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Like I Wasn’t Going To Blog About Last Night

As I stress ate my grilled cheese sandwich and pile of fries, and watched the polling results with Andy and his sister Lindsey, I felt a numbness blanketing my mind.

And it wasn’t my first drink.

Election Fuel

It was the weight of the evening, the suddenness with which the past year seemed to come crashing to the fore of my mind, pushing everything else out of the way and demanding my attention.

But I had plenty of company.

Instead of the usually deafening conversational buzz, our favorite haunt was filled with quiet murmurs between patrons, each of whom sat rapt, their eyes glued to the small television hanging over the bar. But when a key state went blue, cheers erupted and drink orders soared.

The energy only increased at the LGBT Center of Raleigh, and plenty of us began to feel confident that the country was going to continue in the right direction, not be lulled into some comatose state by a pathological, self-aggrandizing liar and his misogynistic henchman.  

But the night was wearing on, and my second drink began tapping my stress-filled mind on its shoulder, asking it why it wasn’t in bed.

Still, the three of us refused to go to bed without knowing which way the swing states swung. So we left, side-stepped an opossum trudging down the sidewalk, and settled in at Lindsey’s.

Before I knew it, Rachel Maddow was silencing a commentator to announce Ohio’s polling results. I was suddenly wide awake. I squeezed Andy’s hand.

And nearly crushed it when Ohio went to Obama.

Cathartic Exhale

That’s when I started to exhale–the first time in months. 

***

There were so many “what ifs” on both sides of the coin regarding the election’s outcome. If he didn’t win, what would we do, where would we go? If he does win, will the next four years see the country move toward a fair, more equal future for us all?

And there, onscreen, I had the first bits of proof—the groundswell of support for LGBT equality in three (maybe four) states; the strong fights against bigoted, state-authored legislation; the election of Tammy Baldwin to the Senate.

My exhausted ADD-wired mind could barely process it all.

But I did know that certain mental lists—“What to pack,” “What to sell,” “Where to move,” “What to do”—were now in a shred queue.

***

Still, with so much going right in the election, there were low points paving the way, and even after the polls closed. With the election sliding in Obama’s favor, others more gracious than I are asking that there be a restoration of respect—specifically, a hand extended back to the Romney/Ryan supporters.

Knowing that a hand most definitely wouldn’t have been extended had the election gone the other way, I couldn’t disagree more.

My position on Romney/Ryan supporters hasn’t changed; those people who voted for two men who wanted to make my life, my family’s life, my friends’ lives, and the United States worse can continue to stay away from me.

Despite the stress, this election forced people to be accountable, to show their true colors—reveal themselves for the closeted homophobes, racists, and bigots they have always been, but have been too cowardly to show without a white man of their ilk leading the charge.

It taught me that more LGBT individuals than I care to imagine must be grappling with internalized homophobia. Because I simply cannot fathom any other reason why any LGBT person would have been content watching their rights, their children’s rights, their basic human dignities torn apart by this would-be Republican juggernaut. And I refuse to think the economy or foreign policy or any other issue can possibly trump your life and livelihood, much less those of the people you love.

I learned that, while I love where I live, I can always return when more sensible folks are at the helm. When there’s no question if the state government I support financially and socially will respect me as an equal. When I don’t have to spend my free time fighting, fighting, fighting instead of living, living, living.

***

If nothing else, this election has opened a lot of eyes.

It’s shaken many people awake.

It’s shown the naysayers that we will not back down.

It’s shown that reason, truth, and respect count for something.  

Bright Future

And if I’m going to count on anything these days, it’s that holy trinity. 

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Quotable Friends

Eyeglasses are my porcupine quills: indicators that you should venture elsewhere—far, far away from me.

And yet, bastards still poke, poke, poke.

Like the coworker invading my self-quarantined office.

“Wow, you eat a lot of yogurt. You eat that entire container in a day?”

I sharpen my gaze on her reddened cankles and slowly work my way up to her bloated face.

“There are worse things to eat.”

Point taken. She leaves.

***

But on the cusp of one of the most divisive elections in recent history, there’re plenty more who just don’t take the hints. Popular bloggers and prolific writers have penned articles of the “De-Friend Me” ilk, targeting Facebook and the “Friends” list we all like to think we regulate.

