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Edge of Twenty-Seven

He woke me at midnight. I bolted upright, the force of which nearly toppled the carefully arranged historic doors I’d erected as an art installation turned headboard.

“Travis?”

His voice was slurred a bit, but comprehensible. Perfect, he’s liquored up, which means everything he’s soon to divulge about how much I mean to him will undoubtedly be true. Grey Goose: the real litmus test of reality.

“Hey, yeah, it’s me.” Soft and heavy.

I loved that “it’s me”–so comfortable, so familiar: so something boyfriends say to one another. Warmth enrobed my body.

Well, part of it.

“So you know that game we were playing…the other day?” Ice clinked in the background.

I gasped. How could I have forgotten?

We’d just stopped for an ice cream break after walking around campus in our camouflage shorts and tight tees. Much to my delight, we’d spent most of the walk talking about “us,” how we’d make a good couple. I almost hadn’t needed ice cream to make the day better.

Almost.

After he’d asked about “my type” and me his, I was rewarded with the proverbial cherry on top: “You fit.” All I’d needed to make the sundae perfect was nuts.

“You there?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. You mean the ‘My Type’ game?”

“Exactly. And you asked me what my type was. You remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well…”

If I’d been on the rotary phone with the long manila cord my parents had had when I was growing up, I’d be twisting myself into a tangled mess.

“…your friend Andy…”

Or hanging myself with it.

“What?”

“You know, Andy. On Myspace.”

My mouth was dry, the darkness all-consuming. Ice clinked again.

“He’s my type for sure.”

Of course he is.

I felt physically ill–the anger bubbling up from my gut the strength of a thousand lava flows. Why Andy? Why my best friend? And then it clicked. But Travis wasn’t done; the vodka had lubricated his lips and the barbed testimonials to come.

“And you know the other night, when you couldn’t make it out to Michael’s with us?”

I just hummed.

“Well, that night I met this hot Latino gardener.”

I had to sit down.

“And I took him back to my place…”

I covered my eyes.

“…and fucked him.”

I hung up, threw the phone into the dark room, and fell into my bed dramatically, hitting my forehead on a doorknob in the process.

The next morning, my lump-headed self walked into Masterpieces of Spanish Art, the art history course we had together. Our friendship had begun a semester prior, across the quad in The History of Greece, then progressed over the months from a kiss to a few copped feels and plenty of bedroom eyes. But here it would end, as El Greco as our witness.

“Good morning,” he smiled thinly, disguising his forked tongue.

I glared at him. We never spoke again.

***

When I think of Travis, a number comes to mind. “Twenty-seven,” he’d said, “that’s when your brain is fully developed.”

Dubious as I was, I figured he was making shit up to offset the eventual burn from his deflections. And, to an extent, he was. At the ripe age of twenty-one, I’d mentally abused him, demanded what he knew about the world–a late twenty-something just now getting his bachelor’s degree.

Pah! I’d thought, he knows nothing.

But here I am, a whopping six years later, past the cusp of twenty-seven, nearing twenty-eight, and things are just now starting to make sense. They’re still a bit fuzzy, but focusing a bit with each day, each revelation I find in the random bits of conversation, experience, and life that compose my days.

So, I’ve acknowledged that, maybe, Travis was right. At least a little bit.

It’s in the trite clichés, the moments of teeth-clenching retrospection that I understand the value of perspective–how we change. And while I still don’t see the value of his picking-up-a-trick-and-fucking-him penchant, I’ve acknowledged that Travis might’ve been trying to do something good–teach me something.

That’s why I write: to figure myself out through each typed word, watch myself change through paragraphs, and, ultimately, become a different person than I’ve been–one who marvels at how consumed I’d been with a particular thought or person, and how, now, I couldn’t care less.

Self-deprecation has become a fragile truth to which I cling like a sponge, wringing it out every so often to see what parts of me stay trapped within its webbing, and which parts wash away. Life is spongy–it’s porous, and always changing. There’re some things about me that’ll stick and others that’ll stray, and there I’ll remain: forever changing.

And in a few years when I read back through this, I’ll probably roll my eyes, realize how misguided, how full of hubris, and how completely out-of-touch I am currently.

I hope so.

