touch me," were his only instructions to me. "Tell me how dirty I am," were his instructions to her.
About 20 minutes later, we were done. He handed us around $200 and said "I don't live here. don't even thing about coming back." We left.
I kept the Fruit of the Looms until I fit in to them. Then, I threw them away.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Late Night Ramen
We've had many exploits. A good amount involve booze and drugs. They culminated in almost burning down the apartment thanks to late night ramen. We should have seen it coming. Well...he did. I just ignored it.
It was someone's birthday, and my partner was out of town leaving the door wide open for crystal-laced antics. We had a tiny amount and shared it among the two of us. It wasn't enough, so we chased it with cheap tequila. The music pumped either Janet Jackson, Madonna, or some random disco tune, and we danced through our Castle getting ready to gow out throwing feathers and glitter and leather all over the place. A drag queen exploded.
We left the apartment and began our crawl looking for trouble along the way. She stood across the street in a rainbow-silver mini-dress. It was the same as the one in my closet. Her bright red 5-inch platform heels didn't match. Emboldened by intoxication, I approached, my black mesh sleeveless shirt and black and red boa a perfect compliment to her outfit.
"Hey honey. How are you?"
"What do you want, sugar?"
"We're looking for trouble tonight. Know where we could find any?"
"Sugar, dressed like that touble'll find you."
We laughed, kissed cheeks, and went our separate ways. The search continued.
After a few bars, some dancing, and more tequila, vodka, and Jagermeister, we wobbled from Polk street to SOMA, hopeful our quest would be fruitful there. We prowled the backrooms of My Place and Powerhouse and a variety of alleys each time getting a little more drunk, obnoxious, and belligerent. We were on a collision course leading directly to A Taste of Leather and the man dressed in black, a cap shading his eyes, whispering, "K, e, speed, and coke. K, e, speed, and coke."
We pulled out our wallets and counted our change.
"What will $20 get us?"
"Here," and he handed us a small baggie of something transparent white in small rock form as he took our money. "Have fun." He moved on. We stayed put.
"What the hell is this?"
"Looks like speed. Only way to tell is to do it."
"Who's going first?"
"I will! It's my birthday."
We crushed it up, and it was gone in four quick snorts.
There was more booze, some anonymous backroom sex, and a couple of pinball games. Then, everything closed and we were forced to stagger back to our Castle.
"I'm soooo hungry!"
"Me too. We should've had dinner."
"Let's go get food."
"I'm broke. I spent everything I had on drinks and that random shit we did."
"Ho you feeling?"
"I just want to fucking eat! Other than that I am fucking FANTASTIC!"
"Let's go grab some Thai food from Osha. It's cheap. I'll pay."
"Only if we bring it back here. I don't want to sit in the fucking florescent lights."
We managed to call in an order, pick it up, and bring it back to the apartment. Our feast of pad thai, fried tofu, and larb sat between us; chopsticks in both of our hands.
"This is SO good! I have an idea!"
"Oh god no."
"No really. This will be fabulous. You gotta trust me."
"No...I don't trust you."
"Come on! Come on!"
My goading prodded him further. Our feast turned into a mess. Noodles stuck to my face and sauce dripped from my chin. I qwnr in to the kitchen, pulled out a pot, and filled it with water.
"We need ramen!"
"What? We already have food."
"I know. And what would go better with our feast than some Top Ramen?"
It was one of those ideas that drugs makes good.
"We don't need ramen."
"Yes...I think we do."
I put the pot on the stove to boil. We both promptly fell asleep.
He woke up to the stink of the pan burning some hour and a half later. I was still unconscious. He turned off the stove and went back to bed.
The next morning...
"What the hell were you trying to do to me last night? Did you want to kill us?"
"Huh," was all I could muster.
"Ramen...does that ring a bell?"
"Kind of. I think I amde some last night."
"Uh...You started to make some. You were unsuccessful."'
"Really? I could have sworn we had some noodles," as I pulled one still stuck to my cheek.
"That was pad thai. Take a look in the dining room."
Our feast covered the table and spilled on to the floor.
"Wow. That Thai food was really good."
"Then why did you have to make ramen?"
"Because it was a fantastic idea at the time."
"You forgot all about it! I woke up to the pan burning."
"Thank god you were here."
We laughed.
