f.11 the fluidity of coming out

This isn’t a happy story. This isn’t a sad story. This is, however, a true story. I’ve been asked to write this story by many different people over the years, and I’ve resisted. Frankly, I don’t think it’s a particularly interesting story. Nevertheless, here in all of it’s purported glory is my journey of coming out. No names except those of public figures are used herein. If you’re mentioned here, you know who you are.

 Today is “National Coming Out Day,” and it’s a day I’ve never particularly understood. I do understand the intent behind it, I suppose, but I find the entire notion that coming out is something one does in a day to be rather absurd. Coming out isn’t an event, it’s a process. Some people begin by telling a friend, others close family or a sibling, and others still by announcing it on a social media platform. (This option was not available “back in my day.”) I must also disclaim that it is a highly-personal thing, and my experiences are just that, mine. Someone else has had an entirely different experience. Also, thanks to generational changes, I’m told it’s much easier to come out today, and for that I am grateful. I also benefit from being white, living in the middle class, and having a (relatively) accepting extended family. Not all are so lucky.

I’d like to say I know where to begin, but it’s challenging, because there wasn’t a “day” I suddenly decided to “come out.” Furthermore, while there are moments of pain in this story, there are also moments of relief, joy, and welcoming, which are less attention-grabbing to people who scan a story quickly. Finally, the process of “coming out” isn’t something that really ends. Every time I meet someone new, I have to decide when or if I’m going to tell him (or her). Is it really relevant to a plumber fixing a pipe? (no).

So, I’m going to begin my story the first time I was outed, somewhere around the age of 15. Like most teenagers, I was coming to terms with my sexuality. Unlike most teenage boys, I wasn’t interested in girls. So, I cautiously went though my friends to decide in whom I could confide my confusion. I made a terrible selection. The friend I chose was more of an acquaintance, in order to reduce my exposure, and it turned out he was extremely homophobic. He would go on not only to tell my friends (most of whom believed my claims of heterosexuality over his claim I was gay) but also someone who sort of knew me, and that would lead to accusations that I was gay from my parents (which I successfully deflected)  in an attempt by these two boys to smear and hurt me. Worse was yet to come. Suffice to say, the closet door got further away as I pushed further backward into it.

Several months later, I was summoned to my high school guidance counselor’s office. I had only interacted with the man on the occasion I brought a note in from my parents when I was sick or late. He had to sign off on courses I would take, and help me apply to colleges, but I’d never been called out of class to meet with him. I remember that day like it happened yesterday.

He calmly asked me to shut the door, and sit down in the only chair in the room save the one in which he sat. He calmly looked at me, and said, “Your kind are not welcome here.” He then proceeded to tell me how it had come to his attention that I liked other boys, and if he found out I had “done anything with any of them” the next meeting would be with my parents, wherein I would have to explain to them why we were all there. He also said that “pedophilia is a sickness” and “perhaps I should seek medical attention.” I was too naïve to know that boys of an equal age liking one another when both are minors is not pedophilia. Accordingly, and based on his threats, I stopped participating in any extracurricular activities, and I avoided the one out gay boy in my class like the plague, for fear of my counselor’s intervention, to my everlasting shame.

I started dating girls with vigor, if not vim. I took them to expensive restaurants, and Broadway shows, and they thought me virtuous in wanting to wait until marriage before doing anything more than kissing. I find it ironic that this is the time I transitioned from having mostly male friends to mostly female friends, although at the time I didn’t take notice of the fact. My best friend, though, was another guy, and although I didn’t tell him I was gay for a long time, I felt that a far-better course was first to befriend and get close to someone and then tell him. Surely if he knew me better, the mistakes of the past wouldn’t reappear.

Like most gay men who came of age around the same time I did, I hated that I was gay. I didn’t want to be gay. I didn’t ask to be gay. I prayed for some miraculous transformation to occur wherein I wasn’t gay, suddenly. I subjugated who I was in order to avoid further discrimination. I saw how most people treated the “out” gay boy in high school, and I didn’t want that; of that I was totally certain!

During my senior year, I finally worked up the courage to tell my best friend. He told me that he needed a few days to think things over, because he hadn’t seen this coming. I was on cloud nine, though, because if he could accept me, I’d finally have an advocate and fallback if others rejected me: I wouldn’t be alone. And, a few days later, he called me and said he had found a support group, and we should go to it. Not wanting to rock the boat, I agreed. He drove us to a local middle school the next evening.

I’ve always hated lime green; probably because I don’t think it looks anything like a lime peel. The woman who was moderating the support group had a lime green blouse on with a matching lime green skirt. My friend introduced me to her, and she gave me a weird smile. He excused himself to use the restroom, and I sat down. They had a front row seat all reserved for me. After a minute or so, lime-green woman (LGW) called the room to order. I was starting to panic, as my friend had not returned, and as LGW started telling people about a “special guest tonight” it became clear that she was talking about me. I was called upon to go to the podium and introduce myself. It was the first time I had done any public speaking in years (a long time for someone who wasn’t 18) and I remember my sweaty hands grasping the podium after I had adjusted the microphone to my height. “Go on,” LGW prodded, “just tell us what you came here to say.”

I looked about the room desperately for my friend, but he wasn’t back. I decided it was time. “I’m Steve, and I’m gay.” It was the first time I had ever uttered those words, and having no frame of reference, I just assumed we came out like people do at an AA meeting. People started standing up one at a time and pointing at me. “Pedophile!” shouted one. “Spawn of Satan!” shouted another. “Abomination of Nature!” came another. I fled the room before anyone else could say anything, and it was on my way out that I saw the literature indicating I was at a Focus on the Family meeting.

Of course, my “friend” was nowhere to be found. He had abandoned me there intentionally (and given he wasn’t even slightly religious, with malicious intent) and full of guilt and shame, I walked the six miles home, certain that my life as I knew it was over. While he and I never spoke again, he surprisingly didn’t say anything to my other friends (to the best of my knowledge) as they didn’t bring it up. One thing was certain to me: I must never trust anyone again.

People of a certain age will remember getting AOL CDs in the mail as a weekly ritual. For me, they were a lifeline. I would sign up for my free one-month trial, and chat in the gay chat rooms with other guys late at night (under the auspices of doing homework). Some guys seemed nice, others wanted only sex. I was certain that if I ever had sex, I was doomed to die of AIDS (I had pretty much been told as much in high school) and so I never met with a single man. Every 29 days, I would cancel my AOL subscription, and return a few days or weeks later under a new screen name to begin the game anew.

