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Chick-fil-HAAAAAAAY

Has everyone grown tired of the Chick-fil-A debate? Probably. After all, there’re plenty of more pressing issues on the national front and around the world. Does that mean that I’ll let the issue fade away? As much as I’d like to, I’m genetically predisposed to be an outspoken loudmouth.

When I start thinking about why this whole hullabaloo aggravates me so, I’m offered not-so-gentle, unexpected reminders. Like when I got pretty sick this past weekend, and my boyfriend had to take me to an urgent care clinic to determine why my brain decided to catch on fire and disturb my tenuous, shallow sleep with hallucinatory dreams. Unlike most of the population, we had some additional baggage walking through the doors: should I collapse and be scooted next door to the hospital, he’d have no right to see me. When you’re feeling less than sub-par, the last thing you want to worry about is your significant other being left to wonder where in the hell you’ve been taken.

But we ended up walking out together, and strolling into the hospital lab for me to get blood drawn. Still, the accusing stares of some hospital staff conveyed a clear message: You’re different, and we don’t have to play by your rules. Three vials of blood later and we were walking back out together.

And since my boyfriend is a knight in shining armor and knows that sweets make everything better, we went to a local sweets shop that has recently been supportive of the LGBT community. Interestingly, it’s situated just across the street from a Chick-fil-A. Unbeknownst to me, as we waited in line, a teenage couple found us to be an amusing spectacle and occupied their time with making sad, pathetic hand gestures and glances in our general direction (they got the limp wrist all wrong). Now, it’s not the first time such smirks or head nods were used to openly convey some bigots’ disapproval toward me or my friends. Whether such actions transform later in life to shouted epithets or physical violence toward LGBTQ individuals isn’t the issue (it’s a major issue, but not this one). The issue I constantly grapple with is why do people think they can still do this, in public no less, to people who are just going about their day–getting health-related issues checked, getting gelato to recuperate from a taxing day? Perhaps it’s because it’s trendy to normalize and rationalize hate and hateful organizations’ actions. Enter again: the Chick-fil-A debate.

We can blame a lot of the sensationalism around such debates on the media; collectively, they’re an easy enough scapegoat and have to drive up their ratings somehow. But I think people often deflect too much–don’t take enough responsibility for their actions, even if they’re seemingly insignificant. Whether you’re ordering a cake from a bigoted baker or eating at Chick-Fil-A, you’re underwriting the hate they promulgate with profits you helped create. Does this mean that such businesses don’t also do good things with their profits? Of course not. But should you succumb to apathy, remain silent, and endorse hatred of any minority group a business or corporation decides to target? No.

For those who are able, who are fortunate enough to have access to quality food vendors–to businesses or farmers who support you–why not expend that extra block’s walk or five-minute drive to support a business that supports you? Is convenience really worth becoming kitchenfellows with self-identified bigots? Do I sound like a privileged asshole? Slightly.

But here’s the thing: I’m nowhere close to wealthy. Does that mean that I don’t sometimes spend imprudently? No. Like many of my generation, I live paycheck to paycheck and have no job-related benefits, and will only be able to retire when I’m dead. I have a 3-hour roundtrip commute to work, and pay nearly $350 in monthly gas expenses, not to mention car maintenance. But does that mean that I’d rather stop at a Chick-fil-A instead of waiting to get home to a box of produce from a locally-owned LGBT business that supports local farmers–the weekly cost of which is equivalent to about five chicken sandwiches and nowhere near the 1400 grams of sodium or 440 calories per sandwich? Hell. Fucking. No.

My point is this: If you can find an alternative to a hateful business–not just Chick-fil-A, but the entire gamut–why not do so? When I learn of any business that is anti-LGBT or against any minority, I cross them off my list if they’re on it. No quibbling, no apologies. While it may seem insignificant to omit a sandwich from your life, you’re doing more than a favor to your body–you’re being an example, showing others that you will not support an organization that will never miss your patronage and never wanted it in the first place. Hell, if the Jim Henson Company can end a 50-year relationship with Chick-fil-A over their stance on gay marriage, you can at least take your chicken craving to KFC.

Do I think that Chick-fil-A will ever go bankrupt? Probably not, unless their bigwigs get caught at some rest stops choking different kinds of chicken. Do I think it’s fair for businesses to be barred from setting up shop in certain areas (even if I cheered at the stalwart Boston and Chicago mayors’ opposition)? No, because that shoe can easily be slipped on the other foot. Do I secretly want to smack hipsters upside their heads for eating at Chick-fil-A to be counter counter-culture, alternative, and misunderstood? God, yes. Do I care that a local Chick-fil-A franchise is owned by an LGBTQ individual? Hell no. While I don’t presume to know their rationale–maybe they’re valiantly trying to make inroads–a portion of their profits still goes to the parent corporation. So, yes, kudos to Raleigh’s Cameron Village Chick-fil-A for their hideous monstrosity, and for ruining the residual character of the historically-interesting Cameron Village; I never thought I’d say or write that I preferred a parking lot over a building. But I do.