"Yes, thank someone."
I learned my lesson: never listen to that inner voice that says "make ramen" in the early morning hours. Unless your best friend is there to save your life.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Peace of J-Town
We wrestled him to the ground in the middle of J-Town Peace Plaza right in front of the pagoda. We were on a field trip to get ice cream. He was becoming defiant and violent, and we were afraid he would hurt himself and others. He was eight, and his meds affected his thyroid. He was large for his age.
"It's okay everyone...No really. We can do this....It is for your own safety. Please back up. He will hit you."
The crowd grew along with his temper and the five other youths' excitement. We were nearing a chaoric melee.
"Go! Take them all back to the Center. Walk back. We'll catch up." I said as I sat on top of him, his arms pounding the concrete, his legs kicking.
"You sure?" She replied.
"Yes. It'll only get worse if you stay. Keep everyone else safe."
The crowd continued growing.
"Really...I'm certified to do this. It is okay." I flashed my badge.
"No! It's not! I'm pressing charges. You wait and see, you FUCKER! Get of me. I'm going to punch you in the face!" He screamed.
Realizing things were okay-ish, the crowd dissipated. His audience gone, he calmed down.
"Everything's going to be okay." I said to him. "I just want to get home safely. You'll feel better there. I promise."
"I'm fine now. I've calmed down. See." His breathing was normal. His voice low. I stood and helped him up.
"Can we go now," he asked.
"Sure," I said. "We're walking back."
We made it back to the Center safely. I had to drag him a block or two when he realized there would be consequences when we returned. He apologized to everyone as a part of his consequences.
Whenever I return to J-Town, I hear his voice and see his face. Sometimes, I smile at the absurdity of the situation. Sometimes, I'm saddened recalling the story that put him in the Center in the first place. Always, I remember him.
The Wedding at Ocean's Edge
They were married at the ocean's edge by Sister Mary Ralph. It was beautiful, and they were handsome. We all laughed and cried and sang and loved.
That is the purpose of weddings and marriage. That is a right that will never be taken away.
Bible School at Pine Ridge
I've been to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation on the edge of the Badlands in South Dakota twice. They were mission trips organized by a national Christian organization. The first time I was Catholic. The second time I was not. Both trips consisted of painting homes, cultural exchanges, and bible studies. I was fine with two out of the three purposes.
My second year there I almost got sent home. I wasn't just not Catholic. I was anti-Catholic. The memory of seminary was close and couldn't be ignored. Nor could the Christian's role in the genocide of native peoples. I wouldn't teach bible school. It was disingenuous to require bible school for paint.
The leader pulled me aside.
"You have to do what we're here to do or you will go home."
"Then send me home."
My dad was there too. he talked me down. I complied begrudgingly.
Later, I had the opportunity to speak to an elder of the community.
"How do you put up with us? I barely can."'
"You accept what help you can."
"But...I mean Christianity has done so much harm. How do you reconcile harm against the good?"
"Listening is not the same as accepting or condoning. There are good lessons Jesus taught. They are in line with our history and story. Pay attention to those lessons."
I am still grappling with that wisdom today.
The Scratched Cornea
I scratched my cornea dancing one night when my flailing arms ended up poking me in the eye. It was painful and sent me home immediately. It was the night before my brother's confirmation.
I awoke the next morning barely able to keep my eye open, tears dripping rhythmically down my cheek. It was going to be a long day. I thought about not going, but wanted to be there for my brother. I got dressed, and my parents picked my up.
"What happened," asked my mom.
I told her.
Suddenly, my accident was purposeful and meant to ruin the day. I argued back.
"Uh...no it'd not. It was a total accident!"
"You're going out wasn't an accident."
I didn't disagree.
We arrived at the Cathedral in St. Paul. Everyone piled in to the church. My family took a seat near the front. I didn't want to be that close. Still my eye kept dripping and madly blinking.
"Are you okay?"
"What happened?"
"That looks like it hurts."
"I'm fine...It was an accident...Yes, it hurts, but I'll be fine."
Mass started. The stand, sit, kneel, stand again commenced. I sat the entire time. My parents grew more agitated with my actions. They were deliberate.
Then came Communion. The entire row rose and proceeded to empty into the aisle. I still sat there. A tap and nudge ont he shoulder from my mom or dad, I can't recall, urged me to stand. A shake of my head responded.