Having started college, and thus getting free Internet access, a few months later, I learned of a new way of talking to people. Internet Relay Chat (IRC) was my first “permanent” foray into the gay world. I spent months in relative anonymity. I would chat with guys, and express (or feign) interest in them, and then abruptly end conversations with them. I had an excuse for everything. I felt extremely alone. By this time, most of my high school friends had gone to college, and thanks to sabotage from my high school guidance counselor, I had turned down scholarships and accepted entry into the wrong college. Despite heroic attempts by faculty at the University of Minnesota to get me retroactively placed into the right college, I was forced to spend two years in a non-degree granting college before transferring to the one that had initially offered me a scholarship.

While working in an emergency room as I prepared for medical school two years later, I met my first AIDS patient. There was nothing remarkable about him (he had a persistent cough) and he had his “partner” with him. The Republicans were waging their war against gay people as Newt Gingrich claimed how immoral the United States had become. One of the physicians reviewed the chart before going in and said with disgust, “everyone should feel free to triple-glove before dealing with this…patient.” While I admittedly hated the pompous ass, I was shocked by the absolute silence that greeted his remarks. It wasn’t that people stopped what they were doing, it was that they didn’t stop what they were doing. Nobody (but me, it appeared) seemed to think there was anything wrong with what he said. I knew two things: I could never tell anyone there that I was gay, and I never wanted to work with that man again. I went to HR and reported the incident. I don’t know what happened, but thankfully, I never worked a shift with him again, and wherever he is now, it’s not far enough away from me. I’m grateful that none of the other physicians with whom I worked ever acted in such a demeaning manner unbefitting of one sworn to “above all things, do not harm.” Thankfully, I’m still friends with some of the best doctors with whom I worked during that time – and they really are the kind of people you want to be doctors.

Amazingly, my encounter with the patient somehow helped me work up the courage to meet a guy for a date. The details of that encounter could be a separate blog post of their own, but suffice to say, he was nothing like he claimed to be (it was easier when descriptions were all text-based, and pictures were the exception, not the norm, as people didn’t have scanners) and I felt repulsed after our date. He was disgusting, rude, conceited, and nearly everything about him was a lie. It would be two more years before I’d agree to another date. Two more years of ignoring my sexuality.

On the positive side, I got great grades and excelled academically. On the downside, I became more reclusive and insulated from the outside world. I even stopped chatting with people online – even they couldn’t be trusted. During this time, I revisited fantasy novels, which kept me sane. Authors such as R.A. Salvatore, Ed Greenwood, Elaine Cunningham, and Diane Duane created works that helped me escape reality into world where magic was possible, and being gay simply wasn’t a thing. It wasn’t mentioned, and while some think it strange, I was thrilled with that. While I was never suicidal, thanks to their words via their works, I felt a little less alone. (Anyone who says an author can’t change a life will earn my eternal enmity. You have been warned.)

I was never a fan of Prince like most people from Minnesota, but driving home one day from school his song 1999 came on the radio. Since the year happened to be 1999, and the lyrics of the refrain resonated with me:

…two thousand zero zero
Party over, oops out of time
So tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 1999

Somehow, I determined that since it was actually 1999, I should do something before 2000 finally arrived. I also need to interject here that, a few years earlier, one of my dear (female) high school friends had come out. While nearly all of our friends professed unequivocal support for her, I found that many of them only paid lip service. IN cowardice, I supported her by not announcing I was gay. The weekend before my 1999 epiphany, I had gone on a walk with her and another longtime, dear friend (also female) and we revisited our high-school haunts. Later that week, I was having lunch with the other friend (straight) and while sitting at Baker’s Square on University Avenue, I told her that while we were on our walk the previous weekend, she had not one, but two gay friends with her.

Again, this moment is seared into my consciousness, but unlike in my guidance counselor’s office, or my unplanned trip to Focus on the Family, or any of the other myriad abortive attempts, she squealed in delight, got up, came to my side of the booth, hugged me, and said, “Thank god! We were worried you didn’t know and were trying to figure out how to tell you!”

Now that I truly had someone on my side, the remainder of my friends found out quickly. I lost a couple, but the others were either supportive, or tolerant. Looking back, most of them didn’t care that I was gay: they were happy that I finally accepted who I was (publicly). It was a start, but a very welcomed one.

After that, I knew what was coming, and for that, I needed to move out of my parents’ house. So I did something heretofore unimaginable to me—I met up with another gay man from online in search of one or more roommates.  My friendship with him was purely platonic, but he introduced me to a world I’d never known before: gay men hanging out with other gay men where there was no judgment of being gay. It was the first time in my life where I was no longer in a minority that I could remember. It was liberating. After about a year, I found a roommate, and for another first time in my life, I moved out of my parents’ house. Many of my friends had been less fortunate, and had been kicked out of their parents’ homes when they came out. As I hadn’t yet come out, I never faced that test. (To be fair, I doubt that ever would have happened – more on that soon)

In the years since I had first rejected and deflected being gay to the (then-recent) year of acceptance both by me and my friends, It was time to tackle the family. I had been dating guys, but the thought of “bringing one home to meet my mom” was not an option—yet. So, I did the next best thing (to my twenty-something mind) and I had all of my gay friends over to my parents’ house for a summer-afternoon barbeque.

My mom is an intelligent woman, and she had questioned me a few times as to whether or not I might be gay during my teenage years. I had denied it, vehemently. My dad asked me once (I suspect at the prodding of my mom) but he seemed unconcerned about my answer either way – a missed opportunity perhaps, and one that may have saved me years of heartache and self-loathing. C’est la vie.

Regardless of my mom’s intellect, there was no way she could ignore that all of my friends there that day were gay. Some were what is called “straight-acting,” which is a polite way of saying not flamboyant. Others were just that. When my mother gets nervous, she fidgets. In this case, she was sitting in a rocking chair and rocking at an…accelerated rate. She made a comment about my roommate saying, “well, he’s obviously gay.” I replied, “yes he is.” The moment of truth had arrived, and I thought I knew what was about to happen. As expected, she said, “and are you?” “Yes,” I replied. “I see,” was her reply.

