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And All That [Gay] Jazz

Something happened to me between the self-revelatory statements “I’m gay” and “WHY DON’T I HAVE A BOYFRIEND?!”

And not just jar after jar of Nutella. (But who’s counting?!)

Valentine's Day 2012

It was more of a self-realization about the dating scene. A realization that a lot of people are having in this iPhone-driven, text-heavy age.

Let me preface this by writing that a few of these problems aren’t necessarily LGBT-centric. But since I’m a flaming mo, my perspective’s a bit skewed.

***

From best friends and family members, to colleagues and angsty passersby, I’ve developed more than a peripheral knowledge of the most effective dating [avoidance] strategies.

Avoidance strategies, you ask?

Well, yes.

Because (1) It’s damn difficult to click with people in person. Like the time I tried to flirt with this one guy, pivot on a dime, and walk away confidently. Instead, I stuttered a goodbye and whipped around so quickly that I slipped, overcompensated, and knocked over a lube display. Classy lady.

And (2) It just gets exhausting writing profile after profile after profile on the most cutting-edge, most widely used dating sites “Proven to get you a date is less than a month!” or “At least get you laid.” Because then you turn into that person whose profile reads, “I HATE EVERYONE. THERE ARE NO REAL PEOPLE LEFT!” with an accompanying profile picture of a pixilated torso.

***

It just became easier to throw my hands up after a few bombed dates, blame it on the economy draining the last of an increasingly shallow dating pool, and sidle up to my computer for a Golden Girls marathon.

Alright, so I hadn’t quite spiraled to the point of a Goldie Hawn Death Becomes Her cat mo—mostly because I’m allergic, and can’t stomach that much frosting. But I did break out the hole-ridden jeans and stained hoodie to venture to Harris Teeter for a sweet treat.

Or treats.

At least self-checkout stations make eye contact avoidable.

Most of the time.

***

Maybe I’d just become so far resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going to find someone that I finally did. When I least expected it.

I know, I know. I hate that saccharine “It happens when you least expect it!” bullshit. Because I’d recited that to myself time after time (whenever I took my head out of my chocolate-covered pretzel feedbag).

But I ignored the fact that entertaining that very thought meant that I was still seeking out that ever-elusive complement to myself, even if I told myself I wasn’t.

Then, boom.

Andy happened.

So I figured, “Finally! I’m set. Relationship maintenance can’t be too demanding. The hard stuff is over!”

Oh, naivety.

Now, before I have to sleep in the guest bedroom, I’m not saying the effort involved in maintaining a relationship is bang-my-head-against-the-wall bad. Quite the contrary–it’s made me more mature, more patient, and (hopefully) more empathetic.

Still, there’ve been unexpected issues that’ve challenged us. Issues that I think other LGBTs encounter and, sometimes, can’t quite reconcile.

***

Andy and I hadn’t been together two months before I got horribly sick and had to go to an urgent care clinic, then to the hospital. I could barely keep both eyes open, and had to deal with filling out mountains of paperwork.

Then I got to a page I’d seen plenty of times before when I was single–one I’d never panicked over or had to think intensely about. It was the “right to medical information” page–where you list out who’s able to receive your medical information or request it, and their relationship to you.

The ink blot started to grow larger as I wondered, hesitating about broaching the topic for fear of freaking out Andy and making him think I was moving too fast.

Did I list him?

Should I tell him that I’m listing him?

What if I don’t list him and they run me to the E.R. and he’s not “privileged” with the information regarding my whereabouts?

Would they acknowledge a gay relationship?

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t danced through my sleep-deprived mind.

But one good side-effect of feeling crappy is that you give less of a damn about dating etiquette than usual. And while potential hospitalization isn’t a desired litmus test to see if you have a keeper by your side, it does the job.

We cleared the hurdle.

Even if the “A” was more of an inkblot than a letter.

***

Albeit thankfully short, that situation made me think about my LGBT friends, and the whole topic of “gay relationship time” versus “straight relationship time.” Sure, the latter are good topics for poking fun, but I think there’s a little something to it.

For a lot of LGBT couples, it’s hard to avoid heavy-hitting topics like healthcare, end-of-life decisions, housing issues, and property rights. In fact, like Andy and I learned, you have to broach them much, much earlier than some straight friends. That’s not to disparage our allies, or presume that heterosexual couples don’t have to engage in such intense dialogue. (The latter is clearly not true.)

By and large, though, most LGBT Americans don’t have the luxury of a temporal cushion to lighten the blow of such charged topics; we can’t assume that we’ll be afforded particular rights just because we have a partner of the opposite sex. So, a few months in, Andy and I were well-versed in familial histories, medical issues, end-of-life decisions, health and life insurance providers, and general contingency plans.

But for every story like ours, plenty of others don’t go so well–and not necessarily because of ill-suited matches. Heavy conversations have a way of exhausting a relationship speedily, smothering the initial flames of exuberance with overwhelming, sudden responsibilities and stressors. Pressures specific to LGBT relationships aren’t often understood by the general public. To everyone else, on the surface, it’s yet another failed LGBT relationship; it’s easier to default to that stance rather than think about the heteronormative, theocratically-legislated context in which LGBT relationships are established. Instead of attempting to change that context, though, ignorant people are more content to buy into the crazed, Santorum-ish perception of the “inherent instability” of LGBT relationships—and use that fallacious argument to continue LGBT-based discrimination.