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This Day

By now, Facebook is flooded with photographs and recollections. Some heartfelt; others, forced. Twitter is aflutter with tweets and twits. And Google + is, well, I don’t know because I never use it.

And plenty of people are critiquing each other’s sentiments, determining who really deserves to feel the crushing weight of the day’s albatross.

Rationales aside, each of us appropriates this disaster. We do so to determine how far we can remove the deeply-set emotional knife from our chest—until a future time when this day passes with only the slightest sense of a phantom pinprick.

It just takes a flip through old journals to recognize my complicity in this unsettling enterprise—the pages devoted to this day fattened with ribbons and miniature flags, and riddled with clichéd lines like these.

But what can never be captured appropriately are the ways that this day jarred our collective consciousness. Because each American’s life was uprooted from seemingly stable, solid ground. Whether blocks, states, or continents away, we each felt the impacts. And something broke inside us all.

I cannot fathom what those who lost someone experienced. And I cannot know how it felt to be there.

All I can imagine is being a high-schooler in Alabama. Being told by a friend, “The World Trade Center and Pentagon just got attacked. And something happened in Pennsylvania.” Hearing the job fair’s buzzing conversations silenced by the principal’s intercomed order back to class. Rushing to AP Government and Economics and watching the planes crash into the towers, and the towers collapsing.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Answering parents’ panicked calls to the office alongside the overwhelmed secretaries. Retrieving friends from classes to return home. Hearing my Pre-calculus teacher’s sobs in the hallway after learning that her daughter’s plane had been rerouted to Canada—that she was safe. Experiencing the after-school stillness.

Returning patrons’ strained expressions, and hearing the occasional proclamation of the apocalypse while asking, “Paper or plastic?” Sitting and watching the news coverage in silence. Reading the headlines.

Feeling the images burn into memory.

Knowing I’ll never forget.

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A-Wholes

Grocery shopping is one of my favorite activities. But, more often than not, my zeal wears off the minute five people decide to have a neighborhood watch meeting in the middle of an aisle; or two post-coital undergrads’ steamy make-out session overflows into my cart; or a buttoned-up asshole hovers right in front of, but makes no move toward, the flour. And then there are the inattentive parents.

Alright, go ahead, roll your eyes. Here it comes: gay man rant about absentminded parents.

I don’t mind kids. I used to be an incredibly annoying one, I’m sure.

I have held two babies approximately three times—meaning, three times between the two. Clearly, I’m no baby-whisperer. And I don’t want to be, because that just sounds creepy. It’s clear that parents have to deal with drooling, pooping, crying machines at home every single day. And then there’s the baby.

Now, I don’t mean to sound callous. Several of my closest friends have recently had children, and they’re ridiculously adorable, and have even made this cynical brute smile and coo. I know what you’re thinking: He’s not butch enough to be a “brute.” And you’d be right. But here’s the thing: I can deal with kids; I can watch them if need be; I can let them drool on my hands; I can—with enough liquor in me—probably change a diaper without vomiting. More than that, though, I can respect every parent’s decision to have their kid.

Just don’t let little Sundance run in front of my cart while you ogle the quinoa and ask the Whole Foods sample table staffer if the probiotic salad dressing—hand-squeezed from free-range honey badgers that morning—is really organic. Because I’ll run the little munchkin over. Dimples and all.  

And I have.

Here’s the scene three months ago: I’m pushing my cart after a long work day, and trying not to freak out about the fact that the three things I’ve gotten total approximately thirty dollars. And then something squeaks, and my cart comes to an abrupt halt. Or maybe it’s more of an “Eeeek.” Regardless, I look down and notice there’s a child stuck under the front end of my cart. I’m not kidding: Kid-under-cart on Aisle Five. Then again, I don’t think Whole Foods has “Aisles.”

 And I just stare. Because, I mean, what else am I supposed to do? I’m wearing work clothes, and the kid might be bleeding.

You’d think that such a scene would, I don’t know, draw attention. But, meh. Apparently not. So I have to (1) Back up my cart [insert eye roll here]; (2) Make sure Run-Over Child isn’t too physically damaged; (3) Scan nearby hippie-dippy, way-too-pretentious-for-hemp-clothes patrons, and identify probable parent/guardian; (4) Approach said parent/guardian.