"Come on. It's Communion."
"I'm not going. I'm not Catholic anymore."
"Don't ruin this for your brother."
"It would be disrespectful for me to take Communion."
They looked at me disdainfully and got in line. I was the only person still sitting in the first seven rows.
Gossip ensued.
I scratched my cornea again in a similar fashion many years later. The next day, however, all I did was stay home. I probably should have done that the first time.
Letter to an Acquaintance
Dear XXX:
After receiving your email (titled: You Stretch Me), I thought it was important to respond. You mentioned you valued my sincerity. I want to be sincere with you now.
You are right. It has been 15 years. That is a very long time and much changes. I did come out as gay. Then, I did move to San Francisco, not because I was gay but because I wanted to get out of Minnesota and the crushing winters and buggy summers. Then, I realized I was queer and came out again. I was engaged to a woman. I am now married to a man.
There are a couple of other things I want to clear up.
First, my moving to San Francisco and not staying connected to old friends had little to do with any one person. I did not just disappear. I moved and in doing so lost connections with old friends, even really close ones.
Second, it is not a miracle I survived, and I don't believe someone is watching out for me. If someone was watching out for me, they never would have let the abuse happen to me while I was in the seminary, what should be one of the holiest places. I survived because of my fortitude and strength and because of the support of the queer and youth worker communities and my family.
Third, my father has no obligation to keep anyone up to speed about my life. If you want to know more about me, ask me.
As you mentioned, you read my blog. It is my intention to be as open about my life and experiences as possible. Your email showed me I might not actually be as clear as I intend. So I am publishing this response on my blog in hopes that it may bring clarity to readers that may have similar sentiments as you. I will make sure to remove your name.
It is good to know you are doing well and have two beautiful daughters. You look happy. Congratulations on your marriage, and I look forward to continued exchanges.
Peace,
Jason Wyman
The Damned Unite
Our favorite late night activity occurred on our balcony. We lived on Geary between Larkin and Hyde before the police cleaned it up. (I don't think they were too successful.) Our street was the battleground between the tranny prostitutes of Post Street and the bio-girl hookers of O'Farrell Street. There were lots of fights and yelling.
The activity was simple. We sat on our balcony and when the police came around yelled, "5-0!" They'd duck behind cars, hop in to the only open convenience store (it was only open from 11pm to 5am), try to pull down their non-existent skirts, start walking faster. We did it every weekend.
I miss those nights. It connected me to parts of life other condemn. I am comfortable there for I, too, have been condemned. And the damned must unite.
The activity was simple. We sat on our balcony and when the police came around yelled, "5-0!" They'd duck behind cars, hop in to the only open convenience store (it was only open from 11pm to 5am), try to pull down their non-existent skirts, start walking faster. We did it every weekend.
I miss those nights. It connected me to parts of life other condemn. I am comfortable there for I, too, have been condemned. And the damned must unite.
Library Pencils at Lush Lounge
Throwing things is a common theme in our friendship. It came up again at a bar: The Lush Lounge. We were there for a really terrible cabaret night with out-of-pitch singers and an arrhythmic piano player. The combination made it unbearable.
They were taking requests, so they put out pencils and paper at all the tables. It was our neighborhood bar and there was no way we were going to be the ones to leave. So we commenced a plan, something we do quite often, mostly with puckish intentions and wanton outcomes. Largely, our plans never see the light of day. Our martinis made this one possible.
I grabbed a pencil, the short kind you find in libraries, and waited patiently for everyone to turn their heads. He leaned in close and whispered, "Where did all these god damn carrots come from?" I chuckled and tossed. One. Two. Three. SMACK! The pencil hit the wall behind the performer. She looked around but didn't let it phase her.
Now, it was his turn. One. Two. Three. SPLASH! It fell into someone's drink. Everyone looked around for the culprit. No one knew it was us. A few more throws, all of which landed on the floor, and we were bored. We left.
We've grown up a little since then. We don't throw things anymore. We do still laugh uncontrollably. It's what keeps us young. Now, it's at our expense rather than others.
Where Did All These God Damn Carrots Come From?
We were bored and stupid and had a lot of left over carrots. We had been partying all night and were sloshed and high. Everything was funny. The night air was warm, humid the kind of summer night in July where mischief beckons. Everyone had left and the only thing to do was clean, so we said "Fuck that!" And went outside.
