Scared Straight

          I do not usually allow myself to get dragged into the middle of political debates.  Having more degrees than a thermometer, this is my brother’s arena and best left to him.  However, in today’s politically charged climate, I feel it necessary to climb atop my soapbox and weigh in.  I have to warn readers that my comments may be offensive, but I will not apologize for the truths that I hold closest and will spout them on occasion if compelled…and after certain comments made by recent presidential contenders, I am convicted to write.

                This country affords many opportunities and I feel very fortunate to have been blessed to have been born in a southern home with traditional Christian values that were tested and then disregarded by my parents who chose to love me, their gay son, unconditionally.  My parents were bible-toting, foot- stomping, revival-loving Christians and after they found out that I was not going to be what they had imagined me to be, they prayed for answers and most often the ones that they found were from a society that holds homosexuals in poor regard or in downright contempt. 

Not only does the bible say that it is immorally and sinfully wrong to be gay, but most people think it is wrong, or not right, or just unnatural to be gay.  While I do not agree with those that spout biblical rhetoric as justification to their prejudices, I can understand their convictions.  Let me explain, why this point is so relevant to the mass population as well.

You have most likely heard that America is a puritanical society.  This is undisputed.  America was founded within the limited constraints of religion.  This “religiosity” or fundamental approach to our lives as a whole is still very much pervasive today.  Whether or not you are Christian, Baptist, Jewish, Muslim, or any number or combination of faiths, you are influenced by them and their doctrines.  Sorry to inform you, but yes, even you, the Agnostics, Wiccans, Mystics and Atheists are shaped by the same “godly” principles.  This is called social conditioning and it is inescapable.  We are all brought up believing in dogma whether it is from our parents, our friends and relatives, our churches or through advertising. 

Today, advertising is most arguably the biggest and direct influence in any of our lives.  We are bombarded from birth images that portray heterosexuality as the ideal.  Love is for heterosexuals.  Sex is for heterosexuals.  Marriage and family are also only relevant and natural for heterosexuals.  Anything in contrast is morally reprehensible and detrimental to our societal fabric.  “Being gay is wrong.  If you choose to be a fag, you will live a life of pain and lonely bitterness.”  Pay attention, WE ARE ALL TAUGHT THIS MESSAGE!  IT IS NOT SUBTLE.  IT IS OVERT AND VERY BLATENT. 

There have been few great advancements in the rights of gay people in this country or even globally, because no matter your sexual orientation, you are socially conditioned to hate gay people.  I will not argue the semantics of that statement with Christians that say “We love the sinner, but hate the sin.”  We are all taught that we hate gay.  This is especially tragic for gay people, because they grow up hating themselves. 

Because most of my faithful readers know that I can never seem to make a point without circumnavigating around and through and then back again, I will try now to do so.  To my gay family, my brothers and sisters who have known more struggle and oppression than is imaginable to most, we must become a viable force in this country to effect long term change.  We have to stop hating ourselves and stop tearing each other down in bars, gyms and cafes due to labels that society defines appropriate.

“He’s too fem.”  “He’s a gym bunny.”  “He’s a nelly bottom.”  “He’s a slut.”  Just stop and insist on better, because let me tell you now that the straight girls that you may be dancing with, or your straight fraternity brothers that you share beer with, will NEVER know you like that queer that you might be making fun of.   It is impossible for a single straight person to empathize with who you are in the core way that all gay people can relate. 

Listening to Michele Bachmann, I am reminded of the significance of solidarity.  I believe that the issues that should matter in the next election will take a backseat to issues in the bedroom.  All the heterosexually oriented people, despite race or gender, which cast their vote, will undoubtedly and far outnumber the homosexual.  There are more people that will choose to express their distaste for homosexuals while in the safe and anonymous confines of the ballot booth than not. Those same people that laugh at Will & Grace and party with us at clubs are the same ones that will vote against our rights in the next election and I am frightened…and I for one will be scared straight to the polls, if nothing more than with a single message.  “I refuse to allow your blatant or subconscious views to define the individual view of myself any longer.  I will love myself in the way that I love others and will be an example for a generation.”