The following month was very unpleasant with regards to my mom and me. She made some hurtful accusations against me and I know I wasn’t much kinder back to her. Here I keep the specifics out of my story, except to say that they were hurtful, but in time I would learn their genesis, and it had nothing to do with me. My dad shocked me when I told him in saying, “I told your sister once that all I cared about regarding my children is that they are happy. As long as you are happy, I don’t care what you do.” (An important sidebar here: my mom is a Democrat and my father a (often overtly-racist) Republican, so to say that this floored me is an understatement, and a testament to the perils of prejudice.

Next up was my sister. Anyone who knows my sister or my relationship with her knows that she is one of the most important people in my life. My mom was not exactly supportive in my efforts to tell my sister I was gay, and warned me that I might lose her due to her faith. It turns out my faith (in her) was the one justified as she has never shown me anything but acceptance and love, and for that, I will always be grateful. My four nephews didn’t even blink, likely because all of them had at least one gay friend, and it just wasn’t an issue. Generational progress on social issues is a marvelous thing.

Finally was the extended family and family friends. I sat down and hand-wrote letters to many, and when my hands cramped, I turned to typing. I sent out over 40 letters, and of them, over 35 were responded to in some fashion of support. One aunt and her family (I’ll call her the religious nut job, because that what I think she is) didn’t have kind things to say to me. I was asked not to become “militant” and told that being gay wasn’t a choice by two (also religious) people who aren’t of any significance to me. A couple of letters came back with invalid addresses, so all in all, I think I did great. I wasn’t expecting anything other than what I received from the religious zealots, and from all other quarters, I received acceptance and love. Maybe this gay thing would be okay after all.

Roommate 101: if you don’t know someone, living with him or her is probably foolish. So, a few months later, when I came home and found my apartment (and the hallway outside) billowing with blue smoke, I learned my roommate was quite addicted to marijuana. I knew he smoked pot before, but he had never done it in our apartment as it was grounds for immediate eviction. I was incensed (no pun intended) and just as I thought my life was coming together, it all came undone. I gathered my friends (and I would lose some in this process) and strong-armed my roommates (we had added another by this time to help with rent) into signing a waiver to let me out of the lease. I moved the very next day – back to my parents’ house but this time, in the basement.

This was a very different house than the one I had left less than a year earlier: I was no longer in the closet. It was a difficult time for my mom as I “paraded” my boyfriends through the kitchen into the basement. Another friend of mine (who had been kicked out of his parents’ house after having the audacity to take his boyfriend to prom – literally came home to his stuff on the street and the locks changed) moved in with me. His boyfriend (at the time) was fantastic, and for each friend I lost during my exodus from my apartment, I gained a new one through him.

A few months later, I closed on a house, and moved out. I started dating guys until I met one with whom I had a relationship that lasted 13 years. I love his family and they were welcoming of me. So, here my coming out story ends.

Except it doesn’t.

With the beginning of that relationship, I now had responsibilities such as health insurance. Suddenly, I had to tell at least the HR people at work I was gay. Then I would find some coworkers (usually women) with whom I would bond. Almost inevitably, one of two scenarios would come up; they would ask me why “a woman hadn’t snatched me up,” or they would develop a “thing” for me. So, I started to tell coworkers I was gay. I went so far as to chair the diversity council at my job, and worked on promoting inclusiveness in the workforce. I had an amazing and supportive manager (two of them, actually) before I encountered my first round of intolerance in the workplace.

After my second manager left, she was replaced by a woman I will politely call a cow (as in, as stupid and vacant as what you see when you look into a cow’s eyes – apologies to cows everywhere) and a bitch (apologies to female dogs, everywhere) of a woman in HR. The next thing I know, I’m out of a job. The bitch contested my unemployment, just to make my life miserable.

One of the few benefits of all that time in the closet would get me is five undergraduate degrees, and most of a master’s degree at that point in my life. So, I landed a job with a new company and almost doubled my salary. I also got them to pay for my final semester of graduate school via a waiver on policy and got my master’s degree. Some people at work knew I was gay, and others did not. I was hired by a great manager, but he was replaced by a wicked one. Although it never amounted to anything, she was hostile towards me, and claimed I never told her I was gay. Apparently I needed to write some kind of a memo, because her boss knew, as did HR. Anyway, I had some amazing coworkers at that job, too. When I left that job for another one, this time with the State of Minnesota, I wasn’t really hiding it. I had reached a point where it simply wasn’t a thing anymore. I told people I felt needed to know, and I didn’t bring it up otherwise.

I had finally come out! Except I hadn’t. A couple of jobs later, I became a consultant. It was a great job, and I had some awesome (yes, I’m using that word a lot) coworkers. The first time I met my manager face-to-face (he lived in Chicago) was in a pub. He had a ring on, and was talking about hockey. He was only a couple of years older than me, and I had thought (based on our phone conversations) that he had to be gay. I decided my “gaydar” must be broken as he ordered a beer and shook my hand.

Two months later, I was at a client site in Illinois with yet another coworker. Said coworker informed me that we were invited to have dinner with my boss and his husband. “His husband?” I squeaked. “Yes, he’s gay. And if you have a problem with it, you don’t really belong in this company,” my coworker (who did not know I was gay) replied. I think I scared him when I burst out laughing (loudly). If LOL ever merited usage, that was the moment. Yes, it was time for me to come out to my coworker, for obvious reasons. And it was yet another lesson to me on the dangers of prejudice. Gay men can drink beer, like hockey, and wear rings on their ring finger. (Gay marriage had not yet been legalized, just for reference).

So, that’s where it rests to this day. My next job would have me talking openly with the CIO who hired me about my relationships (he was straight, married, with children) yet not discussing it at all with some of my coworkers. It was then that I realized that whom we do or do not sleep with defines a very small portion of our lives. When relevant, I bring it up, and when not, I don’t.

I haven’t been ashamed of being gay for a long time. I’ve accepted who I am for quite a while now, at least in that respect. But I’m still not done coming out. There are billions of people I haven’t met, and each one is a decision. When working for a conservative client in certain parts of the United States, or the world, it’s dangerous for me to be openly gay. If I travel to certain parts of the world, I can go to jail or in some cases, be put to death.

So, to all of those people who have been a positive part of my life (either directly or indirectly), I thank you. For those who have harmed me, I forgive you. (Exception to my high-school counselor, that’s one I don’t know if that’s a bridge I’ll ever be able to cross). I am in a great place in my life. I have a loving family, friends who inspire me with the things they accomplish in life, a fantastic education, a nice home, car, and an awesome job.