We smoke a little more on the porch with the bowl of carrots between us. They were not for eating. One of us started. One. Two. Three. Four. THUD. The carrot landed on the hood of a car. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nothing. The carrot only made it to the small patch of grass directly in front of us. Laughter errupted.
More carrots were tossed. Our goal: hit the tops of cars. The noise was hilarious.
This entertained us for hours. There must have been more than 100 carrots littering the city streets by the time we finally went inside. most of them landed in the same place: on or around a black sedan parked across the street. We had no intention of cleaning them up. We wanted people finding them in the morning thinking, "Where did all these god damn carrots come from?"
That became the mantra of our friendship. He's still my best friend to this day.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Dia de los Muertos
I haven't really lost anyone. There was my grandmother. She passed a couple of years ago. She was in her 80s and still full of life when she died. Or at least that's how I remember her.
We were close; she helped raise me as grandmas do. It is from her phone I dialed 976 numbers when I visited after work. We worked at the same retreat center. It was a short walk from her senior housing apartment complex to the center. I was the dishwasher, and she was the cook.
She was the one that got me the job that eventually led to me borrowing or stealing a Total Recall VHS tape. I got to watch it just once before my dad took it from me. I was in the eighth grade and not allowed to watch R movies, especially ones that showed boobs. He threatened to throw it away. He didn't. I found it in his underwear drawer next to the condoms.
My grandma and I grew distant when I moved to San Francisco. We weren't the best conversationalists over the phone, and I rarely returned to Minnesota. She visited California twice. We both still loved each other dearly. It just happened to be the quiet and rarely spoken kind.
The funeral was the first time the entire (or almost entire) family came together. It was good to see everyone and awkward. Besides blood and blue collars, there isn't and wasn't too much that holds or held us all together except empty promises to call. As in life, it was grandma that connected us. Such are mothers, regardless of gender.
I miss her. I miss her stories most of all: the ones about dancing in spite of Depression, how I looked like my grandfather who died when I was three, her unquestioning faith in God. She was life-blood to history.
It is because of her I tell stories. I want to keep my history alive.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Our Dance
We danced. It was simple and uncomplicated. I put my head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me closer. Antony was playing. We were in love.
We still are.
Moving to San Francisco on New Year's Eve
Thanks to sitting in the wrong seat and the flirting of two straight me to my right, I got free drink on my flight from Denver. It was the eve of 1998, and I was moving to San Francisco. I was very tipsy in the air and drunk by the time we landed. Somehow, I managed to grab my bags, hop on a Super Shuttle, and find my way to my ex-boyfriend's apartment.
No one was home as they were all out partying. I entered the apartment thanks to a key left discretely behind and set down my bags. A few minutes later gun shots were fired outside the window. The alcohol mixed with the anxiety of being in a new place, and I knew I wasn't leaving the apartment that night. A quick telephone call from my ex confirmed I wasn't joining them. They were in the Haight. I was in the Outer Mission, and I had no clue how to get there. So I settled in and laid down on his bed.
I awoke early that morning when he came home. He was high and drunk. He popped two ecstasy before entering the apartment. I got up to chat and flirt. We talked briefly. He welcomed me to San Francisco. I went back to bed. He jerked off in the kitchen thinking he was quiet, but the noise of the porn was loud and distracting.
When I awoke the later that morning, I was violently sick -- the kind of sick you catch on planes. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. My ex was pissed. I was ruining his day and his high.
He moved me from his bed to a futon mattress in the hallway. All I got was that mattress. I had to use my backed bag as my pillow and my winter coat as my blanket. I was shaking from my fever unable to get warm.
"Uh...where can I grab something to eat?" I asked.
Dismissively, "There's a grocery store across the street," he replied.
I stumbled there dizzy, sickness swirling in my head. I picked up some oranges and saltines that eventually found their way to the toilet. I almost passed out in the middle of the store.
I returned to the apartment, and he had taken off. I laid back down on the futon and passed out. A few hours later, I awoke crying and terrified. I was so ill I was hallucinating all the horrible possibilities of gun shots and missing people.
His roommate followed me around the apartment sanitizing everything I touched -- the phone I used to call home, the toilet, the glass from which I drank water.
