Posted on

Enough. Enough. Enough.

Everyone at work today remarked about how well I looked – how much more rested and less stressed I appeared. I replied with comments about the curative power of Alabama’s micaceous red clay, gave a fake smile or two, and inwardly rolled my eyes.

The past several days have been exhausting in every way imaginable – in many ways for positive reasons, with one notable exception.

The staggering toll of the Orlando hate crime seeps into the fore of my mind every other moment. The faces of the dead slowly begin to emerge; we learn about their lives, loves, passions, dreams – all cut short by the hands of a disgusting waste of human flesh. His selfied face becomes the one plastered across the subconscious of so many television viewers – not those of his victims. And it makes me ill.

So many of my LGBTQ friends are having a hard time with this one, which is a horrible thing to write – “this one,” as if the other tragic mass shootings are any less horrific. But the fact of the matter is this was a hate crime – a deliberate, calculated attack on the lives of LGBTQ people.

It is different for us.

***

A tiny bar tucked away in the far reaches of Tuscaloosa’s downtown, Michael’s was more than a bar; it was a haven for fledgling LGBTs, each like me – unsure, cautious, exhilarated, terrified. But despite those initial feelings of unease, I felt safe when I passed through the doors; these were my people.

It was one of the first places I felt comfortable in my own skin, and the first place I got groped by a crush and felt alive in a way I’d never felt before. I laughed and screeched along to horrible karaoke and stuffed dollar bills into a drag show performer’s nylons for charity; I started to transform into someone I felt could actually make a life and be happy.

And then my friends and I stepped back outside, into the cool of the deeply late evening.

“FAGS!”

“COCKSUCKERS!”

“ASS-LICKERS!”

A bottle shattered in the gutter.

My mind stopped working; my self-esteem plummeted, and I reverted to my antisocial cocoon – all while humming to myself, “Get back to the car. Just get back to the car.”

The small group of fraternity brothers hovered on the side of the street opposite the bar door; they raised their fists, spat, gave us the finger, and made sudden, aggressive moves toward us.

Just get back to the car, back to the goddamned car…

I was sobering up fast. But then, the unexpected happened.

“OKAY! YOU WANNA ROLL, MOTHERFUCKERS? C’MON, I’LL DRIVE MY FIST SO FAR UP YOUR ASSES…”

Our self-described matriarch began crowing back, which is when I realized a few things.

 We’re not punching bags.

We can fight back.

We’re in much better shape than them.

We can be scary too.

We’re family.

We took up a cacophonous chorus, each of us stitching together our entire repertoire of obscenities, and watched the band of misfits melt back into their beer-soaked truck, disappearing entirely.

For the first time, I felt I had a voice.

I felt alive.

I felt I could make a difference.

I felt right.

***

A decade later, I know there will always be broken glass to dodge. But I do know something for certain: I am right.

And so were all the victims.

Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34

Stanley Almodovar III, 23

Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22

Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36

Luis S. Vielma, 22

Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22

Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20

Kimberly Morris, 37

Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30

Darryl Roman Burt II, 29

Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32

Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25

Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35

Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50

Amanda Alvear, 25
Martin Benitez Torres, 33

Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37

Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26

Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35

Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25

Oscar A Aracena-Montero, 26

Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31

Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25

Miguel Angel Honorato, 30

Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40

Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19

Cory James Connell, 21

Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37

Luis Daniel Conde, 39

Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24

Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32

Frank Hernandez, 27

Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33

Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49

Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28

Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25

Akyra Monet Murray, 18

Paul Terrell Henry, 41

Antonio Davon Brown, 29

Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24

Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21

Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33

Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25

Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24

Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32

Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25

Jerald Arthur Wright, 31

Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25

Jean C. Nieves Rodriguez, 27

May they rest in power, their memories kept alive in the fight for justice, compassion, and understanding.

For our humanity.

Posted on

Pulse

I don’t realize how hard I’m clenching the waded paper towel until I turn from the television to look out the window and lose my balance, my hold loosening as I re-center.

My parents’ dogs have just been bathed, and are rolling around in the sun-bleached grass. I try and lose myself in their simple revelry, but know I can’t. My mind is swirling with the news anchors’ voices, the phrases “domestic terrorism,” “deadliest mass shooting in nation’s history,” “lone wolf,” and, occasionally, “LGBT community.”

