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.

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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.

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Questions to Queer

 
I never asked to be queer, but it is through questions that I found it.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Now I Am...

   
There was a time when I was gay. There was a time when I was straight. Now, I am queer.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Just Weird

 
I was called "faggot", "fag", and "fucking queer" from the sixth grade on. Before that, I was just "weird".

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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."

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Acceptance

 
There are no moments of regret or shame. I accept responsibility for what happened. Even the moments I was powerless.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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