Still, I’m a curious being. So I pulled up my “Friends” list and searched “Mitt Romney” and “Paul Ryan.” And lo and behold! I found “friends” who’ve “liked” them. And I mean like them like them, not “liking” them to glean the latest drivel from the far right.

And sure, I wasn’t surprised by a few. I mean, c’mon. Like I really thought those people from high school I’ve been meaning to delete—who’ve stayed in the same small town, who’re still beating their bibles with as much conviction as the “good ol’ days”—are about to stand up and do something proactive for the future.

Bubye and good luck, y’all.

Still, there are the stealth supporters–friends you suspect will welcome you into their home, treat you nicely to your face. Then fill in the Romney/Ryan bubble on their voter form, and justify your continued marginalization by citing economic turmoil or foreign policies.

And yes, don’t we all wish LGBT rights weren’t topics to address in a presidential election, to sway someone’s vote? It’d be wonderful if they weren’t issues of concern. But they are.

So when my life is dragged out for public consumption, and my civil rights are contorted into “benefits” that I’m not “qualified” to receive, pardon me for getting a tad defensive.

For a lot of “friends,” it’s fun to have “the gays” in your fold, even if you’re quietly homophobic. Because having friends like them garners you certain attention, makes you feel special. But all you’re doing is appropriating part of someone’s life for personal gain.

You smile when they babysit your kids, buy you a drink, say you look nice, organize your wedding, treat you with respect.

And still you turn your back on them in the voter booth. There, within that tiny space, you align yourself with the same side pushing to disenfranchise the majority of Americans who don’t fall within a particular income bracket; whose skin isn’t the right color; whose first language isn’t English; whose health isn’t perfect; whose lives are just as disposable when they’re deployed as they are upon returning from service; whose bodies are “temples for God and country” and not for personal use and protection.

If you find yourself voting for that kind of national legacy, I hope you’re proud of yourself.

Because I’m not.

And I’m too goddamned tired to entertain “friends” from different “walks of life” if that means having people around me who think I’m not entitled to have the same rights that they enjoy. Who can’t see that “Romney/Ryan” signs translate to “Hates Gays, Loves Misogynists.”

But that’s reality.

And I wonder if dealing with this bullshit is worth it. If Andy and I wouldn’t be better off packing our apartment and moving to a country where we aren’t defined by gender identity and treated as “others.” Someplace where we can just be, and be respected.

It’s my hope that my true friends will have my back during this election. But if you’re planning to vote for Romney/Ryan, don’t expect to have any semblance of a relationship with me, regardless of how long we’ve known one another.

I’m not just talking “de-friending” me on Facebook. 

I mean, don’t speak to me. Don’t wish me well. Just leave.

I’ll understand.

I just wish you could, too.

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My Work Ethic Doesn’t Fall Far from the Apathy Tree. Like I Care.

I’m a hard worker.

I’m detail-oriented.

I like structure.

I enjoy workplace camaraderie that facilitates completing objectives.

I think outside the box, carton, compost bin—whatever.

Usually. My appreciation

But not when I work my ass off for over two years and all I receive is mass-produced, business card-sized appreciation; when I have to deal with a volley of hostile interactions with bigoted coworkers; when my supervisor spends more time avoiding problems than acknowledging them; when aggressive, self-aggrandizing, incompetent coworkers do everything in their power to undermine my professional character; when my Grey Goose consumption increases to numb the pain of another work day and blunt the bitterness of returning tomorrow.

So, I swallow the horse pill of a job with as much grace as I can, and go on.

But then, right as I cajole myself to stay, a coworker sprinkles salt over the open, festering wound.

Every.

Single.

Time.

*** 
 
So I quit. Acquiesce. Walk out without a sound.
 
Celebrate.
 
***
 
But then I wake up.
 
And use a stale croissant to bludgeon the man holding up the Starbucks line. Then step over his crumpled body and sidle up to the counter to order.  

 

That’s when I snap out of my early morning dream. And clench my jaw, and brush the phantom bead of blood off my argyle sweater as the imbecile orders, then backtracks, then re-orders, then adds another muffin to his re-ordered order.

And then there’s a mental void between sipping my coffee and sitting in my office chair, boring holes into the clock until it’s time to leave. All the while wondering why I’m nearly 30, have two degrees, and am considered a “research participant” and not an “employee”; why the entity for which I “participate” doesn’t acknowledge or care about its participants or how they’re treated by their host facility; why I’m not afforded any benefits, and have to pay quarterly taxes; why I’m still barely making ends meet.