I can’t breathe, and start sweating; my chest tightens and face burns. I grab my camera and walk out, up the gravel drive past the dogs – the youngest’s plaintive cries to tag along drifting away as I quicken pace.

Every step on the gravel sounds like a series of crashing cymbals; everything is amplified. I snap a photo of newly bloomed flowers, and try to map on a heartening metaphor, but fall short. A turkey feather catches my eye, and I dissect it through the lens; it’s nothing special, and completely uninteresting – but I have to focus on something, anything other than the rapid-fire thoughts pounding inside my skull.

I wonder how frequently the lives of those lost will be glossed over, their identities stripped and tamed and drained of color to be palatable enough for mass media consumption; how frequently “hate crime” will be disjointed from the narrative of this horrible attack; that “domestic terrorist” will become the coward’s moniker, divorced wholly from his anti-LGBTQ bias and motivation; that the fuel to his sickening fire was never spurred by our own politicians’ hate speech and rhetoric, but rather from “over there,” from “The Enemy,” “Them.”

I worry about our future, and mourn those whose futures were ripped from them – taken in an instant that should’ve been filled with joy and laughter, part of a series of rhythmic vibrations to club music, to living. Each of them should’ve been leaving exhausted and hung-over and sore from dancing, not having their lives become part of a protracted national narrative about hate and guns.

But then I watch the lines to blood banks grow longer, and hear calls to action ring out from more than LGBTQ groups. Where ignorance inspires hateful action, hope springs like seedlings from the earth, ready to grow. We must be constant gardeners.

***

A few feet away, our childhood seesaw hangs broken and rotted, a testament to the passage of time. Behind me, the wind gusts forcefully, nearly blowing me from the molding deer stand’s ladder-like steps.

But instead of bracing against it, I turn and face it. Eyes brimming with tears, I look to the horizon, to the infinite space before me, and murmur, “Keep dancing. Keep living. That’s how we’ll prevail.”

Posted on

Dear Slighted Millennials

Dear Slighted Millennials,

Hi. I guess I could be considered one of you.

*Fist bump*

I couldn’t help but notice yet another one of your adjective-laden op-eds flooding my Facebook feed – although I guess it’s better than one of those BuzzFeed articles about the Top [insert numeric] Ways to [Enrich, Worsen, Waste…] Your Life. I applaud your political activism and how you thread it through your appropriately angsty social commentary – especially the parts about thanking your forebearers for the sociopolitical inroads they paved to your slightly less stressful life’s doorstep, right before you kindly tell them to fuck the fuck off.

I understand your rage at everything. For most of my twenties, I lived out of several motels whilst working my way through the Great Recession as a shovel bum, returning home to my mold-covered basement apartment long enough to tabulate another tragically paltry paycheck, pay for the rest of my Master’s degree, and buy canned soup. I did all that and then completely changed careers because there was nothing I wanted to do less than what I was doing, even if I had a Master’s in it.

The world often seems to be in shambles. And it doesn’t help that the lunchbox you carried around in 1987 is suddenly in a vintage shop window and you’re left alone bracing against the cold wind, staring into a puddle, wondering where your life went.

So when a presidential candidate full of amazing ideas and outlooks and ideologies starts inching into the limelight, espousing all of these life-changing notions that’ll transform America’s tattered, sweat-stained polyester-blend fabric into locally-sourced, free-range cotton as soft as a hamster’s belly, your awe is well placed.

*High five*

But I have to wonder how this politician is any different from the rest. I mean, sure, he’s supposedly the antithesis of everything we associate with a run-of-the-mill politician: a certain slimy, easily corruptible, fickle so-and-so. Who knows, maybe he’s none of those things. Or all of them deep down. All I know is that he seems like a nice enough guy trying to change America for the better. And I agree with 98.9% of what he’s all about. I, too, think our country needs a political face-lift.

*In sync booty shake*

Source: https://www.google.com/search?q=NSYNC+meme&espv=2&biw=1600&bih=755&site=webhp&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi1soa8j-zKAhUT8WMKHV9uDDMQ_AUIBigB#imgrc=rDiX6bp-BDWEmM%3A
Source

IN SYNC. Not NSYNC. Jesus. Fucking Millennials.

Where was I?

OH, right.

All that to say I’m bunkin’ with The Hillz. For now.