Roller Coasters

          A couple of weeks ago, I went to an amusement park with a group of friends.  Worlds of Fun boasted descriptions like “Tallest,” “Fastest,” and even “Meanest” on billboards along the side of the highway twenty miles before we even got to the actual park.  Now I should probably mention that while I do not particularly enjoy roller coasters, I decided to tag along on the group outing since my choice of floating in a pool with a pitcher of sangria seemed boring to my friends who are obviously adrenaline junkies.  It’s not like I scare easily, I did survive my childhood virtually unscathed, physically at least.  I would just prefer having my feet firmly planted on the ground, tucked safely inside a pair of comfy shoes instead of, for example, cliff diving into waters that (in my mind) are clearly shark-infested.

                While my closest friends would argue that I am somewhat of a control-freak who tends to go a little nuts when the smallest detail of his perfectly planned life goes astray, I instead see myself as someone who simply sees the beauty in stability.  I don’t feel the need to ride something called “The Prowler,” when, as many of you are aware, I tend to date them.

                Once parked precariously between two high school busses and a thousand miles and a hundred degrees from the entrance, we unpacked ourselves from the car and began the trek towards a promised fun day getaway…according to ten of the highway billboards.  Cheerful music was piped into the parking lot from speakers shaped like various objects such as rocks and plastic shrubbery where I only assume the purpose was to make the mile and a half line more like an attraction and to perhaps take the financial sting out of the forty dollar ticket price.

                Once inside the park, the loops of twisted metal and steel rose above me and all I could hear were deafening screams of terror intermingled with the pungent smell of vomit coming from the sidewalk below.  This made me remember a recent and short-lived relationship where I had met someone that swept me off my feet and took my breath away.  For a few weeks he said all the right things, did all the right stuff and even managed to work in a few perfect moments.  A week after that he just disappeared.  No telephone call, no text message, he just left me scratching my head and my friends wondering what happened. 

                Just like those roller coasters, a new relationship is wonderful and scary all wrapped up in a terrifying splendor of mixed emotions that I had successfully avoided for a very long time.  So long in fact, that I had forgotten how much fun the ride could be.  Although we never know if those brand new relationships will turn out to leave us lying in a heap of twisted emotional carnage or give us the ride of our lives, it is far better than looking up and watching as everyone else experiences the thrill.

Spoiled

          The dissolution of an eight year relationship left me with plenty of time on my hand and lots going on in my mind.  To fill the space and quiet the voices, I decided to return back to school.  Subsequently, the eight years spent living as a Stepford Wife left me somewhat more mature than my college peers…and by mature, I mean older.  As most of my friends, co-workers, colleagues and editor can tell you, I am occasionally prone to tantrums if I do not get my way on an issue that I feel strongly about…or even ambiguously about depending on when you should ask my opinion.

          This sense of entitlement coupled with simply being Southern, I suppose, disposes me with a flair for being “dramatic” bordering on histrionic.  I, however, prefer the term “passionate.”   When someone says that someone else is “passionate about their beliefs,” folks always seem to think that a compliment.  So I like to think myself very passionate.  For example, last week, I was very passionate at the DMV when the lady behind the glass told me that I couldn’t use the same photo that I had been using to renew my driver’s license.  I passionately explained to her that the lighting at her fine location made my skin an eerie color and although the picture on my currently expired license had been taken fifteen years ago, I still looked the same.  Coincidentally, until the lady and I resolve this situation, I cannot technically operate a motor vehicle.  I am trying to stand firm to my conviction, but I never learned to ride a bicycle and the thought of speeding down an expressway leaves me terrified.

                As a child, my mother learned very early to leave me waiting in the car while she ran errands if there was a remote possibility that I would be driven to distraction during one of her trips at something I saw.  Leaving the window cracked for air, I would be left to my own devises with a box of crayons while she paid bills, shopped for groceries, or had her weekly meetings with one of my teachers.

                I concede that I could be a handful at those moments when I spied a new toy lurking on a shelf just out of my reach, begging for me to take it home.  I could literally hear it pleading from behind the shiny, clear wall of plastic.  “Take me home with you,” it would say.  “Our adventures will be legendary.”  I would then begin a soft whine to get my mother’s attention.  After being ignored a few times, I would be forced to shriek and throw myself to the floor kicking and screaming.  My mother was nearly as passionate in her conviction of not allowing me the thing, even though I would always promise never to ask for another thing ever…After a few of those episodes which generally ended in her dragging my limp body out of the store crying, she thought it best to just leave me in the car to avoid upsetting me.