Usually, at this vulnerable point, some succubus drains the last bit of wherewithal I possess.  My temper flares. I morph into an uglier version of myself. And become an intolerable, horrible beast swaddled in sarcastic, cynical, macabre verbal vestments.

I stop caring. Bureaucracy wins. And I assume my cog-like position in a grand juggernaut.

I let my passions collect in an isolated, cold compartment within my heart—a scrap heap I accrue through apathy, until it’s easier to let it rust than salvage the leavings.

***
 
But then I return home, to open arms—to my refuge. And everything feels right.
 
Until  morning.
 
When the only thing that propels me forward is a heartfelt “Thank you” whispered in the dark.
 
***
 
I’m a visual person. I craft plans around a visual anchor and radiate out from there—not in spreadsheets or through dendritic diagrams. If I can’t “see” something manifest, I cut line and start over.
 
But for my lost generation, this is rarely an option.
 
Start over with what? With an idealistic notion wrapped in debt, wheeled along with a few “You can do it” cheers?
 
It’s hard to draw.
 
Much less visualize.
 
***
 
But maybe I just need to sharpen my mental pencil.
 
Or invest in better glasses.
 
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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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On Hope

I know, I know. This is the first you’ve read about Michelle Obama’s DNC speech. I’m honored you chose me as your DNC conduit. I mean, I know Rachel Maddow is beyond fierce, but let’s face it, I’ve got this. (Sorry, Rach!)

It goes without saying that I love the Obama family. I’ve never been this enamored with a President, although Clinton is pretty much right up there. Hillary, I mean. (Just kidding, Bill! Alright, not really.)

Whether it was the culminated stress of writing a Master’s thesis while hotel-hopping from shovel-bum project to project in the Virginia mountains, or the fact that the US had a tarted up turd in the White House for one term too many, the night President Obama won the election, I had one of the most cathartic cries of my life.

Enter fortuitous, albeit tragic, plastic motel comforter.

But that night, I had a nightmare he was assassinated. And I woke up crying. But, why? Other than the aforementioned turdy reason, that is.

For such a protracted period of time, the greater world had turned its back on the US. To say a thick veil suffocated liberals’ optimism during the Bush administration would be a gross understatement. A personal vendetta turned into war, while the guilty party escaped into the mountains. It all took a toll. And the heaviest prices were paid in blood. Muddying the political waters with oil prospects and vitriolic, duh-laced commentary pushed me over the edge, and I could barely cajole myself to listen to NPR, much less any other news coverage. But then, on that November night, a candle was lit in that jet-black chasm into which the US had fallen.

Hope was reignited, and younger generations were keen to fan its flames into an inferno.

And while every breeze over the past few years hasn’t been perfumed with roses, we at least have a President who has admitted that, as the First Lady reiterated last night,  “…we are playing a long game here…and that change is hard, and change is slow, and it never happens all at once.” More than that, though, President Obama extends a hand to his constituents–not to pilfer their wallets, but to acknowledge their humanity. To push them to keep pushing onward.

And while some people may think it simplistic, any President who swims against the current—rather than traveling down the mainstream Lazy River—has a confidant in me. That’s not to say I haven’t been frustrated with his slow move on LGBT issues. But I’ve come to realize that sometimes we must first repair a cracked foundation before addressing a leaky faucet. And when we’re tired and floundering, sometimes each of us–including the President–needs a lifesaver to help navigate unfamiliar, tumultuous waters. With the Democratic Party’s platform encompassing LGBT rights, I feel that there’s a place for me in the lifeboat. I might not drown.

Aquatic metaphors aside, this country has come a long way in the past four years. Things haven’t been easy. But at least I know there’s a Commander-in-Chief whom I can respect, under whom the petulant, war-mongering child of a country we’d become transformed into a bona fide, respectable, articulate adult.

And as I re-read the transcript of Michelle Obama’s DNC speech, and got just as choked up the second time around as the first, I felt that same sense of impending goodness that I felt that teary night in 2008. I feel hopeful that the US will continue to travel in the right—not Reich—direction.

And it feels much better than a plastic comforter.