I’m thankful that people younger than me are far more likely to be accepted by their families, and for programs like Dan Savage’s It Gets Better project. But I end with the most important moral of my story – it shaped me into who I am today. I like who I am today, scars and all. But I didn’t “come out of the closet.” My friends, family, and support network in their own turn and in their own ways helped me get here. For that, and for them, I am eternally grateful.

—omnia vera tibi primum—

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f.10 the fluidity of health

Many people are used to seeing the 7-lead pulse pattern on an electrocardiogram (EKG) to indicate health, and while the Q-T interval may be of great interest to people, the reality is that, over the course of our lifetimes, our pulse would look something akin to the image above. We go through periods of great stress, we go through periods of calm, and then everything else falls somewhere in the middle. But what is health?

As I’ve posted in other mediums, I believe (and was taught) that health falls along three spectrums of an equilateral triangle: physical, emotional, and spiritual. When one of these weakens, the others try to strengthen to compensate. It’s not a universal thing, but it’s a decent rule to follow (props to Dr. Wangensteen for the excellent lecture).

As many know, we had a mild scare last week with my dad suffering from rapid, acute hypertension (AKA high blood pressure) and for people who want to look it up, it would be considered Stage III hypertension. Without detailing all of the circumstances that lead up to this, and because of my own training in medicine, I wasn’t at all surprised at this outcome. But while I helped my family navigate through this tumultuous time, I reflected back on to the fundamental question: what is health?

In the United States, once can be “healthy” biologically but miserable either emotionally or spiritually. You can swap around those variables, but the point is that we are seldom in balance and – when we are – we don’t take for granted that we’re in an island of calm in the chaos that is often our lives.

The past year has been one of chaos for me on several fronts: I transitioned jobs and loved where I was to a position where I was profoundly unhappy – how much so wasn’t obvious to me at all until I left said job. Largely speaking, I am to blame for that. My immediate coworkers were people for whom I had great respect, and yet the leadership of the organization was heading down a path on which I could not – in good conscience – get onboard. My solution was to leave and find a new job. Some would argue that is radical, but it was the right decision for me – the right “prescription,” if you will.

Emotionally, this has had a damning effect on prospective relationships. Despite my best intentions, my work life spilled into my personal life, creating great amounts of strife within my mind. This led to unhealthy habits like ceasing exercising regularly, and allowing my diet to decay into a state of mockery regarding what I had been taught to eat. In summary, one aspect of my life caused all of the pillars of good health to crumble in synchrony, and I was left in an unhappy place.

Switching jobs was the same as performing cardioversion on myself. (For those unfamiliar with the term, it’s when they apply paddles and should “clear” and shock your heart to try and restore it to a normal rhythm) It had the desired effect of returning my core system to normal, a proverbial reboot, but as anyone who has either been cardioverted or observed it, the circumstances are extreme and the recovery period is not measured in minutes or hours. Similarly, I am still “recovering” from switching jobs, even though I absolutely love my new role.

Largely, this reminds me that healing – true healing – takes time. In many ways, I’m still emotionally weakened by the ordeal, and my spirituality is undergoing yet another transformation at an inconvenient time. Which brings me full circle to my dad’s blood pressure.

While sitting in the ER with him, I felt profound gratitude for the things that I had learned, and my ability to recognize that things were not life-threatening. However, I also knew that my dad needed to be in the ER, to have all of the tests performed on him, and have a doctor reassure him that all would be well and normal in a short period of time. As his medications become efficacious over a one-to-three-week period, I know he’ll feel better and slowly return to normal.

In a similar fashion, I, too, am regaining my equilibrium amongst my physical, emotional, and spiritual being. It’s not happening overnight, or even over the course of a month, but it is happening. And the reason for this post is because I feel that, as a society, we’ve come to expect miracles as the routine out of medicine. In parallel, we expect these same miraculous recoveries of ourselves after we suffer trauma of any kind: a sad truth that means we don’t take the time necessary for proper healing.

If you know someone who has suffered a malady of the body, mind, or soul: be patient. If you have suffered one yourself: be forgiving of yourself that you can’t will yourself to health overnight. It is a common belief amongst many medical professionals that the best thing to do for most people convalescing is to let them sleep, have them drink plenty of water, and let their bodies tell them when they’re better. “Don’t overdo it” is a common phrase. The key here is that, largely, people will heal on their own over time – given enough time. Sometimes you can support them by listening, others you can support them by actively doing things, and sometimes, in the hardest way possible, you can help them best by doing nothing and letting them rest. Obviously, with respect to true, serious medical conditions, trust the advice of a physician, but make sure you watch your own health (all aspects of it) as well as the health of others. Trust people when they say they’re in need of some time to heal, and assist them to the best your abilities, while making sure you’re also still taking care of yourself. To do any less is inhuman and inhumane.

—ad sanitatem: nunc et semper—

u.8 the utility of amicable disagreement

In life, it is a certainty that we will come across disagreement. Were we to live our lives in total solitude, we would still disagree with ourselves. It is not that we will disagree with others that is at issue, it is how we disagree with others that governs who we are as humans. The world is rife with disagreements, and in some ways, that’s how things should be. If we didn’t disagree, we’d never be exposed to new points of view and the subsequent growth that can come from those things. But, there are positive and negative ways of disagreeing, and it would seem to me that, in the last decade, I’ve seen more animosity in disagreement than in all of my past combined.

I’m often asked by others how I manage to be “so calm.” I’m neither calm (most of the time) nor am I am exemplar of that state of being on the best of days. I try, however, to be collected. That is to say, I focus on reigning in my emotional reactions to things until I have had a chance to process them and decide my reaction. This is neither an absolute nor a guarantee, but it’s how I try to live. First, I ask myself, “do I disagree because the opposing view is going to harm someone imminently?” If the answer to this is no, then a visceral reaction is unwarranted. Second, I ask myself, “Am I entitled to an opinion?”

The knee-jerk reaction of most people is that de facto they are entitled to an opinion. While that’s true to some extent, the second part that oft goes unasked by most is of paramount import: “does my opinion matter?” Here, I have figured that over 90% of the time it does not. Therefore, I discard my opinion and move on in life. If the situation manifests again, I may recall my previous reaction and reevaluate it, but barring that circumstance, it’s one less thing over which I need spend time thinking. If I disregard my opinion, then others can make no claim to it.

