I love being gay. It's taken me a while, but I've really grown into it. It's not just that I love men, that I love being different. It's that I feel like I'm part of a culture, a member of a group, and I really like that culture. I've discovered what it means to be gay, not just homosexual, and I really love it.
But there are some things I hate about this culture. Mostly, it's the way we treat each other. We've created a hierarchy based on assimilation. For as much as we are our own people, completely distinct in culture from straight people, we still ascribe the most value to those who represent heterosexuality to us.
In my ever-increasing number of interactions with gay people over the last few years, I've noticed a few trends. "Straight-acting" is a compliment; "gay-acting" is never said, mostly because too many of us would see it as an insult. "Masculine" is a compliment, "feminine" is an insult. When a straight person says "I didn't know you were gay when I first met you," we too often take it as the compliment they ignorantly meant it to be. But it's not a compliment! There's no reason to be flattered; it's just someone mistaking you for someone you're not.
We, as a community, demean bottoms as much as we can, at every opportunity we get. If someone is accused of being a bottom, he often denies it vociferously, or at least hangs his head in shame, but no one ever gets embarrassed about being a top. Tops love to rag on bottoms, but guess what, tops: without bottoms, you all would just be a bunch of sexually frustrated, pretentious pricks.
I'm tired of it. I'm tired of us rejecting our vibrant culture and identity by scorning those who represent it most. I'm tired of us seeking to assimilate into the dominant culture. And yet, I get it. Tonight I was walking home and someone screamed "FAGGOT" out his car window at me. What was it? I was all alone, walking down an ordinary downtown street. Was it my skinny jeans, my nice jacket, my scarf? Was it the way I walked? Why had I garnered this harassment? When things like that happen, for a split second I just really want to fit in. I get upset that they figured me out, because that means I might be victim to this sort of thing. But then I realize that people like that are the very people encouraging us toward this awful mentality. Homophobia in straight people is what drives this homophobia in gay people. And our homophobia divides us, and enables straight people to go after us.
Well I've had enough. I'm not going to demean members of my community anymore. I'm not going to hate my fellow queens for being queeny. I love this community and that means loving all of its members, even from their differences.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Think, then, on what it means to fly
I just had a great meditating session. I don't meditate, but...well, ever. Last time I recall doing it was a year and a half ago, at Starry Starry Night 2010, when I laid on the floor and practiced flying.
I've been meaning to return to that practice, thinking that I one day might truly learn to fly. So, for a few brief moments this morning, I gave it another shot. I closed all of my doors and windows so as to nearly drown out all sound. I cleared a spot on the floor and took off all my clothes and laid down, such that there were nearly no external stimuli. I made sure that my body was in as little contact with itself as possible--thighs apart, arms out with palms up, my torso flat on my back.
And then I practiced flying. It was a bit rough at first, as I was locked in the room, and wanted to fly out of the house. But I learned how to fly through the wall, down the hall and out the front door. I had to go back a couple of times, as a twitch or a wrong movement would require that my practice start over. I wasn't sure where, exactly, I would want to go, merely that I be free.
To my surprise, I began visiting Gregs of Past Despair. I visited scenes I thought I had forgotten. I found Greg at the alcove at Golden West, flew in and grabbed his hand and taught him to fly. I found Greg at Solano, sitting in the cafeteria writing of "Algo bueno me espera," and "Esta vida que no puedo vivir." He, too, flew with me, as did the Greg at Vanden, sitting alone next to the trash can. Greg in the dorms at SF State, lonely and fresh off his break up joined in. Greg in many stages of Michael, including at the first cheating revelation, sitting high outside of Universe wishing he were dead, and at the time of the break-up eagerly joined in, taking but a few of the many good opportunities to leave Michael early. I saw scenes of Greg alone at Citrus Heights, Greg who found solace in TV, Greg who realized--at varying stages--that he was different and didn't have anyone for himself. They all grabbed my hand and flew along with me. I even grabbed Greg of this summer, left to make his own birthday cake, left to spend nearly every minute alone. Greg, in all of those miserable moments at Vanden and on the bus, despairing over el que no me merece, joined the fun, too, and we smiled as we agreed that "he love me not." A later Greg was able to show those Vanden Gregs el que no me merece on the bus a few years later, and how silly times had taken hold. I found Greg in San Francisco, returned for his first visit to Michael since the breakup, sobbing in the car, not knowing what to do.