By the time I get to Step 4, the identified parent/guardian snaps out of her Kombucha haze and walks over. Thankfully for her leaf-and-bark sandals, she takes her time.

And then.

Right at that perfect moment.

When sincere apology for inhibiting Random Gay Man’s shopping experience is appropriate.

A. Glare.

I nearly snatch the bandana out of her dreadlocks.

Stunned, I stand in the middle of the aisle. And then I become that person in the middle of the aisle. Thoroughly disgusted, I check out and tote my small bag to my car.

And there, two rows beyond mine, I see Run-Over Child and Disaffected Mother getting into a Land Rover.  

Grade A. But curdled.

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Frayed Nerves and Ugly Cries

Mornings are always fraught with emotional extremes. Especially if your phone alarm startles you to such a degree that you flail at it like a howler monkey and, in the process, smack your slightly sick boyfriend across the back of the head. The last thing anyone wants on their conscience at 4:00 a.m. is accidental battered boyfriend syndrome.

Not that I’d know anything about that.

And then there’s the work commute. As if cranking up the car at 4:45 a.m. isn’t depressing enough, you have to chant a little inspirational mantra to steel your nerves for the drive and day ahead.

Now, after building yourself up, all you need is “Eye of the Tiger” as your morning’s soundtrack. So, you turn on your iPod and hit “Shuffle.” Then, and only then, Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars” oozes through the speakers.

Game over. Next stop: Ugly Cry Central.

But not this morning. Around the time I decide against taking a tire iron to the back of the slow-moving Jeep ahead of me, I start getting a familiar, gut-wrenching pain. No, not gas.

Mostly fear and self-loathing, with a dollop of despair.

Now, the fear doesn’t stem from being genuinely afraid of my coworkers. Rather, it springs from a worry that I’ll forget to pack my professional filter and call one of them a horrendously rancid name. That it’ll just slip out.

“Pass me the toner.”

“You’re a withered cunt.”

Just like that. I know it’s going to happen.

And let me just say, I despise that word. It’s just plain horrible. But when someone crosses the threshold from insane to despicable, it’s warranted. And for a particularly crazed lunatic (a.k.a., McNutterpants) who moved herself into the vacant manager’s office like a delusional hermit crab—but who also goes batshitcrazy if you move anything in your personal office space—it’s the only moniker that’ll suffice.

But if I really think about it, pity dances along the periphery of the charged ripostes I mentally conjure. Because, honestly, I feel a little sorry for McNutterpants. Sure, my life isn’t perfect: I’ve got debt sprinkled here and there; I’m no magazine model; I’ll never be rich; I sometimes scare passersby with my Chia Pet-rat nest hair; and I have a weird penchant for carrying dental floss in my pocket. Still, with all that aside, I haven’t settled for one of life’s sad consolation prize packs like McNutterpants.

I don’t know if I’ll succeed in forging my own path through life’s deep, dark undergrowth. But I’ve got to try with my own tools. Even if their edges are worn by repeated blows, their hilts rusted by tears.

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The Roads We Travel

To my fellow I-40 drivers, I’m an in-process PSA—a future, grisly slide for a Driver’s Education course. With a massive mid-century modern leather sofa–nicknamed Betty–completely obscuring the right half of my Matrix (Trixxy), I try to play it cool. Nothing to see here, police. Just a gay on the road to decorating bliss. With some additional badonkadonk in Trixxy’s trunk.

A muffled observation comes from the floorboard behind my seat.

“Wow, you have two cup holders? Perfect for my Evian bottle.”

Cloaked in a microfiber throw, Andy shifts, kneeing my back and pushing my face into Betty’s leg.

“If I was a lesbian, my hips would be too wide to fit back here. Then again, we’d probably be in a Subaru Forester. Which would mean I’d actually have a seat.”

I try to hum my agreement, but gum Betty’s leg instead.

***

This morning, right as I’d contemplated dropping Andy’s IKEA plates, he materialized in the kitchen doorway as fast as that girl from The Ring. He had an announcement.

“I need your measuring tape. I’m going to see if we can do something.”

Intentionally obscure comments always grab my attention. And, apparently, also transpose IKEA plates from potentially destructive hands to safe cabinet space. Next to my beloved Fiesta ware, no less.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to see if we can get Betty into Trixxy.”