"Sorry," she said. "You look like shit. I'm sorry he isn't helping you. Is there anything I can do?"
"No," I replied. "I just need to sleep and get out of here."
I was there only a day or two more. A call I placed to my parents resulted in my grandparents driving up from their home in Sun City West, Arizona. They picked me up, and we drove to the place I was moving to in a couple of days, a group home for severely emotionally disturbed youth ages five to thirteen that I was going to intern at.
We were greet by a woman wrapped in a bath towel, another intern who wasn't expecting us. She was sweet and told us where to find a hotel and the hospital. We left.
The doctor said I had bronchitis and the stomach flu.
I slept for two days in the hotel room my grandparents got for us.
That was my first week in San Francisco, and, thanks to family, I survived.
The Apology
He pulled me in to his office.
"Jason," he started, "you can't volunteer here or be a part of this church any more because you're gay. It isn't the message we want to send the youth."
"But I've been raised in this church. I went to school here. I teach Sunday School."
"I'm sorry. You can't do that any more. That's all I have to say."
Years later, he emailed an apology.
I still don't visit that church.
Smear the Queer
Smear the Queer was a popular game in middle school. It was simply played with a mob and a ball. Someone threw the ball in the air. If it landed in front of you, you had to pick it up and throw it. When you had the ball in your hands, you were the queer and the mob's job was to smear you.
I hated the game.
One wintry recess, everyone was playing. I had and have horrible hand-eye coordination. The ball landed in front of me. I picked it up and threw it hard. It landed directly in front of me again. As I bent down to pick it up, a sharp, hard kick connected with my tailbone. I fell to the ground reeling in pain, crying.
I ended up in the nurse's office waiting for my parents, hunched over and unable to sit. They picked me up and took me to the doctor. The doctor's diagnosis was a fractured tailbone.
I never played Smear the Queer again. I didn't need to. That damn brown doughnut cushion I had to carry with me everywhere I went was a very visible reminder that I was the queer.
The Coming Out Note
She was my best friend my senior year of high school and my prom date. She was new having moved from her mom's in South Dakota to her dad and step mom's in Minnetonka. We did almost everything together: church youth group, hanging out after school, babysitting her sister. We had lots of fun.
The night my parents found out I was gay I was supposed to get together with her. We hadn't seen each other since all of the bull shit in the seminary, nd I was eager to regale her with tales, especially the one about the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I needed to hear that everything was okay.
My mother called me upstairs. I was getting ready trying on a variety of sweaters and pants trying to find the most stylish combination.
"What now," I thought but said, "Be right up!" I rushed upstairs.
It came out of the blue. "We know," they said, and left it at that waiting for me to admit it.
"Know what?" I replied fidgeting, thinking "I'm not getting out of the house tonight."
"I found the note," my mom said.
"What note?" My hands twisted behind my back.
"The note."
"Oh shit," I thought as tears formed in the corners of their eyes. "Something's about to happen."
"We know you're gay." I can't remember which one said it.
I was quiet. "I am not going to be able to go out," was the only thought in my head.
There were a few more exchanges. Something like: "We still love you." "We will need to talk to the priest." "We don't totally understand this."
It ended with "We know you have plans tonight. Go out and have fun."
I went over to her house. We didn't talk about the seminary.
Faggot on the Bus
My parents were going out of town or something, and we were all shipped off to different friends of the family for the night. I got to go to his house. He was a huge geek, and I was excited to spend the night. He had a Commodore 64. He and I had gone to school together and were friends since Kindergarten. We were now in the sixth grade.
My mini vacation started agter school. I had to take the bus home with him. It was a different bus than the one I normally took home. I knew how to handle that bus. This one I did not.
I jumped on the bus and energetically took a seat next to him. "I can't wait til we get to your house. This is going to be fun!"
He looked at me and said, "Find another seat. I don't want you sitting next to me. And I don't want you spending the night."
I moved to an empty seat ready to cry but holding it in fearing I would be teased if a tear dripped down my cheek. The other kids overheard our exchange, and that tear wasn't needed for the teasing to commence.
Suddenly, the bus broke out into "Jason and xxx sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First come love. Then, comes marriage. Then comes..."
"There is no way I'd kiss Jason," he erupted. "He's a faggot!"