Source: http://politicalhumor.about.com/library/bl-hillary-clinton-memes.htm?PS=329%3A3
Source

(Oh, c’mon, you #feelthebern. I can come up with something equally as bizarre, sans sounding like I have indigestion or a problem down there.)

I could start defending myself to everyone on the street, each individual user of The Internets, spout off statistics about the feasibility of his plan on this or hers on that to the old high school friend I scrounged up on Facebook even though I’m sure they’re a racist, misogynistic, homophobic asshole. Because that seems to be what we’re supposed to do these days – bait and bite hard, unfriend, friend again, vow to leave the country and unfriend everyone.

I’d rather just laugh, really. And suggest that instead of all this silly infighting, we agree on one thing: Whether you #feelthebern or believe #thehillzhaveayes, let’s all circle up on November 8th, sing Kumbaya, and vow to never vote for a Republican. They cray, y’all.

Kisses,

A Disaffected, Slightly Amused Gen Yer/Millennial/Whatever I Am

Posted on

White Privilege: The Lion in the Room

I’m a few hours away from another phone interview. The hurdles we clear in the course of starting a new career are stressful and tiring, and we often just long for them to be behind us, with an offer waiting in our inbox.

But for me, there’s something more wrapped up in this particular interview.

When I made the decision to leave my papered academic past for nonprofit work, I knew it wasn’t going to be glamorous, the path wouldn’t be littered with hundred dollar bills. The adage “underpaid and overworked” became my mantra, whether or not I embraced and adopted it. And it was okay, because I felt like what I was doing was worth the exhaustion that nips at most nonprofit professionals’ heels.

Part and parcel to most nonprofit work is educating the public. Whether your organization increases awareness about racial inequality, STI transmission, human trafficking, environmental conservation, planned parenting, LGBTQIA advocacy, or animal welfare, the crux is always education. Because a more informed public is more likely to speak out, stand up, and effect meaningful change.

As a kid, I didn’t always grasp the importance of why I had to do certain things, and why my parents pushed me and my sister to branch out – always reinforcing how crucial it was to be able to relate to people from different backgrounds and respect differences. During those teachable moments, I – like most my age – would roll my eyes and complain about spending yet another valuable weekend of my youth planting trees, cleaning up roadside garbage, caring for injured wildlife, or taking food to people in need.

I’d often think Where’s my freedom? Why do we have to do this? Nintendo and Bonanza marathons were much more appealing.

Little did I know, I was learning exactly what it meant to be free – and, not until I was much older, the problematic, insulating effects of white privilege.

***

Growing up in the Deep South, racial lines were socially mapped and cultivated in our consciousness through school and print media – and unabashedly writ into the landscape of our small Alabama town. In ninth grade, we weren’t taught World History, but rather Alabama History. We came to recognize “the other side of the tracks” or a “rough area” was synonymous with a predominantly black neighborhood or an area of violence. In daily dialogue, describing people without a racial preface was unheard of – there was no “There was this guy” or “That lady at the grocery”; often whispered, black became the most important identifier in a descriptive parable relayed from the day’s happenings. Without fail, that hushed tone conveyed something else – something sinister pulsing through that word and, by association, the person to whom it was applied. Everyone was guilty of such profiling – even if we didn’t realize the implications of what we were doing, we became complicit in widening that divide, contributing to tacit racial tension. But this proclivity wasn’t reserved for towns in the South. Whenever Andy and I talk about growing up, we always touch on how racism was just as prevalent farther north – just cloaked in different veils. We both grew up very differently, but we shared a privilege we couldn’t exactly articulate until now, in retrospect.

Even still, we also shared a nagging feeling that we were somehow different. In high school, I had an odd fixation with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner – the weight of the albatross a fitting analogy for the emotional baggage that’d been weighing me down, something that I was terrified was as obvious as a dead bird strung around my neck. But it wasn’t. And I could pass. Again, not until I was much older, I realized the color of my skin diluted my difference – made it more socially acceptable.