Smart man. With our apartment in full-fledged disarray—my eyes darting from overflowing boxes to precariously stacked furniture—Andy knew the one thing that could possibly delay me from assuming the fetal position and channeling my inner Nell. No, not chocolate.

Aesthetic congruence. 

A few minutes later, the front door slammed.

“Get your pants on! We’re going to get Betty.”

I smiled. Then narrowed my eyes at the Campbell’s Soup mug-bowls peering out from the cabinet. “Count your lucky stars. You’re safe. For now.”

***

Flash-forward through disassembling Trixxy’s interior and stuffing Betty inside. It’s dusk; Trixxy’s undercarriage occasionally groans from sofa rearrangement. With a few final expletives, we get the driver’s side seat angled enough for me to accelerate and brake relatively safely, while leaving a small space in the back floorboard.

A young family approaches. As I subvert my envy of youth’s bodily plasticity, I reconsider the space between Trixxy’s steering column and driver’s seat.

“This is going to be tight. I hope I don’t end up with an impaled face.”

“Don’t worry. If anything happens, you’ll die instantly. But I’ll probably be okay.”

Fears allayed.

Once the family disappears from view, Andy folds himself into the floorboard and covers his head with the throw. And we’re off.

***

Only one driver induces a life-flashing-before-my-eyes moment, but I narrate that close call out of my running commentary.

“Say something every now and then so I know you haven’t suffocated.”

“I’m glad I brought my water.”

He shifts again.

“Oh, much better. I should tell you I’m claustrophobic.”

“WHAT?”

“Well, as long as I can move my limbs, I’m okay. Otherwise, I’ll freak out.”

A few more bumps and curves later, we pull up to the apartment. Removing Andy from the floorboard reminds me of the images I’ve seen of Saddam’s extrication from his bunker.

“Take a minute and breathe. Let the blood flow back to your feet.”

“I’m a little dizzy.”

Andy totters up to the front door and I open Trixxy’s trunk. With a few heaves and close calls with narrow doors, we get Betty upstairs. She’s home.

“I can tell you’re excited.”

And I am. So much so, I barely notice the blood seeping from my battered thumb.

“Don’t get blood on Betty!”

***

About an hour later, Andy and I spread our celebratory Whole Foods loot across the coffee table and sit on the floor with Betty at our backs. Avatar begins streaming through the TV, illuminating the darkened room between Isaac’s intermittent lightening.

And it’s in that moment that I realize, seven years ago today, I came out to my family.

Andy rummages his hand through a gummy bear bag. I look down at my overflowing plate. And grin at the metaphor.

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Life Lessons and Detergent Threats

When a gay is backed into a corner by his anal-retentive boyfriend–who’s harping about his putatively superior decorating abilities–he’ll say what he must to shut down the borderline argument:

“If you’re not nicer to me, I’ll wash this repeatedly with industrial detergent!”

Andy postures in the kitchen corner, holding a mid-century modern chair as ransom. He wins.

But, for good measure, he adds, “And my gargoyle is not kitsch!”

Well played, sir. Well played.

Having a live-in boyfriend is fun. We can agree, argue, subject one another to our respective cold shoulders, throw temper-tantrums, emphatically assert we’re superior decorators (fine, that’s all me), and have stress-induced crying fits. But then we have sex, and all potential slights or work day traumas are resolved. Sex is sort of like The Price is Right‘s Plinko game: Regardless of what chips you bring to the table, you almost always have a happy ending.

With this foray into genuine boyfriendom, I’ve realized that being a late-bloomer works to my advantage. Sure, I’ve been like a camel for a while–minus the hump (ba da bah!); meaning, I’ve been able to go without a lot of things for protracted periods of time, all the while cobbling together some semblance of selfhood and self-esteem. That’s not to say camels don’t have low self-esteem, but you get my point.

Bringing a more robust sense of self to a relationship facilitates more in-depth, personally meaningful conversations, as well as the development of a maturity toolkit to deal with the rigors of relationships: mending slighted feelings; admitting you’re wrong; clearly communicating your thoughts; and owning up to the fact that, sometimes, you’re being an asshole (this is not the same thing as admitting you’re wrong). It’s been a learning process, but an important one. It’s made me more human and less machine-like.