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ANNimosity

Maybe I just had a really slow, boring day at work. Or maybe I’m just fed up with the incompetence that surrounds me. Or perhaps I just despise the GOP and everything they do to subjugate minorities and infringe upon the rights of their fellow Americans. Yeah, it’s the latter. So, in honor of the RNC, I composed a little something for the “show-stopper,” Ann Romney.

Dear Ann:

Today, I want to talk to you about love. It’s a strange, little, bizarre word with slightly saccharine baggage. But it feels so nice to hear, especially when it comes from someone who genuinely cares about you. It’s a shame I’d never consider you to be such a person, even if you threatened to dress me in Gaga’s meat outfit and throw me into a bin of ravenous Chihuahuas.

In your riveting speech last night, you extended your hand to those Americans “going through difficult times,” which I’m fairly certain excludes you. (By the way, how is the Utah ski lodge faring this time of year–so much to worry about with global warming, you know?) But I get it, you’re going for a Nobel Peace Prize–you know, that award thing President Obama received back in 2009–by trying to connect with those Americans (read, the ninety-nine percent).

But maybe you’re just a big kidder. For instance, this excerpt just cracked me up: “…The parents who lie awake at night side by side, wondering how they’ll be able to pay the mortgage or make the rent; the single dad who’s working extra hours tonight, so that his kids can buy some new clothes to go back to school, can take a school trip or play a sport, so his kids can feel…like the other kids.”

I mean, if you were serious, it’d read more along these lines: “The parents who lie awake at night, wondering if one of them will ever be able to have legal rights over their child; the single woman who was raped being told that, yes, she and her rapist ‘conceived’ the child together, and he can potentially sue for parental rights; the two dads wishing their son wasn’t ridiculed at school and could feel…like other kids.” Oh, my bad. Was I projecting? It must be that internalized gay agenda.

Oh, Ann. While I am a man (not a “real married” one, that is), I do know what it’s like to get late-night phone calls from an elderly friend–whom I consider family–and then make the long drive to check on him. My friends and I also know the fastest route to the local emergency room, because we have to worry about the time it’ll take to jump through additional legal hoops in the off-chance that we’ll actually succeed in cajoling a doctor to let us stay with our partners and not be left in an informational dead zone–meaning, the ER lobby. Oh, wait. You can visit and make end-of-life decisions for Mitt? Fascinating.

Now, Ann, I don’t mean to be hard on you. I did think the homage you paid to your family was touching. Especially this part: “When he was 15, Dad came to America. In our country, he saw hope and an opportunity to escape from poverty.” Now, this country was fine and dandy for your father and countless ancestors before him–never mind the Native Americans who got in their way–but let’s keep all of the “others” out, especially those with brown skin or an “accent.” That is, unless they’re here to tend one of your six lawns or raise your children. Then they can have a little more time to trim the hedges or make your sons’ lunches before they get a ride from ICE.

And the parts about you and Mitt eating on an ironing board were priceless. It really showed your love and devotion for one another over the years. Because nothing says devotion like an ironing board: “…When Mitt and I met and fell in love, we were determined not to let anything stand in the way of our life together. I was an Episcopalian. He was a Mormon.” Thank goodness y’all didn’t let your gay neighbors’ loving relationship get in the way of your happiness (they have a way of doing that, or so Rush tells me). And here’s additional thanks that y’all didn’t let religious differences get between you two. I mean, what kind of country would we live in if we let religious extremists control the government, sanctioning only those relationships they deem worthy and punishing everyone else? It’s a slippery slope, Ann. And I’m glad you’re wearing heels.

And I agree with you. You can trust Mitt. As long as you’re a rich, white, bigoted, heterosexual misogynist. And I’m sure he loves America. At least the rich parts.

But Ann, I’m at a loss. Despite your love-infused speech, I have to say you’re wrong. There would be an America without you and your husband.

In fact, it’d be a much better one.

Gay kisses,

Matt

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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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My Apologies, Did My Civil Rights Get In the Way of Your Bigotry?

Frequently, I’m about as subtle as a shotgun, as smooth as sandpaper. But I’m pretty surprised at how many people have defaulted as Romney/Ryan apologists or supporters. Especially women, whose rights are violated whenever R/R open their yaps.