Not until I became more outspoken, and had the privilege of a collegiate education, did I start to comprehend the enormity of the problems humanity faces. We parse and segment as a means to better understand, but in so doing, we lose the connective thread that connects them all: education. And by education, I don’t mean post-secondary. I mean hands-on, face-to-face, person-to-person interaction; getting in the dirt together and finding common ground in meaningful, proactive ways. But many of us must first acknowledge our white privilege – that we have the luxury to obsess over the death of a Zimbabwe lion, while our black friends are under threat every single time they leave their home. Until we understand why black bodies are grossly policed, are subjected to structural violence, and take action to change it, we can’t really move forward to tackle everything that we face.

***

I’m inching closer to my interview, and I’m remembering why I was drawn to this particular organization: its emphasis on early, comprehensive education for every child, every family. And I can’t help but think about what I learned as a kid, and how much I want to teach my child so many of the same things – chief among them, respect.

I hope I’ll be open about difference, and be able to answer hard questions. I hope I’ll be able to appropriately frame how inequality hurts everyone, and how important it is to speak out and stand up for your friends, known and unknown – to speak and to act.

Because if we don’t first take care of our species – prioritize humanity – there’s no hope for those others with whom we share this planet.

Posted on

The Social Construct Wars

Between the news from Baltimore and the Supreme Court, social media consumers are undoubtedly gorged with tragedy, violence, and anxiety. All in all, it’s a horribly normal state of being.

We want answers. We want resolution. We want peace and security.

But above all, we want a quick sound bite that we can use to wave away all of these issues – freeing their cobweb-like hold on our minds and congratulating ourselves that we’ve donated $10 to Nepal relief – so we can go about our day as if nothing has happened. Again, it’s all sadly status quo.

And I’m just as guilty of it as anyone. But today something just snapped. I’m tired of reading all of the erroneously overwrought statements about how “certain people” should act. You know, black people.

Sorry, I should’ve whispered “black” or, at the very least, put it in smaller font. Because that’s how we talk about others, in hushed tones, looking over our shoulder for added emphasis. Just like with “gay” people, or “brown” people or, you know, “the handicapped.” Like the people “over there.”

It’s all about distance, even if what’s happening – who it’s happening to – is writing itself into history right outside your door. Because as long as there’s a mental gulf in place, you don’t really have to think about it.

***

A few weeks ago, on a longer than usual trek up the 405, my stop-and-go journey came to an abrupt stop on La Cienega, just before the Beverly Center.

Goddamn traffic. It’s Friday. I just want to go home.

I leered at the base of the hills, the apartment complexes taunting me like desert mirages. But horrible traffic is par for the course. So I prepared to wait.

And as I turned up a random song from Brand New, I noticed a crowd gathering on one of the intersection’s corners.

Something’s happen…

I didn’t even finish my thought before a tall woman with a long, curly wig cut across the crosswalk and fell prostrate in the middle of the intersection. Then the chants started, and protesters began moving into the street waving handmade posters. I cringed.

Of course this has to fucking happen right now. 

And then I heard it.

“TRANS LIVES MATTER! TRANS LIVES MATTER!”

It was like someone threw a bucket of cold water over my brain. I was immediately incensed by my former thoughts. Of course this matters.

But pretty much everyone around me, save a few taking photos, leaned on their horns and yelled unintelligible gibberish out of their partially cracked windows. I inched up as car after car made a U-turn, adding to the vehicular welter around us. Just a few car lengths from the intersection, I kept my gaze fixed on the woman in the street – she’d draped herself across the intersection like a speed bump; she wasn’t moving anytime soon.

Just then, my phone rang. Andy’s voice came through the car speakers before I realized I’d hit “Answer.”

“Hey, what the fuck is going on? I’m stuck on La Cienega.”

“I must be just ahead of you. It’s a protest – a Trans Lives Matter crowd. We’re not getting through.”

“Goddammit! Why do they have to do this today?”

He quieted, and then, like me, realized what he’d said. “I mean, it’s just inconvenient. They have to know that being this close to WeHo, they’ve got plenty of support.”

We decided to turn around about the time the helicopters started circling, and the fire engines pulled up. But even over the sirens, I could faintly make out the chanting.

***

Weeks later, Andy was trying to counteract a case of insomnia at 3:00 AM, but nothing settled him.

“I’m going on a walk.”

I grumbled something unintelligible about not doing it because it was so early. But I heard the lock click over before I finished, and dozed back off. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.

“I JUST GOT DETAINED BY THE POLICE!”

I bolted upright. Toby snorted awake beside me.