It’s made me cherish the quiet, important moments of sitting there and staring at Andy, each of us expecting or needing nothing more.

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Fishes, Loaves, and Rainbows

It’s not often that, as an adult, you have a chance to tell your parents that you’re proud of them. Regardless of whether or not they do admirable things after you’re out of the proverbial nest, it just seems weird to have such a verbal exchange with someone who changed your diapers. But then you get reminders of just how much they do–not for personal gain, but because they want to make a difference.

And I had one such reminder this past Sunday. During our weekly phone conversation, my parents summarized the first meeting of an LGBT support group they helped organize with other progressive members of area parishes. Yes, “parishes.” Contrary to the Vatican’s problematic dogma, and the hate that’s regularly spewed by bishops and other Catholic clergy, there are plenty of tolerant Catholics out there fighting for equality. Even in Alabama.

“Hey, yeah, I’ll let your mother tell you more about it. We may have to move to a larger space for the next one. And we had at least one each of the LGBT.”

I smile. Southerners: we preface everything with “the.” Dad hands the phone to Mom.

“Hey, honey! We had a great turnout. And everyone liked the door prizes.”

Again, I smile.

It’s almost cliche to write that growing up gay is fraught with challenges. But it is, especially when you’re cognizant that your identity–even if you can’t quite yet put a name to it–is seemingly irreconcilable with your religious background. Being gay in a hyper-conservative state is hard. Being gay and Catholic in Alabama is even harder. But my sister and I went through the motions our parents expected of us–you know, living under their roof and all. Still, we preferred mimicking the chorus member, who’d bang on a tambourine at the most inopportune moments during Mass, over paying attention to what was being said.

And as often happens, we left the roost and took our respective positions regarding religion. By now, our parents have accepted our decisions, and don’t push. We respect each other’s beliefs, or the lack thereof, and they use their faith to build bridges rather than walls.

Without any provocation or emphatic suggestions on my part, they each attended a symposium led by a progressive Catholic ministry. There, they learned more about LGBT life and rights in the context of Catholicism. They came back energized and determined to make a difference. And last Friday, they, along with a handful of allies–my sister included–saw the first glimpse of their efforts: 25 to 30 LGBT-identified individuals gathered for their first meeting. Some had been out for years and coupled for decades; some were new to the community. And each of them found a place alongside my family.

While I’ve long since forgotten most of what I learned in CCD, I do recall that excessive pride is sinful. More than that, it’s dangerous.

But in this instance, I think it’s heavenly.

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Wankers, Wankers Everywhere…and Not a Drop [of Vodka] to Drink

There seems to be no shortage of underemployed or unemployed peers of mine attempting to stay afloat in this rancid soup of an economy. And it’s that unfortunate fact that keeps me from entertaining protracted rants about my shitty work environment. Because, yes, while it might be a horrible place, it’s a job, a steady paycheck—even if said check could be a bit more substantial to make the end of the month not appear so far away.

Still, this gay has to let his hair fro out every now and again—casting aside the conditioner and wide-toothed comb for a bit of old-fashioned vitriol and finger snaps to keep my hair curled. What exactly could be bad about my work environment you ask? Well, I work with a bunch of wankers. On a military base.

I know, I know—me, in a military compound? Hilarious. But it’s tragically true. Never did I imagine I’d be in cahoots with Big Brother. But when an unfortunate event—yay, job loss!—conspires with one particularly inane life choice—yay, I’m an anthropologist!—my work life becomes a real life version of The Office. But instead of a funny or attractive cast, I’m stuck with the unfashionable dregs.

At the get-go, I had three wonderfully fun, informed, and competent friends around me—balancing out the crazy in a precise four-on-four split. But then, one by one, they left me high and dry. (Okay, that’s not really true. They each left for better jobs or for their own reasons—meaning: preserving what little sanity they had left.) And the minute the last one left me—with me screaming from inside the barbed-wire after her, “Run, bitch, run!”— the orcas started circling the baby seal.

Then, it got Animal Planet in this motherfucker. And while this baby seal may be outnumbered and torn apart, I intend to give the bastards the runs. It’s the very least I can do. Especially for the leading whale herself, whom I’ve dubbed McNutterpants. I even wrote her a note.