Sure, like a good anthropologist, I quell the urge to respond to what I perceive to be blatant ignorance and misinformation posted on my friends’ Facebook feeds by clueless dolts. But lately, I just can’t stand it. For me, anyone who supports the double douches has either been dropped off my Facebook “friends” list, or can happily escort themselves off; that means any stealth R/R supporters. So many people write or say something along the lines of “You can’t hold one or two things against Romney and Ryan, and act like everything they stand for is bad or detrimental to the economy and the US population.” Really? Just listen to them speak. They’re as slippery as eels (sorry, eels) and clearly don’t give a damn about anyone except the rich–hence their complete disengagement from many problems plaguing the US.

And they sure as hell don’t care about minorities. Label me as a far left, bleeding heart liberal or whatever you want. Silly me for wanting someone who supports me as a US citizen, taxpayer, and human being. While I do profoundly and sincerely respect everyone’s rights to express their beliefs, I cannot in good conscience–staying true to who I am at my core–respect anyone who supports someone whose platform is based upon disrespect, intolerance, disenfranchisement, and prejudice: objectifying fellow people as “others” for personal gain. None of that can or should be inscribed into doctrine for the US population.

So before I step off my soapbox, I’ll reiterate that any supporter of Romney/Ryan is no ally or friend of mine. For me, it’s as simple as that. No grey area. Case closed.

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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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Remembering Stonewall

Like the first time I blasted off a shotgun at dented Coke cans, relatively recent Federal and State legislative reforms have hit and missed their respective marks. Today’s affirmation of the Affordable Care Act’s constitutionality hit the bullseye. As a person whose genetics have gifted me with a circulatory disease and a brief and relatively tame brush with the big “C,” among other things, I smiled widely as I read today’s headline over lunch. But with every step forward, we sometimes stumble back when problematic policy intends to perpetuate unconstitutional practices and undermine minority rights.

Still, we’re growing stronger as we step forward and clear the hurdles in our collective path. Whether it’s the increasingly divisive rhetoric promulgated in advance of the upcoming election, or the simple fact that minorities are tired of being bullied by clueless members of the majority, there’s almost a palpable energy being emanated by more progressive Gen Xers and Yers, baby-boomers, and beyond. While my sister continues to have my back, and has always been my most rabid advocate even before I came out, my baby-boomer parents are attempting to create an LGBTQ-tolerant ministry through their small Catholic Church in Alabama. And even while she’s been hospitalized, my maternal grandmother—my last remaining grandparent—keeps asking me if I’m getting “out there” and questioning why I don’t yet have a boyfriend.

While I understand that my family is an exception—for which I’m immensely fortunate—they illustrate a very clear message: intolerance is no longer the status quo, and the generational argument for bigotry is a cop out. Through education and continuous dialogue, each of us has the ability to change–to activate within others an innate activist mentality. In our own ways, we all want to craft a future where we’re a happier, more contented people. Until I came out, my parents had a very peripheral understanding of LGBTQ individuals and the issues that we face on a daily basis—in the oftentimes circuitous navigation of daily life tasks that many take for granted. And it wasn’t until I became deeply involved with the fight against Amendment One that they realized how targeted specific legislation was in denying minorities basic civil rights.

For many, it’s not until there’s a close tie to, or a familiar face put on, an issue that they suddenly realize that they have an obligation to be a decent human being and speak up. When I relayed a real-life case of a gay man being denied the right to visit his dying partner and subsequently collect his remains, and then threatened with death by his partner’s bigoted family when he attempted to attend his partner’s funeral, my grandmother sighed deeply over the phone, her voice wavering, and said, “Oh, Matthew. You’re bringing me to tears. This is so horrible. But what these people want to do to you and others won’t last. You’ll make it through.” Now, not only does she know the wide-reaching implications of what one piece of North Carolina legislation could do to her grandson’s life, but her Bridge Club does, too.

Because it’s up to us to get involved, and embolden others to do the same. We just have to stand firm and advocate for proactive changes. We have to make the future a place worth living. Every stride that we make today or tomorrow or next week has implications for crafting a more tolerant future for us all. If we learned nothing else from the Stonewall riots 43 years ago today, it’s that we each have to be willing to raise our voice, even if timidity or bigotry seeks to quiet it. We have to let our stories, our lives, and our relationships evidence the longevity of our fight.

Each of us is a catalyst for change. But we first must stand up, speak out, and simply be.