“Wait, WHAT? Where are you?!”

“I’m on my way home. They thought I was a robber or something and put be in the back of their patrol car and asked me all of these questions.”

Now I was completely awake.

“WHY IN THE HELL WOULD THEY THINK THAT?”

“I’ll tell you when I get back. Apparently, there was a break-in somewhere around here.”

“Did you at least have your license?”

He paused.

“No.”

I facepalmed in the dark. This is something that Andy and I always sparred about – always taking some form of ID with us, even when we’re going out front with Toby.

“Just get home safely.”

A few minutes later, Andy came in and relayed the whole story – clearly shaken, and more awake than ever. Long story short, there was a robbery and apparently someone saw Andy walking around the block in his hoodie, and misidentified him as the suspect.

“Are you fucking KIDDING ME?”

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, “Thank the gods you’re the epitome of a WASP.”

It was horribly true. In that moment, all I could replay was the scenario going wrong, not being able to be in touch with Andy, not knowing where or how he was. And all I kept thinking about was how things would’ve been different if Andy were a racial minority. Had he been black, would the police have suspected him more? Would he have even been able to call me? Would he have been hurt?

This isn’t an illogical jump. West Hollywood is about as racially diverse as Orange County. Had Andy been black or Latino or Indian, he most likely would’ve been detained much longer than he was, and possibly arrested. As much as we’d like to think our police officers are above racial profiling, they’re biased people just like you and me.

But through that uniform, those biases can morph into disturbing behavioral practices if left unchecked.

Now, I’m not saying every law enforcement official is a racist, classist, homophobe, or any of the other horrible things people can be. What I’m saying is that officers are people, and everyone needs to be educated and re-educated on a routine basis. I’m just saying that everyone in a position of power may would benefit from an Anthropology 101 primer. Because by page 10, the differences we use on a daily basis to pigeon-hole and judge people are brought into sharp relief for what they really are: social constructs perpetuated by us, oftentimes through state-sanctioned violence.

Gender? Race? Labels for constructs we’ve developed to try and isolate and explain difference and constrain people.

And while we keep perpetuating these constructed differences, we neglect to see or address the root cause of social upheaval – social fissions and fractures that signal that something in this crazy-ass social structure we’ve developed just isn’t working. Instead, we throw a hashtag on it and dust off our hands.

#blacklivesmatter

#translivesmatter

#alllivesmatter

#lovemustwin

We reduce the work that needs to be done to a few characters on our smartphones. And then we disengage completely.

But you know who can’t disengage? People fighting for their lives – black, white, brown, trans, gay, straight, queer, differently-abled. People who take to the streets because their brains can’t handle another damn hashtag; they crave resolution and demand immediate answers from those in power. And their emotions bubble over. I can’t fault people who’ve had enough – who march and demonstrate and do what they must to be heard. Many of us have been there.

Ides of Love

What I can’t stand is the person who piggybacks on tragedy to satisfy their own endgame, to line their pockets, to cast someone’s livelihood asunder, to divert attention away from the real problem.

We’re fallible beings. We make mistakes. But sometimes those mistakes coalesce into a flashpoint for change. Had the Stonewall Riots and so many protests and marches and non-peaceful demonstrations not happened, would the SCOTUS be hearing Obergefell v. Hodges today? Probably not. So who can say that the protests and volatile confrontations in Baltimore aren’t going to translate into something positive?

It’s certainly (unfortunately) true that violence often begets violence. Or at least that’s what we’ve conditioned ourselves into thinking. But what we often let our minds gloss over is that the same unbridled anger that’s been channeled through violence has also helped propel us forward – through the breaking glass, bloodied fists, and smoking wreckage to today.

And tomorrow.

Posted on

Duck, Duck, Cooked Goose

On the East coast, it’s just about time for the second wave of Duck Dynasty posts to start filtering across the Facebooksphere.

Everyone and their momma ‘n them will be talking about how it’s either (1) a tragedy that poor what’s-his-name-bubba done got his rights taken away, or (2) the worst affront to humanity since the perm.

And then there’s a percentage of the public — me included — who’s all like, “What’s a Ducky Dynasty?”  Still, when I hear that some yahoo is spouting off about how I’m going to some little fiery afterlife place because I like dick, it gets me a little riled up — the same way Toby gets when he has a chew toy and can’t figure out where in the hell to bury it in a city apartment.