Dear McNutterpants:

I know you despise me. Don’t act like you don’t. Perhaps this is because I stand up for myself and can back up my arguments with actual facts, rather than the nut baggery you constantly pull out of your vapid head. Or perhaps it’s also because: (1) I’m proficient and competent in my job duties; (2) I can speak like an adult, and not the disturbingly high Disney character you so often channel; (3) I can actually use a computer to perform intensely difficult actions like, say, printing off an entire PowerPoint slide without assistance (I know, it’s hard); and (4) I don’t obsess over minutiae or interject myself into every conversation in a tragic attempt to make myself appear relevant.

So, do you think you could, I don’t know, fake a bit of professionalism?

Kisses,

Matt

But since I have yet to cast the last vestige of professionalism asunder, I’ll just leave that note unsent and add it to the pile.

Until I find myself in the middle of my resignation speech at some future staff meeting—and pointing to each and every person, and relaying my true opinion of them—I’ll just enjoy staring blankly at their incompetent selves while turning up the volume of Emeli Sandé’s “Next to Me,” then shrugging at their exasperation.

Can’t. Hear. You. Wankers.

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I Want To Hold Your Hand

Context is everything. If the past decade’s worth of anthropological musings and experiences has taught me anything, it’s that simple fact. And as my boyfriend Andy and I were accosted this past Saturday, that phrase looped through my mind.

The morning had been a good one. We slept in, went out for breakfast, then drove to a favorite antiquing haunt with new iTunes as our morning’s soundtrack. The beautiful day was ours for the taking, and we were enjoying every minute of it.

Until we returned to Raleigh a few hours later and pulled up to a traffic light. A new Ford pickup idled in the next lane over, and I paid it little attention.

It was one of those quietly perfect moments: his hand in mine, the music low and soothing.

And then erratic movement from the truck drew my attention.

The truck’s backseat passenger talked animatedly to his front seat companions and motioned toward us. The smile he had plastered across his face was eerily familiar–one I’d seen exchanged between drunk fraternity brothers threatening me and my friends outside an Alabama gay bar; the same I’d experienced countless times in crowds, followed by whispers and pointed fingers; the exact one I faced when four men in a similar truck tried to force me off an Alabama road. So I knew what was next.

But instead of engaging them, I stared ahead and silently willed the light to change. And I kept holding Andy’s hand, squeezing it a little tighter.

Their gestures became more emphatic and drew Andy’s attention. I looked over with him, into their hateful faces. We raised our clasped hands, and I kissed his. And that’s when things escalated. Because when bigots are literally faced by those whom they taunt, they suddenly realize their targets have means of reacting–can hold their own–and they panic. That’s when they started screaming “Fucking faggots!” We responded with our own salutation and matching raised middle fingers.

The light changed. We got ahead of them. I seethed with anger. The car ahead of them turned, and their truck pulled up beside us. Leaning out the lowered window, the backseat rider screamed a few more “faggot”-laced comments. That’s when Andy took out his phone and took their picture. Like a chastised child, the bigot dove into the backseat, rolled up the window, and the truck accelerated.

I tailed them while Andy leaned into the windshield and made it very clear that we were photographing their license plate. They began weaving haphazardly through traffic. I slowed and turned down our street.

And we were once again left in silence. But this time, it was tinged with discomfort and anger. And fear.

We pulled up to the house and sat there. I got out. As I removed my keys from my bag, I fought back tears demanding release and shook off tremors running through my hands. I tried to laugh things off. I couldn’t.

Neither of us could smile, even as we dumped out our our antiquing spoils and situated them in the apartment. And then we lay down and held each other. There was tacit knowledge–a close call.

We knew we could’ve easily been on a deserted road, in the middle of nowhere. They could’ve been drunk, and more reactive. There could’ve been more of them. They could’ve had a gun. We could’ve had a gun. And the latter thought scared me even more.

And the provocative act in all of it? Holding hands.

I know, it’s terrifying. It hurts the children. It’ll surely evoke nature’s wrath and wipe Raleigh off the map. Yet, it was that innocuous act, in the privacy of my personal vehicle, which tipped them over the edge.