Everyone started yelling "Jason is a faggot. Jason is a faggot," in that sing songy tone of childish taunting.
I moved to the front of the bus trying to escape their jeers. They just got louder. The bus driver drove.
"Jason is a faggot," continued until I got off the bus with him some 30 minutes later. We walked silently up the driveway.
"Look. I don't mind you staying over. I just didn't want you sitting next to me on the bus. I don't need any more teasing than you do," he said as we entered the house.
I was on the verge of tears. Anger bottled up. All I wanted was the night to be over and to be home in the chaos I knew. I wanted to scream and punch and fight.
Instead, I said, 'It's okay. We can still have fun. You wanna play a game?" I followed him inside.
In moments of anger or teasing or harassment, I am sometimes still that little boy that ignores his feelings and justifies, "It's okay." Especially with friends, colleagues, and peers.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
I Hate Principals' Offices
I was suspended for fighting, but I didn't raise a fist. It happened at recess during my seventh or eighth grade year. Everyone was outside playing in their cliques. As usual, I was alone or with the girls from the other school.
(Side note: My Catholic school merged with another Catholic school the summer before my sixth grade year. This created two sets of cliques. As I had few friends from the school I was in, I made friends with the outcasts from the other school.)
I had a scathing tongue and loved gossip. It was my defense against all of the teasing and torment the other students did to me. I must have said something that pissed him off, but I can't remember what. I do remember him coming at me, chest puffed high, hands in fists.
"What the fuck did you say about me," he demanded.
"Uh...what?"
"What did you say about me?"
"Whatever," I said.
He swung. For all the fights I had at home, I was not a fighter at school, but I was strong. I grabbed his fist and held on tight. He swung his other fist. I grabbed that too. I used my weight and twisted him around so his back was against my chest, his arms crossed in front, my hands holding his fists tight. He screamed and squirmed trying to get free.
The nuns spotted us, and we were both sent to the Principal. Each on talked to the Principal in turn. We were both suspended.
"But...I didn't even hit him. He was swinging at me, and I was defending myself. Why am I suspended?"
"To be fair," or some other fucked up excuse like that was given. It wasn't a real answer.
I still hate principals' offices to this day.
The Fight with the Knife
We fought a lot. Sometimes it was the friendly fight of brothers. Others it was the competitive and volatile fight of siblings. We didn't understand each other, each on thought the other got more attention, had more friends, or some other shit like that. We didn't realize how similar we really were. Often, our fights were epic.
One afternoon, we had a particularly vitriolic fight. It started with simple teasing back and forth that morphed into me chasing him around the house with a knife screaming, "I hate you! I fucking hate you! Everyone hates you!!!"
He avoided my slashes laughing and crying nervously. I pursued certain I would make contact; unsure what would happen next. Our two other younger siblings watching everything unfold. I was supposed to be in charge. Obviously, I wasn't.
When I ran out of steam chasing him with the kitchen knife, I ran to our room and started throwing his clothes out of this dresser.
"You're not wanted anymore. No one loves you. Mom and dad don't want you here," and I ran to the laundry room, grabbed a suitcase, and started packing his clothes inside. Once packed, I shoved it at him, pushed him out our back door, locked the door, and from the screen window screeched, "Go! Leave! Don't come back. It'll be better without you around."
I will never forget the tears of anger and sadness that streaked his red face. "Fine," he yelled from the driveway, "You want me gone? I'm gone! Tell mom and dad goodbye."
He walked down the driveway and into the street. Our two other siblings cried and pleaded with me to get him to come back. Something snapped inside me, and I realized I was making him feel the way I felt. I was ashamed. I was supposed to protect him. I was the older one, and I should have know better.
"Wait!" I yeled as I unlocked and opened the back door. "Come back. I didn't mean it. You can't leave!"
He kept walking. I followed. Tears streamed down his face; his shoulders convulsed. I caught up to him.
"I'm sorry," and I threw my arms around him. "Come home."
Eventually, he came back and we put everything away before mom and dad got home. All four of us made a pact to never tell our parents about the incident.
The events of that day changed all of us. I know we had more fights and arguments after that, but nothing that escalated to knives or packed bags. I think we all realized that we all were alone in our own way.