Recently, I was engaged in a conversation with an acquaintance over the hullabaloo about the edited Planned Parenthood videos. She was telling me that I should be outraged by them and complain to my congressional delegation. This is one of many reasons she remains an acquaintance and not a friend. My (polite) response to her tirade was, “I have no opinion on the matter.” She looked rather stunned, and said, “Of course you have an opinion! Everybody has an opinion!” I smiled slightly and said, “perhaps, but mine is irrelevant.” For those who wish to wade into the depths of my thought process, here is the abbreviated version:

1. Am I going to have an abortion?
   1. No
2. Is a woman going to abort a child that is also mine?
   1. No
3. Has any harm ever come to anyone in my family because of actions taken by Planned Parenthood?
   1. No
4. Do I have any right to tell a woman how to treat her body, and if I do, then does she have that same right to tell me how to treat mine?
   1. No
5. Have the courts ruled that abortion is legal?
   1. Yes
6. Am I in a position to overturn those rulings?
   1. No
7. If I had to pick one cause above all others to which I would devote my life, would defunding Planned Parenthood be that cause?
   1. No

• Result: my opinion doesn’t matter

This method can be applied to any number of “hot topic” issues, but it can also be applied to the mundane. Many times over the years, I’ve heard coworkers be judgmental about the actions or perceived actions of another colleague. This ranges from disheveled hair, fashion choices, or “having one too many the night before” at a party. In all of these situations, I’ve either determined I have no opinion or mine doesn’t matter. Through discarding my opinion, I eliminate judgement, and prevent myself from creating a false and unnecessary conflict predicated on a place in which I have no business being.

Once each year, on the first Tuesday in November, my opinion matters. Barring any felonious actions on my part, nobody can take that away from me. However, beyond that, I hold that it is not my place to judge, and I believe firmly that if less people spent time judging (and opining) and more time understanding, the world would be a better place. But when you do have an opinion, and it differs from another’s – please keep it civil, and recognize that the other’s opinion is equally valid to your own. Understand that there is a distinct different between “fact” and “what you think is fact.” If something is presented to you as fact, check its source. If that source is biased (and no, Wikipedia is not biased) or if a source has been discredited, find a new foundation on which to base your opinion, or form a new one. Life is too short to spend arguing over opinions.

—primum nolite iudicare an nocere—

f.9 the fluidity of friendship

Friendships are interesting things. On some levels, they are almost organic: they grow and exist between two people without any overt action. Yet in others they require tending, attention, care, and deliberate thought. With respect to the latter criteria, I believe that they need these things to persevere over time, but that their germination is not often predicated upon the deliberate intent to become friends with a specific person.

Most people have at least a few friends: others have many. As with all subjective concepts, friendship is a transient state that exists for as long as both parties wish it to exist, and the intensity and levels of the friendship are also determined by the friends. This is best evidenced by my friend Kate and me.

It came to my attention recently that Kate and I have been friends for over a quarter of a century, now. When we were both teenagers, we spent vast sums of time together doing a plethora of activities, and roving the plains of suburbia with a pack of fellow teenagers in search of food, chaos, and fun. In time, our lives would take us in different directions, and we would make new and different friends.

 

For those who didn’t study chemistry, atoms use electrons to form bonds. They share these electrons to complete each other, and in doing so they “bond” with one another. It takes energy to break the bonds, just as it took some level of attraction to form them. Kate and I are similar in that way, in that we have formed a giant “molecule” of friendship.

Over the course of our lives, we have “shared” our proverbial electrons with others, allowing us to grow our unique circle of friends while maintaining our own friendship. We also have phases where our lives are more in synergy than not, and at those stronger times, our bond is strongest. However – and this is an important clause – our friendship remains strong as long as neither of us put forth the energy to break the bond. We can (and have) gone a year between seeing each other, but the bond of friendship remains and holds true. Anyone who has a “lifelong” friend understands this analogy, regardless of his or her understandings of chemical covalent bonds.

Atoms for molecules, molecules form compounds, and compounds can form everything else in existence. To me, this is the condition of humanity: all of our various friendships forming compounds that make existence meaningful. Most importantly, those friendships persevere without effort if the bond was truly allowed to form. Over the decades, people have tried (and failed) to break the bond of friendship that Kate and I share. Simply put, they have insufficient energy to do so, for the bond was forged long ago and remains strong. When Kate isn’t a regular part of my life, I miss her presence. This yearning is the equivalent of that need to share an electron that makes bonds work in chemistry.

Kate and I have a strong friendship, but this doesn’t preclude other strong(er) bonds from forming. In the time since we met, Kate met and married an amazing man. That bond is stronger than the one we share in many ways, and I’m grateful that it’s not in conflict with our friendship. Even better, I have a bond of friendship with her husband now: one that is unlikely to have occurred had she not been the catalyst between us meeting.

This concept, not ironically, is why I believe that some romantic relationships last a lifetime, and others fizzle out in days, weeks, months, or rarely, years. Many people are romantically attracted, but fail to take the time to form lasting, strong bonds of friendship before moving ahead with their relationships. In so doing, these “weak” bonds inevitably fail and people return to their friends to bemoan the status of love. The very reason they have these friends to whom they can return are the bonds of friendship, and we find that like covalent bonds in chemistry, bonds between humans are a natural reproduction of a quantum-level interaction. Humans are amazing, and Kate is my proof.

—Amicitiam in perpetuum—

f.8 the fluidity of memories

memories

One day a couple of weeks ago I was driving down a road I’ve travelled often in life. It’s not a highway, but it’s a thoroughfare through the city in which I grew up and live. It’s only a couple of blocks from my parents’ house, it goes past both my elementary and junior high schools, and I can see several friends’ parents’ houses just looking down side streets as I drive past them.

It doesn’t take much effort for me to slip into the past and remember all of fond, humorous, and sometimes crazy things that I did growing up. In high school we drove past another friend’s house, rolled down the windows, and screamed unintelligibly at all hours of the night. (I’ve no idea why, but it was fun, regardless) Down another road is another house, wherein I spent a good number of hours playing games with friends. That house is now owned by strangers, my friend’s parents are both dead, and her family dispersed. But when I look at that house, I’m sixteen years old again in my mind. I can see the cars that were then parked in the driveway, and the colors of the house change to what they were when I often visited it, not what they are today.