                To this day, I refuse to believe that I was spoiled.  Despite dirty looks from passersby and whispers advising my parents to spank me, my grandmother would say that I was just high-spirited.  She never punished me and would not allow my parents to punish me if she were anywhere around.  Around thirteen, I learned that unreservedly throwing myself to the ground while wailing and kicking rarely produced a desired result and merely looked ridiculous. Instead, I learned to effectively bargain or manipulate circumstances to favor my intents.

                Think or say what you will, but I grew up with the freedom that allowed me the luxury of believing that nothing was out of my reach.   Growing up surrounded by the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, most people struggle to get by, but I was allowed to soar over them. 

As the years passed, I became more and more reserved, more passive and less like the strong-willed aggressive brat that I was once labeled.  After eight years, I no longer recognized who I was, so it was no surprise that my partner didn’t recognize me either.  He began to cheat and then he left me alone with nothing but time to remember the person that should have insisted on better.  Age doesn’t necessarily include wisdom, and I learned early that sometimes you have to wail, kick and scream until you get what you deserve…I just temporarily forgot.

Can you be a re-virgin??

         Sitting in a local coffee shop on Saturday morning last week, I overheard a group of young girls discuss everything that you would expect them to talk about.  Such as cute boys, the latest “Gossip Girl” episode and which jeans do not make their asses look fat.  There was one topic, however, that took me a little by surprise.  It was the idea that if you were to use a condom when having intercourse, that it technically did not count as sex and if you somehow happened to mess that detail up, then all you had to do was abstain from intercourse for seven years to have your “virgin” status reinstated.  Apparently, during that period of celibacy, the hymen reattached itself (magically perhaps?).

                After I chocked on my skinny vanilla soy latte, I had a thought—Wouldn’t it be great if we could all apply those rules to other aspects of our lives.  Sort of like a cosmic do-over concept.  For me, I would start driving without my shoes and the next time I get pulled over for speeding, I would confidently look the officer square in the eyes and say, “Sir, you can just rip that ticket right up, because today, my lead foot isn’t wearing shoes…and after all, speeding doesn’t count if you’re not wearing shoes.”

                I especially love the idea of regaining your virgin status via a waiting game.  This is the anatomical by-law that somehow supersedes the normally mundane rules of life.  Gravity, space-time and physics be damned, The Rule of the Waiting Game trumps mere logic and I, for one am in favor of such a clause.  I am a serial dater and for all attempts and purposes, have not had a real relationship in seven years.  Does this make me a “relationship re-virgin?”

                There is something appealing about waking up and starting fresh.  Before that first break-up, you were braver, more willing to take chances.  Before the first time someone made you cry, you pursued every relationship with reckless abandon.  Before that first broken heart, you saw every opportunity as an infinite amount of possibilities.  The world was brighter, the colors were electric and the glass was always half-full.

                The colors seemed to fade with every heartbreak and you become more fearful, less trusting and more guarded.   Dating became an effort and sometimes a Saturday evening spent in your pajamas beside your faithful schnauzer was far more preferable to a dinner and movie spent with a stranger.

                With every broken heart, every morning that you woke up on a tear-stained pillow, you also gained experience.  You gained wisdom.  If in fact, we are the sum of all our experiences, those experiences not only make us who we are, but give us the opportunity to learn what we are looking for in someone else.  Heartbreak is a tightrope that you walk and it can be awful difficult not to allow yourself to become jaded while you’re gaining that experience through those tears. 

                Listening carefully to those girls at the coffee shop, I wanted to give them some piece of advice to take out the door with them into the cold harshness that awaits them.  Having no desire for a full conversation debunking sexual myths and untruths, I would leave them with this:  Once your heart gets broken the first time, it can never be unbroken.  It will heal, but there will always be a scar to remind us of that experience and urge us to garner the wisdom so that we will never be so reckless with something so precious.