While I don't talk to my siblings often, I know they love and accept me. And I know that that feeling of being alone or an outside connects all four of us.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thanks Anna Conda for the Inspiration!
This post is a comment to Anna Conda's post Yerba Buena Soap Box. Here is a portion of the original post:
The biggest problem for me in Queer culture today is two fold; first is the lack of knowledge of our history and second the fact that we feel that we need to include any gender variance into our numbers to make us have a broader platform. The truth of the matter is that not all gender variance is queer and mainstream society shunning something as abnormal does not make it part of Queer culture either. Most people; both gay and straight; believe that sex and whom we choose to have it with is the only thing that makes us queer identified and they have no idea what a rich and glorious past we have. In the 20th century things move so fast that we often find it hard to keep up with our past and the history that we are sharing today. This leads us to ghettoization and self loathing creating the need for everyone to accept us. This need to fit is and have as many people join our ranks is detrimental to the Queer or Gay agenda and serves only to make us look pathetic and needy. Everybody will not like us no matter what we do or how ever many people join our ranks. Bigotry does not work on a numbers game. It is a fear based reaction of people who are filled with fear and cling to that fear as if it was the very oxoygen that keeps them alive. My parents are born again christians who will never accept me and even after 42 years of knowing me and seeing what a hard working caring individual I am would turn me over to the Nazis if they asked them to. They believe that I am an abomination and nothing I do will ever cure them of that. However that shame is not MINE to take on. It is my duty to believe in my path and move on and work on educating people on my queer history and the fact that we have been around forever, with glorious results in arts, leadership, scholars, and spiritual abundance.
Click here to continue reading.***
Dearest Anna Conda:
Thank you for writing this and asking hard questions about our queer community. As someone who came out as gay at 18, fell in love with a woman at 22/23, and ended up marrying a man at 31, I, too, have grappled with the queer identity and what makes it such.
When I first came out, I believed that gay was the only way. However, this conflicted significantly with my actual orientation. I had numerous girlfriends in middle high school and not just the standard "I need to hide something so I'll date a girl" variety. They were women I loved (and still do). From 18 to 22/23, I had sex with and found myself sexually attracted to women, and I still identified as gay because the majority of my relationships and sexual partners were men.
Then, I fell in love with a woman. It wasn't something I was expecting. It was something that happened. We had an open relationship and I continued to have sex (a lot of it) with men (most of the time) and other genders (sometimes). I didn't and don't believe in a binary gender construct, and so I was at a loss for how to capture the totality of my sexual orientation, as identity politics is, and always will be, a huge part of who I am.
I came to embrace queer precisely because it opened the door beyond gay. To me, it wasn't about a watering down of identity. Rather, it was a broadening. It was a term that I could take on and be.
Now, as a man who is married and monogamous to another man, I still call myself queer. Yes, for all intents and purposes, I am gay, too. But gay is not the totality of who I am. It is too narrow and restricting especially when used in the LGBTQQIP moniker. In that instance, gay really only refers to men who have sex with men (almost exclusively).
Queer has become, and is, a HUGE part of me, one that I believe, as you mention in your post, is beyond just who you have sex with. It is about a broadening of identity. And that broadening comes into conflict with more narrow (and necessary) identity politics.
For my day job, I work organizing and training the professionals who work with or for youth (sometimes including youth in and of themselves). In this arena, I use both gay and queer. Initially, I use gay because it is just easier for people to understand. It matches their perception of me. As I get to know them or as the situation calls for it, I start talking about my queer identity. It confuses the hell out of people. They totally don't understand.
Similarly, when I say I am queer among gay men, they look at me funny thinking the two words are interchangeable. And to them, they may be. But to me, they are worlds apart. One speaks to a side (albeit a more predominant side especially since my marriage to John) of me that is narrow, focused, and steeped in oppression (not the same as shame, as I, too, see absolutely NO use in it). The other one speaks to a side of me that is uniting and liberating. And in this world, I need both to survive and thrive.
Thanks again for writing this. It has made me think deeply and intentionally about why I use the word queer. I appreciate the inspiration and challenge.
Much love,
Jason Wyman
Friday, October 23, 2009
Trannyshack Wetback Night
The first Trannyshack Wetback Night was a scream complete with both hired and actual protesters. The stage was line with razor wire and Lady Sergio ruled. The performances were art. I wish I could remember more detail, but time and drunkenness have faded the event. All I am left with are impressions, colors, and feelings: the realm of memories.