Traversing bumpy relationship terrain early on does have a bonding effect, too. Even if conversations along the way don’t exactly come easily, and may shave off a few weeks from the honeymoon period. Because very few want “More peas?” followed by “Cremation or burial? Organ donation?”

Still, in the span of a few weeks, Andy and I jumped from hesitant-to-fart to peeing-with-the-door-open. Because with other, more pressing matters at hand, who really cares?

(Other than visitors.)

Olympians, sort of

So, while Andy and I aren’t Olympians, we’ve cleared a number of hurdles.

Not without a few stumbles or scuffs.

But we’re still going strong.

And if we can do it, plenty of y’all can, too.

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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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Reading the Leaves

The leaf landed so stealthily that I didn’t notice it resting on my hand until Meadow and Dave exchanged vows.

Because that’s when I nudged Andy’s hand, smiling as I did.

***

Life chapters before that moment, I was walking with my paternal grandmother, feeling the autumn breeze on our shoulders and watching the leaves glide down from above.

We’d been talking about nothing in particular when a browned leaf grazed my hand on its downward track. And when I shook my hand in response, Mom-Mau took it with her gnarled, arthritic one and squeezed.

I looked down at her, and she smiled up.

“That’s a good sign, a leaf falling on your hand. A good sign of good things to come.”

Her aged brown eyes danced mischievously, focusing not on me but the past–perhaps a younger version of herself experiencing life before it changed.

Before a lithe, smooth-talking Italian named Edward asked her out for a date and stuck her with the bill; before they found themselves dancing across a battered lodge floor; before they tied the knot; before the war; before my father’s birth; before the trials and tribulations life doles out tested their resolve; before they found their faces aging, the laugh lines growing deeper from the corners of their eyes; before their grandchildren were born; before we celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary; before his chest pains increased in regularity; before that day in the hospital when everything changed; before she said her final goodbye.

Then, as quickly as the leaf had floated from my hand to the ground, the spark faded, receding behind Mom-Mau’s deep browns like a wave from shore, bringing her back to the brisk day in which we found ourselves. To a different kind of comfort, a different life.

A few years later, I held her hand again. But for the last time.

***

So, as they exchanged vows, I raised my camera slightly and snapped a blurry photo.

Reading the Leaves

But the most meaningful part wasn’t the photo, or the leaf caught within the lens; it was Andy’s leg resting against mine. Acknowledging how time continues to unfold and reveal so many moments, each of which is but a blip on my life’s radar–an anchor to experience.

And like that moment so many years ago, I had someone by my side whom I loved deeply, whose love I never deserved–for which I never asked.

A type of love that just is.

So I let my eyes dance for a moment, glancing back through the memories, through the experiences that brought me to this moment with him. Knowing life changes without warning.

Tied Together

Knowing, above all else, there is living ahead.

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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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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.

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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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OutRaleigh 2012: All Families Matter, Even In The Rain

The monsoon was in full force as my friends and fellow OutRaleigh coordinators held down a collapsing, wind-torn tent while the vendor scrambled to pack away her wares. While I won’t speak for Rebecca and Kim, I’m fairly certain they’d agree that this was not how we envisioned OutRaleigh 2012 to close.

Minutes before I found the panicky vendor holding down her tent, I was ankle-deep in water after sprinting to stop a road barricade from it’s wind-blown track into busy downtown traffic. Between fragmented thoughts of wondering if my iPhone and camera had been soaked through like my bag and clothes, and realizing how ridiculously long my curls are when wet, I had to laugh at the entire situation.

A year in the making, OutRaleigh 2012 had been planned meticulously. But Mother Nature always has other plans, and we rolled with them with equal parts humor and fortitude. Because as vendors vacated their spaces, and onstage performances came to a halt, we kept going. And so did others. Out of storefronts that I passed in my frenetic sprints to and from soggy vendor spaces, people gathered and welcomed rain-soaked OutRaleigh visitors inside. Kristy Lee, one of our performers, gathered a crowd beneath a downtown business’s porch overhang and belted out her inspirational music. We were all wet, but we were all still there. Taking action, making a stand.

As with any organizational effort in which the LGBTQ community has a significant hand, there were protesting bigots who tried their best to dampen festival-goers’ spirits. Gathered on street corners, they held their religious texts aloft, reciting our collective sins and damning us all to fiery demises. On the KidsZone‘s periphery, a large group coalesced with signs, chanting hatred for young children to hear. But the most personally disturbing scene was witnessing one of the fear-mongers giving their young child an explicit sign to hold. With his tiny hands wrapped around the sign’s base, the boy served as a haunting reminder of the inculcated bigotry the LGBTQ-ally community endures every single day. But in an almost biblical way, the deluge cleansed the festival of those hateful people; they scattered and fled, like cowards usually do in the face of adversity. Those who remained celebrated life, albeit soggy.

And that’s what OutRaleigh is about: embracing diversity and living life to the fullest. We connect with and support one another when hateful zealots attempt to undermine our course, and advocate for our deaths. But we’re not going anywhere. As OutRaleigh 2012 showed me, not only can I count on dear friends to help me weather the storm, but I know there are thousands of others out there who will too.

All we have to do is continue our journey through the best and worst of times, shining brighter each step of the way, finding ourselves in the darkest hours.