More importantly, though, do I think this debate is worth castigating friends–some of whom are LGBTQ–who choose to patronize the business? No. We all are free to express our opinions, even if we differ. For me, it’s not about the flair of abstaining–the “look how awesome I am” drivel people like to cite for self-aggrandizing purposes–but knowing on a personal level that I’m made of sterner stuff.

At least more so than something steeped in bigotry and warmed under a heat lamp.

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Making Do

In the coming days, the average, conscientious American will think about North Carolina for a few minutes–probably as coverage of Amendment One’s passage blips across their television screen or pops up on their smart phone. There will be the shaking of the head, the exasperated sigh, the usual and oft-overused phrases about the South being backwards. But then they’ll be next in line for their coffee, or American Idol will come on, and that’ll be that–kaput for civil rights in North Carolina, at least in their minds.

But for those of us grappling with the after-effects of this hateful legislation being translated into law, Amendment One is everywhere we look. It’s along the roads, it’s on bumpers, it’s in our workplaces. We can’t escape it. We have to listen to the bigoted commentary, the enthusiastic hoots from the bubbas next door about “those fucking faggots.” And we try not to scream.

At work this morning, my friend asked me why I didn’t just move. She emphasized that the best way to exercise civil disobedience is to take myself and my money to more tolerant locales. Sure, I thought about it well before the vote came back. But I told myself that I’ve felt disenfranchised before and have stayed rooted; hell, I grew up in Alabama (insert tired cliché here). Still, Amendment One’s passage was something new for me. What made me sob into my friends’ shoulders Tuesday night wasn’t the outcome, but rather the wide margin–the degree to which so much hateful ignorance still exists. It hurt. And it hurt worse than my hangover the next morning. It still hurts today. And will for a long time.

She waited. And I told her simply, “Raleigh is my home.” That it’s taken me so long to find somewhere that felt so comfortable. That I’ve built a life for myself of which I’m proud. That I’ve been immensely fortunate to have such a strong network of friends who are more than just “family”–they’re family. And I’m not leaving any of it. Or them. Because as strong as we each are on our own, we’re a tremendous force en masse. We laugh, we cry, we fight for what’s right against those who fight for what’s Reich.

And while it’s been a time for intensive introspective reflections, a time for mourning, it’s also a time to galvanize ourselves to reach out. To offer a hand to those who feel even more isolated and alienated than they’ve ever felt before; to the youth who thought this might be a turnaround, that they might see how things get better; to the elderly who thought they’d see that same turnaround. I have to remember that in this time of anger and upset, there’re so many more who are hurting more intensely, who are contemplating darker alternatives. We have to keep the fight alive and the momentum fierce.

Responding to my inquiry about how he’s been faring this week, my dear friend Norman–82 years young–said, “It’s been up and down. Just like an erection. But you just have to make the best of it.”

Phallocentric allusions aside, we all have to make the best of it. Even if there are a lot of pricks in the state.

 
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The F Word

Friendship is rarely tidy. And I can be a terrible friend. I don’t keep up the way I should. Texting isn’t my forte, and the OCD-ADHD double-punch sometimes sidelines phone conversations mid-sentence, demanding that my attention be turned to a dusty sill or a wilted plant. Or narcissism wins, and I make the conversation about me, me, me before interrupting myself and asking what it was that we were talking about. I’ve offended plenty, amused a few. But I’ve been supported by more.

Maybe it’s the incremental perspective gained through the passage of another year, or my disdain for the holidays manifesting in some odd, Scrooge-esque retrospective glance, questioning what it is that I have to be happy about. What exactly did 2011 do for me, anyway? But then I realize that it’s not about what the year did, but what I did with it, and what others did for me in the process. What they taught me.

Shooting the shit with friends reveals more to me about the world and my haphazard navigation of it than any anthropology seminar ever could. I’ve become attuned to how I search the depths of daily minutiae, try to find some semblance of vindication for what I do and who I’ve become. I hope for a resounding, amplified “Werk!” to each tiny action that comprises some infinitesimal fraction of my daily life. But this year I didn’t have to search quite as intensely as I’ve had to before. Because friends expressed it through unspoken acts, expecting no thanks; they did so without prompting, because they wanted to.

They called my flu-afflicted self from their cars to ensure I got the food they’d left at my door. They said “Hi” in a crowded theater and welcomed me. They sat on a couch in a crowded room to get to know me. They talked me down from panic-attacks. They called in a panic to check in as Mother Nature let loose. They sent unsolicited gifts just to make me laugh. They donated. They stayed on the phone when I started crying. They didn’t laugh when I tried make a point. They talked over the static, across oceans. They tolerated my angsty tirades about the unfairness of it all. They commiserated over boys’ stupidity and ambiguity. They helped me move on. They said I looked dinged-up, that I needed a break. They told me I had to learn to say “No.” They pushed a glass of scotch into my shaking hands and gave me a place to spend the night. They hooted along at a concert. They told me to get over it. They said I was doing good things. They made me feel less alone. They pulled me out of my comfort zone. They tried. They let me go.