It was raucous. The protesters, the real ones, were outside chanting and holding signs, screaming at people, telling us not to enter The Stud claiming the night was anti-immigrant and racist. The other protesters, the hired ones, were shouting the same things with large signs that read "Lady Sergio is a racist!" We walked past them all, paid our cover, and went straight to the bar and then the dancefloor. We were there for fun and entertainment and a little controversy.
It was midnight, and the protesters entered the bar still chanting. The audience screamed. The music started, and there was Lady Sergio and Heklina on stage. Performances commenced among the cheers and jeers.
A mishap of razor wire, some splattered conr syrup blood, and a fight or two later and the show was over. It was frenzied, chaotic, cathartic. I was lost among the screams, beats, signs, and applause, transported to a land of art and dialogue and family saturated in crimsons, charcoals, and greens.
The next day and in the weeks to come, articles appeared in papers, pictures popped up on websites, and, if you listened closely, conversations overheard in bars and on street corners found a way back to that night. Everyone had an opinion; even those that weren't there. Our tribe was talking about immigration, race, language, freedom, activism. We were thinking critically and creatively, and people on all sides of these issues listened to one another for everyone's opinion was different and divided even among friends.
That night lives with me every time I pick up my pen. It serves as a reminder of the transendence of art, especially the low brow variety, and the memory reminds me that it is not a single work of art, performance, or song that holds that power. Rather it is us and our reaction to and memory of it.
And we must continually engage, connect, and reflect. We must listen and converse. We must challenge and confront. We must produce the art and change we wish to see in this world.
We must remain queer.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Stolen Playgirls
B. Dalton carried Playgirl. I visited frequently and shoplifted copies. I would walk over to the magazine rack and casually peruse Home and Garden, Marie Claire, Vogue, and Women's Day, and when the clerk wasn't looking I'd grab a Playgirl and shove it between the pages of one of the myriad women's magazines. When the clerk turned away again, I would shove it up my shirt or down my pants and move to the sci fi or mystery section. Another ten to fifteen minutes later I left looking dejected that I didn't find what I was looking for, heart pounding hoping I wouldn't get caught.
The magazine was masturbatory gold and got tucked away between the mattress and box spring next to the naked men birthday cards I stole from the drug store. My stash was my fantasy and needed to be hidden between things. They invaded my dreams, and I woke up wet.
This continued until my mother decided to clean my bedroom or make my bed or snoop and found the naked men between mt sheets. She threw them away, confronted me, and I denied the whole thing scared that they would send back to a shrink to become straight like they did in the eighth grade.
"They aren't mine. It won't happen again," I said.
We all lived in denial for a few more years.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
May Day Is for Kisses
I was in the park celebrating with friends on a beautiful May Day as the puppets danced and the protesters cheered. I saw him down the hill, his skinny black jeans, knee-high combat boots, and tousled hair recognizable from a distance. I hadn't seen him in years. We both grew distant after our ninth grade year filled with horror movies and questions. I wanted to kiss him then, but thought better of it. He left for art school in the eleventh grade.
He saw me too and approached smiling. I walked towards him distancing myself from my friends hoping for privacy in the crowded park. His smile faded, and he raised his hands in greeting, threw them around me, and squeezed -- an action he never would have done in high school. I melted and sighed.
"It's good seeing you. It has been too long. What've you been up to?" I asked trying to start a conversation.
He didn't respond verbally. Instead, he looked at me, leaned in close, and kissed me. The blood rushed to my face, and I felt warm, almost sun-burnt. I kissed back.
We walked hand in hand around the park that afternoon for about half an hour in mundane conversation between waited for kisses.
Then, it was over. He kissed my cheek and said good-bye. I didn't want it to end. It wasn't supposed to be more than a kiss and a confirmation.
I still occasionally search for him.
Monday, October 19, 2009
A Meeting
We met at the seminary, but he wasn't a seminarian. I can't remember the exact circumstances; they are unimportant. I don't remember staring at him; he does.
He was short and stocky, North Minneapolis born, straight and straight-laced. I was a suburban boy, freshly out and scared shitless. We were worlds apart in many ways but one: we both knew what is was like to be an other. We became fast friends.
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