I’ve long realized that the world is full of hateful, ignorant, despicable people. The same people who break into a woman’s home, tie her up, carve “Dyke” into her body, and attempt to burn her alive; the same people who kidnap children to “save” them from their “immoral” parents; the same people who advocate for “rounding up the deviants” and confining them in electrified fences until they starve to death. The same people who fail to see the hypocrisy in tying a man to a fence, beating him, and leaving him to die alone in the name of a man who was nailed to a cross, beaten, and left to die alone.

The point at which a person is objectified to the degree that they are no longer considered human is the point at which unimaginable violence is exacted upon them. It’s the point at which LGBT individuals become hate crimes.

For me, the terrifying reality of this particular incident is that–in our country today–these three men stand an equal chance of being reprimanded for their hateful behavior as they do for being commended for their “defense of traditions.”

And until you find yourself on the “other” side, it’s much easier to turn a blind eye to hate–to tell yourself that your sandwich doesn’t fund murder, to quell the rising fear within your heart that such behavior may one day be directed at you.

After all, you’re just holding someone’s hand. What could possibly come of that?

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MOmentum

So, it happened: I finally met a genuinely good guy who can tolerate my quirks, including more than a touch of OCD and ADD. Having been an ace at crashing and burning online, I was absolutely stunned that (1) I met Andy in person; (2) Andy wasn’t a cocaine addict (Boyfriend Number 2, I wish you well); and (3) Andy thought I was cute.

Like most new couples, we kept a bit of distance at first—meeting once or twice during the week and then having a weekend of intense…coupling. But then a month was gone, and I’d roll over and he’d still be there: he wasn’t a figment of my imagination! With us hovering near the two month mark, we’re trying to break his lease, extricate him from his disturbingly Stepfordian cookie-cutter apartment, and move him into my historic downtown digs.

Now, if you haven’t yet started your eye-rolls and catty commentary, go ahead and get it out of your system.

I’ll be the first to write that I’m not an easy person with whom to live. And while I hardly ever quote my maternal side of the family—save my mother—my maternal grandfather was right: “Matt, you want to know the fastest way to become bitter enemies with your friends? Live with them.”

Score one for Papa.

I think it was the hamburger burned into my cookie sheets—or maybe the mounds of food-caked dishes constantly cluttering the sink, or the laundry detritus scattered around—that instigated the Chernobyl-sized meltdown with my roommates during our sophomore year of college. After a probable case of beta fish poisoning—R.I.P. Artemis—and many subsequent cold shoulders, I stormed out, never to speak to them again. We’d known each other since sixth grade.

Flash forward through eight years of living alone to the moment Andy said, during our second fight (the first was about iced versus hot coffee), “Well, I don’t like that!” Following his outstretched arm to my 1940s Art Deco inlaid sideboard, I bit my lower lip and had a momentary eye-twitch. Then I said, “Okay.”

I know. I surprised myself.

But there we were: on the floor (don’t ask), compromising on décor. And the scariest part for me: actually envisioning parting with the sideboard to bring in a piece of furniture he preferred. Even that dresser thing in his bedroom that I planned to accidentally burn. Sure, some people may think we’re channeling our inner lesbians prematurely, but we’re both realizing that this thing has a good shot of lasting far longer than even Queer as Folk.

And I have to say, it’s oddly liberating for me to come back and not have everything in its place. He’s not remotely messy, it’s just that some things aren’t where I put them–my apartment is no longer a museum, but a home. And with every one of his additions, I become more endeared to seeing his stuff around. Knowing that he’ll be back after work to fill his empty shoes means more to me than where he tossed them. Plus, I don’t mind doubling my wardrobe or tripling my DVD collection.

So, while I pull myself out of my “dark, slightly depressing” color story, he’ll work on not stepping out of the shower until after he towels off his feet. And while I will part with the industrial megaphone–it added just that necessary touch of whimsy–I’ll gain a beautiful mid-century sofa and chair, not to mention their owner. Little compromises and open communication at the outset work wonders.

Farting around each other also helps. That, and lending a hand to shave those embarrassingly random patches of light back hair. Because once you pass that particular threshold, you’re pretty good to go.

Plus, he actually likes the sideboard. He was just being spiteful.