I found Gregs at different points in City Year, the Greg who had to hid himself after the first ATA as he sobbed and sobbed at Liz's birthday party. The Greg who just could not figure out why nothing was going right in his second year. The Gregs who had to cry in service.
I forgot a few Gregs along the way. Of course, there were still many more Gregs at the stages of Michael. Greg needed to be rescued from every moment of that Pride, as he sought to fit in, realized he couldn't, and just wanted to hide. I even forgot Greg shortly before he turned 25, visiting Sam in San Francisco, when he faced this moment again and just wished he could become invisible. There are more, I am sure, and I promise now that I shall rescue them some day, and teach them to fly as the rest of us are flying, even if it is 18 months hence.
I had thought I had dealt with all of those Gregs. I thought they were gone, but the truth is, every time I return to these moments of despair, of aloneness, I remember all of those Gregs. I remember that it is a pattern, that it is a syndrome that I might find relief from, but that I always fall back on. I have always been alone. I have always faced despair. I will always return to it.
But the new pattern is flight. All of those Gregs will learn to fly. In the face of despair, they fly. It is the single thing they have always wanted most to do. And now I know that when I face despair, when I am alone, I shall learn to fly, even if that flight comes a dozen years later.
Thing, then, on what it means to fly.
I've been meaning to return to that practice, thinking that I one day might truly learn to fly. So, for a few brief moments this morning, I gave it another shot. I closed all of my doors and windows so as to nearly drown out all sound. I cleared a spot on the floor and took off all my clothes and laid down, such that there were nearly no external stimuli. I made sure that my body was in as little contact with itself as possible--thighs apart, arms out with palms up, my torso flat on my back.
And then I practiced flying. It was a bit rough at first, as I was locked in the room, and wanted to fly out of the house. But I learned how to fly through the wall, down the hall and out the front door. I had to go back a couple of times, as a twitch or a wrong movement would require that my practice start over. I wasn't sure where, exactly, I would want to go, merely that I be free.
To my surprise, I began visiting Gregs of Past Despair. I visited scenes I thought I had forgotten. I found Greg at the alcove at Golden West, flew in and grabbed his hand and taught him to fly. I found Greg at Solano, sitting in the cafeteria writing of "Algo bueno me espera," and "Esta vida que no puedo vivir." He, too, flew with me, as did the Greg at Vanden, sitting alone next to the trash can. Greg in the dorms at SF State, lonely and fresh off his break up joined in. Greg in many stages of Michael, including at the first cheating revelation, sitting high outside of Universe wishing he were dead, and at the time of the break-up eagerly joined in, taking but a few of the many good opportunities to leave Michael early. I saw scenes of Greg alone at Citrus Heights, Greg who found solace in TV, Greg who realized--at varying stages--that he was different and didn't have anyone for himself. They all grabbed my hand and flew along with me. I even grabbed Greg of this summer, left to make his own birthday cake, left to spend nearly every minute alone. Greg, in all of those miserable moments at Vanden and on the bus, despairing over el que no me merece, joined the fun, too, and we smiled as we agreed that "he love me not." A later Greg was able to show those Vanden Gregs el que no me merece on the bus a few years later, and how silly times had taken hold. I found Greg in San Francisco, returned for his first visit to Michael since the breakup, sobbing in the car, not knowing what to do.
I found Gregs at different points in City Year, the Greg who had to hid himself after the first ATA as he sobbed and sobbed at Liz's birthday party. The Greg who just could not figure out why nothing was going right in his second year. The Gregs who had to cry in service.
I forgot a few Gregs along the way. Of course, there were still many more Gregs at the stages of Michael. Greg needed to be rescued from every moment of that Pride, as he sought to fit in, realized he couldn't, and just wanted to hide. I even forgot Greg shortly before he turned 25, visiting Sam in San Francisco, when he faced this moment again and just wished he could become invisible. There are more, I am sure, and I promise now that I shall rescue them some day, and teach them to fly as the rest of us are flying, even if it is 18 months hence.
I had thought I had dealt with all of those Gregs. I thought they were gone, but the truth is, every time I return to these moments of despair, of aloneness, I remember all of those Gregs. I remember that it is a pattern, that it is a syndrome that I might find relief from, but that I always fall back on. I have always been alone. I have always faced despair. I will always return to it.
But the new pattern is flight. All of those Gregs will learn to fly. In the face of despair, they fly. It is the single thing they have always wanted most to do. And now I know that when I face despair, when I am alone, I shall learn to fly, even if that flight comes a dozen years later.