Duck who? I just want to find a place to bury this thing.

Now, though, I’m at the point where I’m wondering why America is all up in arms over what some bumbling bonobo is yammering on about.

Never mind that we have some slight economic ripples upsetting our national pond.

And don’t pay attention to the crazy-intense weather we’re experiencing on a global scale.

War, disease, famine?  They can all just take a backseat to this high-profile story.

Here’s the thing.  I’m so goddamn tired of the news zeroing in on the most inane bullshit that hits the fan.  The only thing that’ll make headlines is what a Kardashian said about the latest fall trend, or how she lost that baby weight after her fourth fling-husband-daddy figure-person left her and her bratty children.

Why not report on the good things that’re happening?

Why can’t great news be as sensationalized as the cray-cray nonsense of today?

I just don’t understand why I should be equally dismayed by The Huffington Post and CNN and NBC, nor why they seem to be getting just as absurd as Faux News.

Give me some Rachel Maddow or Jon Stewart or Parks and Recreation any old day to all of that Jabberjaw drivel.

Rather than bringing in pundits to dissect some ridiculous, laughably sad commentary by a guy whose beard is probably the final resting place of Jimmy Hoffa, I have the crazy notion that news personalities should take a step back and determine how we got to this point.

Why is television flooded with idiotic people?  Why are we content to have Americans tethered to their sofas, letting this crap soften their minds like a veal steak?

Why not start fresh — have shows with people who actually have some education behind them; who have more to say than incoherent grunts and fart jokes; who stand a chance of reaching some kid out there who’s surfing channels, hoping for a life preserver to keep them afloat in this dark, dank, ducky soup.

Regardless of how it all pans out, I know one thing.  I’ll keep myself as far away from cable as possible.

That is, until I can differentiate that smelly box from where a cat shits.

Posted on

Talk To Me

There comes a time when each and every one of us realizes that we’re good at something.

Kicking a ball.

Shopping the clearance rack.

Giving head.

But oftentimes we lose sight of said abilities — let them smolder on the proverbial back-burner until our internal smoke alarm goes off, reminding us that there’s more out there than what’s right in front of us.

Or our government shuts down, leaving us — and the world — to wonder what in the fuck is wrong with our country.

***

I’m zhoozhing my sleeves and adjusting my orange cardigan — my fashion-inspired homage to the beginning of October — as Rachel Maddow details how the Republicans are driving the country off a cliff.

And not in the tragically poetic Thelma & Louise kind of way. There’s no clasping of hands; no longing looks. Just fiery carnage.

I think of my friends and family who work for the government and wonder what exactly they’re doing.

How long this will last.

And what the end result will be.

***

But amid all of this nonsense, the days have to go on; we have to keep forging ahead. And somewhere in the chaos we more fully recognize the little blips of happiness for what they are, because it’s often not until we’re hitting something — a wall, a low — that we understand how flexible and pliable our flesh, our minds really are.

Each of us has Gumbyesque abilities — we adapt, we tweak things; we make something palatable out of scraps, mix in ambition, and mend our fractured selves into a different, yet more complete whole.

I know that the ripples of this national embarrassment will reach into each of our lives and pull and pinch and stretch us professionally. And try as we might to deny it, we know it’ll also hit home.

Which is why it’s important to remember the things we’re good at. Our fallback plans — our Hail Mary passes.

I know what you’re thinking.

Did Matt just make a sports analogy? 

***

Now, I’ll be the first to admit how hard it is to bounce back from the lows.

I mean, look at me. I’ve been in a writing rut lately. I’m exhausted. I feel uninspired. I’m trying to figure out how to be better at my job. We’re about to move again. It’s all nuts and scary and tiring.

But every now and then — when my woe-is-me violin quiets enough — I recall past rough patches. The whole unknown of it all.

And remember the tenuous, yet joyful ambiguity it brings with it. There’s so much promise in that murky pool of emotional goo.

Fewer people look at you like you’re a nut if you talk about starting over.

Shades of your past creative selves start turning on their Dickens charm, leaving the dusty chains at home.

And you start remembering those things on the back-burner.

You acknowledge that, while you may not be good at everything, you’re good at more than a few things.