More than anything, though, they’re still here. Waiting patiently for me to subvert my obstinacy and do what I have to do. Because they know by now that I need to learn to slacken the reigns. And I’ll do it soon enough. What the days’ revelations don’t unlock gradually, the fragile economic times wrench open. So I’ll dust myself off, let the burn subside, and embrace uncertainty. Because I know full-well that, even if I should fail miserably, I’ll have my own cheering section rooting me on. They’re integral.

They’re my people. Friends are family. And my family is lovingly extended.

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A Note of Thanks

Saccharine clichés abound this time of year, and nauseate those who’d prefer to wrap themselves in a curmudgeonly cocoon and swill a vodka pom, musing all the while about the ridiculousness of the whole shebang. So maybe I’m projecting a bit. Or would if I actually felt like that this year.

The truth is that I have always had plenty for which I should be thankful, and have always been fortunate enough to have surrounding me a glut of good, kind-hearted people who want nothing more than to share with me this crazy adventure called life. Until my perception of the fluidity of experience finally crystallized in my mind–how life is porous, always absorbing and contorting more with every second’s passing–I hinged on the fact that, every year, I seemed to never change.

But when I cast a retrospective glance over my shoulder at five years of living in North Carolina, peruse my assortment of photographs–from my naïve UNC-CH grad school days to my shovel-bum years, from my Dahling-inspired Sanford porch sittings to Bragging it up paisley-style in a sea of camouflage, from initially awkward immersion in Raleigh life to full-fledged LGBTQ activist–experiences galore smack me across the face, waking me to the reality that I’m constantly changing. That I’m experience incarnate.

A sleep-deprived graduate student reeling from feelings of disenfranchisement became a jaded, disaffected shovel-bum during the height of the recession, who landed a heartier job that requires constantly navigating the irony of working with Big Brother. But somewhere in that welter of work-related nonsense, I realized that my life isn’t about any of it. Being someone who effects change has become the fulcrum around which everything else in my life operates: a friend, a son, a brother, an activist, a voice of reason, an apropos catty commentator, a smile-inducer, a willing listener. Someone of whom I can be proud in a given moment.

So, in this clarifying moment, I’ll cast aside the cynicism and chastise myself for being a brat. And instead thank each and every person who has been there through any part of my life’s journey, whose kindness, presence, or bullheadedness affected me, played even the tiniest role in molding me into this neurotic, dramatic, accessible person who’s comfortable being all of that.

Who’s always here to do or be just the same for you.

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Pride

With just a few weeks until the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots–the pivotal confrontations referenced as the impetuses for the US LGBT rights movement–I’ve noticed a gradual increase in Facebook posts by LGBTQ allies and LGBTQ individuals, the messages of which are infused with support and calls for acceptance. For those posts and those allies, I am grateful.

But one thing that gives me pause, not just with these messages, but in many rally speeches and calls for equality, is the attention given to people who identify as GAY–in all caps. GAY, not LESBIAN, not BISEXUAL, not TRANSGENDER, not QUEER. But GAY.

Debates about rhetoric plague every identity group and community, and the LGBTQ community isn’t immune. “Gay” has seemingly become the semantic blanket-term for all LGBTQ people, even though it most commonly references gay men. To map “GAY” onto these various identity groups adds to the welter of misunderstanding about how LGBTQ individuals identify themselves; only LGBTQ individuals can identify themselves as such, and decide if they want to be a part of a “community”–a term which is simultaneously inclusive and exclusive, a quintessential example of the us:them binary opposition entangled in one word.

And it’s when I start to deconstruct the nitty-gritty, ask myself the hard questions, that I come to realize the great differences within the LGBTQ community: the power dynamics, the alliances, the ambiguity. All too often gay men are given more attention than lesbians, and lesbians and gay men garner much more of the public spotlight than bisexual or transgender individuals. And then there are those who prefer to identify as queer rather than gay, lesbian, transgender, or bisexual.

Perhaps this “GAY” mapping is because it is “easier” for news anchors, reporters, and even members of the LGBTQ community to “get” the relationship between two men or two women than it is to understand a woman who has partners of different sexes, or an individual born male who identifies as female, who is in-transition to becoming the woman she has always felt she has been and is in a relationship with a woman who identifies as a lesbian. Identity isn’t easy; it’s always in flux. But everyone deserves recognition. We’re all people, with the only perceived differences between us being equal parts melanin and social stigma.

So, let’s not forget the “B,” “T,” and “Q.” Because between them and the “L” and “G” is where pride thrives, bound up in the connective threads that unite us, make us a community with committed allies, and not just jumbled letters. However you identify yourself, own it.

And be proud.