In that nanosecond of visiting the past, I remember all of the happiness that happened in my life in that nexus, and then I blink, and I’m back in the present. This happens to me often as I grow older, I’ve found. People move, people change, and people die: such is the condition of being human. But our memories are our most precious commodity. Some argue that we’re all different people because of our DNA, and I won’t dispute that assertion. But while that separates us physiologically, even people with  identical DNA (twins, for example) are different people. The differences that matter are in the things that happened to us throughout life, and these things we store as memories.

Like everything, not all memories are good ones. But, with a little bit of discipline, we can control our memories to an extent. Under no circumstances do I wish anyone to excise or attempt to exorcise a memory: painful as they may be, they define who we are and how we’ve become what we are. If we cut out the adversities we’ve faced in life, we are left with hollow shells that have learned nothing of merit.

The image I selected to represent this posting is the linear path of life intersecting with the exposure of a memory. That memory can be expressed in a myriad of ways, but I’ve found that the lenses through which they are the happiest memories, or the ones where in we learned something valuable are the best to use. Darkness and sadness abound, and we cannot avoid them entirely, but with our memories, we can hearken back to the happy times in our lives, and in doing so, make our own days a bit brighter, smiling and fond things remembered.

—memoria est fluidum —

 

i.6 the intuity of exploding

Every now and again, no matter how great a relationship one has with another, a disagreement is inevitable. Many times we are taught to avoid confrontation rather than dealing with issues as they arise. There are arguments pro and con for both approaches, which makes them situational.

Certainly, a relationship in which there is constant shouting, yelling, and disagreement is likely not the relationship of harmony most seeks in their lives as a goal. Conversely, sublime bliss and total harmony is likely a façade and if months on end go by without any disagreement, it is likely a symptom of lack of communication.

So: how to draw the line? Recently, I was very upset with a family member who, aside from remaining nameless, didn’t do some things he had promised me he would do. Initially, I was very angry and wanted to let him know (loudly) how disappointed I was. Thankfully for both of us, I had a chance to recognize that I wasn’t that upset about things, and in the end, it was a very casual conversation about doing things better next time.

In simpler terms, the old phrases to “sleep on it” or “take a breather” are both great starting points. But if you’re still upset after allowing some time to pass, then saying something is definitely the right path. How we approach confrontation is critical, though. When we’re really angry, we have a high level of emotions. The difference between a successful “explosion” versus a damaging one is the directedness of it. Yelling at someone is usually pointless – even children. However, making it clear that you’re upset about something a person did, with specifics, is the key.

Instead of, “I can’t believe you did that!” and then going into a litany of the crimes against you that this person has done, even in the same vocal levels shouting, “I’m so angry because you didn’t do A and it made me feel/caused me grief because of B!” Using the first situation, most people will have ceased listening due to a personal attack. This is instinctive, and it is a defense mechanism. The window of making a compelling argument is extended when you divert the attention from a person to something causally-related to the person.

It is inconceivable and unrealistic to expect that – as humans – we will never shout, raise our voices, get upset, or angry. However, it is foolish to assume that rage and anger will bring others around to understanding your own point of view. Remember that, presumably, you care enough about your relationship with someone to engage in a disagreement in order to resume a harmonious relationship. If you want that harmony, expect that your percussive statement will often have repercussions as well. If you can’t receive anger as well as you give it, your relationship will suffer.

The intuity of anger is often challengingly simplistic. We know why we are angry. Adeptly letting others know why we are angry and bringing about resolution are one of the primary keys to successful relationships.

—explōsiōn—

u.8 the utility of vendettas

It is a fair question to ask why a blog on relationships would focus on the utility of a vendetta. The reason behind this is two-fold: first, to demonstrate that any words or phrases are not only contextual, but are useful in both positive and negative fashions; second, because I wish to tell of two vendetta of opposing varieties, and they both pertain to relationships.

The first is about Bonnie & Clyde. Before you think you have figured this out – Bonnie and Clyde are horses. Well, they are not really horses: they are stuffed Beanie Baby Clydesdales from the Budweiser plant in Colorado. Over a decade ago, my parents were in Colorado visiting one of my mom’s sisters. While there, my dad decided to tour the Budweiser plant. My dad is a man who shows his love for his kids through actions more so than words, and in this instance he purchased my sister and me each a single, rather-large, stuffed Clydesdale. Being dutiful children (despite both of us being over thirty years of age) my sister and I accepted. We had no idea what the hell one did with a stuffed Clydesdale.

Admittedly, I can no longer recall how I wound up with my sister’s horse. What I do know is that it was the germination of Il Vendetta de Cavalli, or “The Saga of the Horses.” Bonnie and Clyde first appeared together at my sister’s house before Easter one year. She came home to find them atop her refrigerator replete with bunny ears, lots of candy (carrots and grass, of course), and a note. The rules were simple:

• Once given the horses one must keep them for at least three months and;
• To be caught in the act of leaving the horses means the timer resets.
  • An exception was made for cleverly giving them as a gift to the other sibling

Bonnie and Clyde returned to me for the Fourth of July, and then to my sister for Halloween…they are quite the travelers. They traveled to Hawaii by mail where they greeted me upon arrival at the hotel, and if one asks them, they have been to Las Vegas and back to Colorado, too. When I moved into my current house, they were hiding in an armoire dressed up in St. Patrick’s Day regalia.

So, my sister and I have an ongoing vendetta over two bean-filled Clydesdales about which we are both too sentimental to dispose yet for which neither of us has much practical use. We both have similar reactions of happy disdain when we receive the horses and read the accompanying letter that informs us of what Bonnie and Clyde have been up to since we last hosted them. This is a good vendetta.

 

Bonnie and Clyde debut for Easter

A typical vendetta began here

 

 

 

 

 

The more traditional vendetta is one that I have against a wicked, evil, terrible woman named Cola. Cola hijacked the local Baker’s Square restaurant that I had been visiting for over twenty-two years. Somehow she twisted and manipulated a similarly-wicked district manager (who was also totally inept) into letting her have one of the most profitable and successful stores in the franchise.