Hell, as I’m re-building my professional life from the crumbly ruins of neglected degrees past, I’m realizing this whole professional 180 degree business is hard. I’m making a lot of mistakes. Running to the bathroom every now and then to catch my breath. (And not because someone in my office ate bad chile con carne.)

The uncertainty — the challenge — is scaring the shit out of me. But in all of the mental chatter — the What in the hell are you doing? Did you really think that would work? — I glean a few shimmering bits, like pearls in an oil-slicked sea.

I embrace the positive. And I own it.

I balance the scales — tell myself that, sure, I may still be learning about XYZ; but I sure as hell can talk to people. Now, that’s not necessarily a ringing endorsement. But it’s something.

Especially when I realize that that southern-inspired quality, which I never really paid much mind to, is quite a boon when you have to talk to a lot of people every single day — or suddenly give a speech to a crowd full of strangers.

So, there you have it — at least I don’t have to worry about being the office weirdo who just breathes heavily and sweats when you talk to them.

***

Sure, each of us may be feeling a bit tipsy-turdy — that all this government cray cray is making us want to drink, upsetting our stomachs. But also remember this: While you or I may not necessarily be able to hit a home run every single day — be that Renaissance Person everyone looks up to — we bring more than one thing to our respective tables. (And apparently more than one sports analogy.)

Even if it’s not fully set, or has a little dry rot.

Because all we can do is bring appetites for better, nourishing days.

And sturdier legs to lean on.

Posted on

When All Else Fails, Blame the Victim

Has anyone else noticed lately how those committing, advocating for, or orchestrating violence against minorities are rewarded?

The past few months have been especially mind-boggling, mostly because state governments seem to be forcing their citizenry into bizarrely sadistic square dances, all the while spinning some hidden roulette wheel and waiting to see where the ball lands–and which of the dancers become the next target.

Swing your partner round and round,

Throw the minority to the ground

Just hope they don’t make a sound,

As the bullet chamber voids another round.

Eyes, ears, and hearts have been glued to Florida as so many awaited the verdict. I’d hoped that the jury would see through the scare tactics, would realize the defense was doing nothing but attempting to paint Trayvon in a less than flattering light–as if occasional profanity, hooded or loose clothing, or photos on social media warranted the brutal, excessive, disgusting act of injustice that stole his last breath.

How can people be so gullible? How can the jurors look themselves in the mirror knowing they gifted a known violent man–someone with a history of violence toward authorities and family members–with freedom?

And how can anyone celebrate the verdict?

A boy is dead. His death is what Zimmerman apologists and revelers are celebrating: not Zimmerman; not the verdict. They celebrate violence: violence against minorities; violence they now know they can get away with if they hold their guns close enough, align themselves with fat cats, and argue that they are the victims–not the dead.

Because, in their eyes, cases like Trayvon’s prove the dead elicited the violence.

They deserved it.

Just like a black man deserves to be highly surveilled.

Just like a woman deserves to carry the child of her rapist.

Just like a trans man deserves to be accosted at his job.

Bigots and fear-mongers know that the spotlight on Trayvon’s case will dim soon enough–that a white celebrity will die, or a rich white kid will go missing, and all attention will be turned away.

Which will be enough time for them to play neighborhood sentry: taunt the gay boy next door, nag the black neighbor, intimidate the Planned Parenthood employee who just moved in across the street–all the while keeping a hand behind their back, a finger on the trigger.

Hoping for a response. For resistance.

Posted on

Excuse Me, Ma’am. Could I Please Have Your Uterus Back?

About five minutes into watching the North Carolina General Assembly banter about House Bill 695, my stomach knots up.

As has become routine with women’s rights issues, old white men are debating over the same anatomical parts from whence their devoutly Christian, heteronormative family sprung. But in multiple ironic turns, they completely disrespect the women that have given them, and their lovely offspring, life and make misogynistic allusions to “our women” as chattel. And all to honor His name and the preservation of “real life”–that sweet imbalance of power grafted from the 1950’s and stitched into the lives of twenty-first century women.

Why has it become so necessary to toxify women’s health debates with illogical, fallacious assertions and statistics from conservative think tanks–the ultimate political oxymorons–and thus endanger them through unnecessarily heightened restrictions on life-sustaining care, all in the name of theocratic ideals that allegedly value life as a gift from God?