After her tenure began, her “true colors” immediately became evident. This “woman” is in her early forties, yet she behaves with the maturity level of a ten-year old, at best. A choice selection of her most egregious crimes against human decency include:

• Telling a server that she could not substitute fruit for hash browns on a children’s meal because that wasn’t how the meal was served, resulting in an unhappy child approximately three years of age;
• Forcing a server to walk out of the restaurant in the pouring rain and back in through the front door because ‘only managers are allowed to enter through the back door’ – even when the weather is terrible;
• Failing to follow her obligations under the FMLA and subsequently punishing one of her best servers for having the audacity to have surgery to fix a knee that had been causing pain for decades and;
• Telling her managers that they were ineffective because the employees did not hate them.

This is far from an exhaustive list of her transgressions (extremely far) but it highlights the wretched being that she is. I dislike this type of person immensely, and thus a vendetta began. My personal vendetta to get her removed from the store not only so that I could return, but also so that the staff I had come to know and love would again be happy. I have had mixed results, admittedly.

I cannot go any further without adding that Cola is a lying bitch; I do not use that phrase lightly. She stupidly believed that the staff that I had known for over two decades prior to her forced entry into the store would believe fictions of her imagination that go against the very grain of who I am as a person. I laughed when I was told some of the things that she claimed I said in her perverse efforts to find out who was talking to me about how miserable they were (everyone, would be the correct answer) and I wasn’t special in hearing these complaints.

Cola thrives off of other people’s unhappiness, and while that is a sad statement, it is also true. She is despotic, miserable, and a generally-appalling individual. Sad as that may be, my vendetta against her is because she intentionally spreads her misery to others. I neither know–nor do I care–if she is suffering from some kind of inferiority complex; we all bear burdens but not all of us take it out on other people. So, what have I done? First, I told her how I felt and why as the initial problems occurred. Her attitude was condescending and rude in reply. Second, I wrote letters to the corporate office. Sadly, these invariably were sent to the inept district manager who placed her in the store initially. Third, I made certain that all of the other regular customers knew of her atrocious actions, as there is strength in both knowledge and numbers. Finally, I did what I least wanted to do: I stopped going to the restaurant entirely.

This last action was the hardest thing I have had to do in a long while. In essence, I was abandoning the people for whom I cared because I had run out of alternatives. A high number of the staff that I care about either has been (wrongfully) terminated by Cola, or has managed to escape to another store. Today, however, was a different day – today was the last day that one of my favorite servers worked her last day there voluntarily.

I decided a visit was in order. So, I went into the restaurant, avoided Cola, and sat in my server’s section. I gave her a cash tip and ordered a glass of water – and only a glass of water. I sat and chatted with her as much as could be done, gave her a hug, and left without ordering or paying for a thing. Whether or not Cola knew that I was there is irrelevant at this point. I could not care less either way, honestly. She profanes the human condition by her actions and attitude, true, but I was there for my friend, not against Cola. I continue to send the corporate office a copy of my credit card statement, with appropriately-personal information redacted, showing them how much money I am spending elsewhere on food that I am not spending on them. You might be tempted to ask how I consider myself winning at all: that would be fair.

I am enjoying a pyrrhic victory because Cola is losing my money, and she’s losing (most of) the great people who worked for that restaurant. I can still see these people outside of that place, but Cola benefits not at all from my patronage. In the long run, she loses, and I win, because I get to keep my friendships with great people, and she winds up with a husk of what used to be a great place to mingle with friends, colleagues, and the like. In the end, I win.

When it comes to the condition of being human, we must understand two key things from these stories. First – words have meaning, but we can change that meaning to suit us as long as we do not actually change the meaning of the word. We often playfully say, “I hate you” to loved ones when they have good fortune, when in fact the opposite is true. We are not actually changing the meaning of the word: we are invoking it in a special circumstance wherein it is known that it means the antithesis of its definition. Here, it is important to ask if you are ever unclear if this is the case. Failure to communicate is often the downfall of relationships.

Second, bitches (and bastards) exist in the world. Try as we might, we cannot avoid them entirely. Instead, we can and should take whatever actions we can to mitigate and ameliorate the damage that they cause, and support those around them in whatever feasible ways possible. Expecting immediate results is not only generally unrealistic, but winds up frustrating us into apathy or abandonment of our initial cause.

Do not let the wicked people win; and avoid supporting their behaviors in whatever ways are feasible. Remember: it is not slander if it is true, and political correctness has gone so far that people are often afraid to speak the truth. Seek not to be one of those people who cowers from the truth and lives in fear of accidentally speaking a hard truth. You will sleep better at night, you will help others in their own lives, and in doing so, you will make the world a better place.

So, go forth and start pleasantly-mischievous vendettas with your loved ones. Be not afraid to start the traditional ones when miserable letches present themselves into your lives, either. It just might be your actions that ultimately turn them from “Uncle Scrooge” back into “Ebenezer.”

May your own “Bonnie & Clyde” visit you, soon!

—vindicta frequentāre—

p.s. Cola is a real person, and I implore anyone who reads this not to give a single cent to the Baker’s Square restaurant in Apple Valley, Minnesota until she’s no longer there. Other restaurants (including other Baker’s Squares) deserve your patronage. On the happy day that she leaves, I will update this post – editing a post is not something I do traditionally – noting that good tidings have occurred.

i.5 the intuity of family

Family. The word would seem intuitive on its surface: the people related to those from whom we were born. In reality, of course, family is anything but intuitive. Conservatives we warned: you’re not going to like this post.

The concept of the nuclear family (pronounced noo-klee-er, sorry GWB) is somehow meant to draw familiar lines related to sub-atomic particles in which fundamentalist conservatives don’t even believe. There is some truth, however, that we are born into a family. Is this universal? No.

Are babies born and then abandoned considered to have a family? Biologically speaking, they must. They share DNA with at least two other people, after all. That, however, means they are related, not that they are family. In Western cultures, we often confuse the two terms or use them interchangeably. “My relatives” and “my family” are two sides of the same coin. In a recent episode of Game of Thrones, with a word from a father a son was disowned. So much for genetics.

I happen to believe that family is fluid, and anyone who argues otherwise is foolish and worthy of mockery. My own “fundamentalist” belief in family is that it begins with a name – some would call it a surname, but I call it a “family” name. When two people get married, they (traditionally) wind up with the same last name. Here I side with tradition – there should be some mechanism by which we can tell that two people are related via paper. That doesn’t mean they’re family, but that somehow they’re familial.

When two people decide to get married, or have children, or identify with others for that matter, the name is somewhat important. If we have different last names, an explanation of how we are related usually ensues. Sometimes it’s as simple as, “he’s my cousin” or as difficult as, “his great-great-grandfather was my great-great-uncle’s second cousin, once removed.” Whether or not the explanation is difficult, the statement is simple: “I consider this individual part of my family.”

The relationship aspect of things is where I consider the divide to rest. If I love someone “like a brother” am I allowed to call him family? Yes, in my world: no, according to the government. I can understand why we have laws around family – inheritance rights, property, taxes, legal issues abound. But that doesn’t mean anybody can tell me who is and is not a part of my family; that decision rests solely with me. True, others may exercise their rights to disagree with my assertion, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that my own intrinsic belief has changed.

Conversely, there is a common saying in the gay community that “he is family.” This incenses me on numerous levels. First, this is akin to saying “he has brown hair, I have brown hair – we are family.” Second, people I don’t even know (at all) claim to be familiar to me: I protest and object most strenuously.

In truth, family is comprise of the people we choose to love, regardless of bloodlines or genealogical relations. We wipe out “unrelatedness” with the words “I do” after all, and that’s two strangers (genetically speaking) suddenly becoming “related.” We’ve been doing this as a society for time immortal, and thus I encourage anyone who loves another to proclaim such people as family. Friend or family, you ask? They’re both, thank you for asking.

—familiae—

f.7 the fluidity of measuring a life

aunt jean

Life is truly a precious thing; once taken away it can never be given back. We spend our lives analyzing life, pursuing “living,” and trying to understand (and largely avoid) death. Invariably, we all lose at living and we begin dying. What, then, is the difference between living and dying? Death.

March 28, 2014: a Friday. June 3, 1927: also, a Friday. Looked at differently, it is a span of…

• 2,739,830,400 seconds
• 45,663,840 minutes
• 761,064 hours
• 31,711 days
• 4,530 weeks

…or 86 years, 9 months, and 26 days. This is the numerical representation of my Aunt Jean’s life. To some that is a very long time whereas to others, it is still too short. How, then, do we measure a life as great as was hers? To steal from Rent, we measure it in love.

My aunt Jean was an amazing woman, and she cannot and will never be summed up in a blog posting. Like all people, she suffered personal tragedies and had great joys in her life. Her children, my cousins Michael, Mary Beth, Danny, Bobby, and Jimmy were unquestionably here proudest accomplishments.

My Uncle Jim, her husband, died 29 years, 1 month, and 14 days after they were married. She was widowed for 32 years, 9 months, and six days. She was a mother for 60 years, 11 months, and 27 days. During all of this, she exhibited unconditional love through the good and the bad. She understood that our legacy was not in words, but in deeds, and her greatest accomplishment was her love of others.

My aunt Jean had many ways of counting her love. Amongst them she was:

• Second eldest daughter and child, of nine siblings
• Mother of five children
• Grandmother of 9 grandchildren
• Aunt to 29 nieces and nephews

She was a cook of legendary quality, the true Italian kind to be certain. Meals were prepared largely, served with extra portions, and one never left her table hungry. She had nicknames for many of her family members, and all of them were given in a combination of love and humor. Even though her given name was Elizabeth, everyone called her “Jean” with various prefixes as appropriate.

Some would say that her life ended on March 28, 2014: I would say that she remains living inside of the remaining six children, 32 grandchildren, and countless great-grandchildren of her own parents, in her children and their spouses, her own grandchildren, and in all of the lives she touched. When I think of her, I will do so by reflecting on all of the amazing moments she provided to me during my life, and of the lessons she taught me along the way.

Now her spirit is free to roam, unhindered by the bonds of age. She rejoins her parents, younger brother Steve, older sister Rose, and at last, her loving husband Jim. A new star has been added to the sky and shines down upon us all, and for this, I am grateful.

—eternus pacis quod gaudium, martera jean—

Elizabeth Jean Cardille Wilson

June 3, 1927 – March 28, 2014

f.6 the fluidity of love

love

One of the most peculiar words in our language is “love.” We toss it about haphazardly and oft forget its importance. “I love chocolate” or “I love this TV show” are two examples of the reckless absurdity to which we have relegated the word. Of course, in almost all instances what we mean to say is “really like” or some varying degree of liking, depending on the adverb chosen to modify “like.” But when it comes to true love, as in the emotional bond between a human and something else, we have peculiar rules that we’ve created.

• When we buy, adopt, or find a puppy (or kitten, et cetera) we are allowed to immediately love it with impunity.
• When we have children, we are not only allowed, but expected to immediately love them.
• We are expected to proclaim love for family – even family members we may not have seen in years or decades, because we love our families.

When two adults fall in love, however, warnings and cautious statements abound.

• “Don’t fall in love too quickly,” I’ve heard said.
• “You can’t love him; you’ve only known him for (insert whatever amount of meaningless time you want here)!”
• “You’re not in love; it hasn’t been long enough since your last relationship. This is a rebound feeling.”

I have to admit that all of these things are not only possible, but have indeed happened to at least one person in the history of humanity. Admittedly, I’d rather be “too quick to love” than too slow and lose the change at happiness. However, when I recently announced that I had fallen in love, one of the first things from most (not all) of people I told was, “how long have you known him?” First: I understand and appreciate the concern of others – it truly touches my heart that so many people care about me. Second: what does that have to do with how I feel?
In our hearts (the spiritual representation, not the physical manifestation) we know when we are falling for or are in love with someone. The damning thing about our Western culture is we seem to believe we need to fit it into some type of checkbox or mold before we can “validate” it to others. To state that I find this infuriating is an understatement. When I hear that someone else has said the three little words “I love you” to someone else, I reply to said person with four little words of my own: “I’m happy for you!” (Any commentary that “I’m” is a contraction will meet with the commentator being the subject of my next grammatical post: you have been warned) Now that all of my friends are well into adulthood, I trust them to make cogent decisions about their emotional well being. If they tell me they are in love, the best thing I can do as a friend or loved one myself is to congratulate them and hope it stays so.
Do yourself, your friends, and your loved ones a favor. The next time you hear someone proclaim that he or she is in love, wish them a lifetime of it and that it may stay with them for today and all of the days they have remaining. Parents have the prerogative of cautioning their children to love carefully, but let’s be realistic, here – how often do children follow the advice of their parents where matters of the heart are concerned? Do not “live and let live.” No. Instead “love and let love.” The world will be a better place for it.
—amoris—