Do these egocentric, bumbling buffoons not return home every single day and forget how critically important the women in their lives are to them–how their spouse, mother, grandmother, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, or friend has had their back, supported them, or taken one for the team to cover their stupid, ball-bearing self?

I, for one, have a litany of reasons why I owe the women in my life so incredibly much, and would never be so presumptuous as to think that I–a man!–possess some innate, superior knowledge to decide how and when and why my mother, sister, grandmother, aunts, cousins, or friends can seek medical treatment.

Methinks these politicians haven’t perused their family albums lately.

But I’ll never forget the hospital photos of me all blood-covered and cradled in my mother’s arms.

Mom, I've got your back!

Nor do I forget how my sister has always had my back.

My big sis has always been there for me!

How my grandmother was my right-hand gal during the tumultuous high school years and never once questioned why I preferred hanging out with her instead of other boys my age.

Mom Mau never judged.

How my gal pals have lifted me up over the years, and have talked me off the proverbial ledge on more than one occasion.

So, as culturally-insensitive remarks fly and conservatives wield religious beliefs like scalpels–excising another slew of women’s rights from established policies–I can only remind myself of why we left and how absurdly tragic North Carolina’s fall from grace has been under the current administration.

And how terribly self-loathing these men must be to disenfranchise the very people who will always be the reasons why we’re all here today.

Posted on

The Celebrity Factor

Soon after we stepped off the escalator with Janice Dickinson and her badly tattooed boy toy, she said something about a skank and laughed and walked her twiggy self away.

“Did she just call us skanks?”

“I dunno. Doubtful, but maybe she was annoyed because she thought I was trying to take her photo with my camera when I was checking the time.”

Janice’s commentary probably had absolutely nothing to do with us, but it got me thinking more about celebrities and why I’d even give a damn if she called me a skank. I mean, the only thing I know about her is that she’s never said no to a plastic surgeon. And that a manatee could swim through the unnatural space between her thighs.

When it comes down to it, celebrities are just like the cashier at the gas station, or the mechanic down the street, or you, or me–just with a lot more money and maybe a television show and a few dozen houses. Sure, that sounds sort of amazing, and I’d probably be alright with that for a day. But then the bills would come in for that Switzerland chalet I forgot about, and I’d be all like, “Well, how am I supposed to buy my third goddamned Maserati with built-in Zen garden?!”

I guess I’ve never understood the appeal of having my life on display for everyone to consume–to have random strangers pontificate about my love handles or that terribly tacky outfit I wore that one time. After all, that’s what Facebook’s for, right?

That’s not to say I haven’t flipped out after meeting an author whose work I love, or bumping into a celebrity. Usually, though, the reason why I’m excited to see them is because I’m drawn to them more by what they stand for outside of their celebrity persona than anything else.

But every now and then, I get drawn into the spectacular, buzzing fray. Like with the whole Paula Deen debacle.

The only thing I find sad about the whole damn thing is that Paula seems to be one of the only women on any cooking show who actually eats her own food. Still, I don’t have time for racists, or people perceived to be racists. (Because, really, if someone’s alleging you’re a racist, and there’re plenty of sound bites and statements to support it, it’s pretty likely you are.) And I have one thing to say to the gays coming to her side: She probably doesn’t like you anymore than any other minority, and she and Bubba would probably be glad to throw you and “them” into the kitchen; have all “y’all” enter through the back restaurant entrance; and get you cute little “N’s and F’s” all dressed up and tapping around some bigot’s wedding.

So, to anyone–especially a minority–coming to a bigot’s defense, all I can say is bless your misguided heart.

One thing about Paula’s swift and justly deserved fall from grace that I find so fascinating is that most of the public only started paying attention to it when Paula’s sponsors started pulling the plugs. And suddenly she’s on talk shows trying to recoup money and garner support. Are we really so enthralled with what Sears has to say that we can’t form our own opinions? That we have to rely on someone else to call bullshit first? And I don’t just mean about celebrities.

Hopefully as this country moves forward, there will be much greater accountability and transparency, and more people will feel the need to know where their shirt was made; what that sandwich funds; who authored that cookbook your stuffing recipe comes from.

With hope, we’ll see an upsurge in putting the right people up on pedestals instead of bigots who’ve slid by on their buttered cheeks for far too long.