Thing, then, on what it means to fly.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Everything but me
Maybe it's the flu that's turned me into a virtual shut-in this week. Maybe it's my feeling so week and exhausted from the flu. Maybe it's because I haven't been able to exercise very much in the last two weeks. Maybe it's my brain drumming up feelings to focus on them, rather than work on homework. Either way, I feel awful, and it's not just physical.
I hate my job. I hate how my social life doesn't exist. And slowly, I'm starting to hate my graduate program. With all that, the only thing I have going for me is me. Which is to say, my long-term happiness continues to be stellar, but my short-term happiness is non-existent. There is nothing in the short-term that I look forward to. Classes are, for the most part, awful, and even in classes in which I can express my intellect, I don't feel like I'm doing anything, but instead merely practicing. I've gotten so used to creating things, to implementing things, that I had forgotten that in school, you're merely trying things and imagining things that, far more often than not, will never leave the classroom.
I feel undervalued, misunderstood, ignored, forgotten. I don't understand how I can be so miserable when I love me so much. I don't understand how I can have so much despair in my life when I am so proud of who I am. How can I be this despondent? I'm me! I love me! It just doesn't make any sense. I can't seem to make sense of life, except for temporary bright spots every couple of years.
I hate my job. I hate how my social life doesn't exist. And slowly, I'm starting to hate my graduate program. With all that, the only thing I have going for me is me. Which is to say, my long-term happiness continues to be stellar, but my short-term happiness is non-existent. There is nothing in the short-term that I look forward to. Classes are, for the most part, awful, and even in classes in which I can express my intellect, I don't feel like I'm doing anything, but instead merely practicing. I've gotten so used to creating things, to implementing things, that I had forgotten that in school, you're merely trying things and imagining things that, far more often than not, will never leave the classroom.
I feel undervalued, misunderstood, ignored, forgotten. I don't understand how I can be so miserable when I love me so much. I don't understand how I can have so much despair in my life when I am so proud of who I am. How can I be this despondent? I'm me! I love me! It just doesn't make any sense. I can't seem to make sense of life, except for temporary bright spots every couple of years.
Friday, September 30, 2011
There is no comfort to a young mind in an old body
I'm getting older. I don't look older, I don't feel older. I don't think I would choose to act older.
But I can tell I'm getting older because of the way the people around me act. It's the reason why no one wants to go out with me anymore. They're all too old. They've all settled into something older. So I must be getting older. But I don't have anything to settle into. I'm so alone.
But I can tell I'm getting older because of the way the people around me act. It's the reason why no one wants to go out with me anymore. They're all too old. They've all settled into something older. So I must be getting older. But I don't have anything to settle into. I'm so alone.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Blindspots
I could see how you'd think my being in the living room, slightly near you, would make you think that I want to hear your every thought and listen as your narrate your life.
However, I can't see how you'd misconstrue my one-word answers or refusal to look away from my computer as encouragement to keep chattering nonsense at me.
However, I can't see how you'd misconstrue my one-word answers or refusal to look away from my computer as encouragement to keep chattering nonsense at me.
Fail
Every time you give me the lead on something, you take it away from me.
Every time I succeed, people only tell me why I've failed.
I've been vocal about how much I've hated this experience, how under-valued I felt, how ignored and under-appreciated I've been, because I thought it might make a difference. It hasn't.
When you tell me you haven't seen me do anything to make this year better for me, I can say I have sought opportunities to lead, I have sought to be pushed into my challenge zone. And yet every time I volunteer to lead on something, every time I try to take something new on, it gets taken away from me. This is too difficult for you, this is too much work for one person, so we're going to take it off of your plate. Well you have not let me do enough work all year! How would you have any idea of what is the appropriate amount of work for me? No one has ever shown any interest in my work, no one has ever allowed me to do as much as I am capable of.
I hate blaming other people for my failings, but how can I take the blame for everyone always taking things off of my plate? Why won't they let me prove myself?
I hate it here. I wish I could quit. I wish it were over. I wish I didn't have to stay on another three weeks, every day remembering what a failure this year has been, how I haven't been able to do any of the things I've wanted to do, how I have not been trusted, respected, allowed to do anything that was of any importance. Why do I have to be reminded of my failure every day?
When you're getting a 20% in the class, you still fail even if you ace the final. I know that. I'm not deluding myself into thinking that success in a couple of little projects at the end will give me an A for the year. But why won't they let me feel like I went out with a bang?
Every time I succeed, people only tell me why I've failed.
I've been vocal about how much I've hated this experience, how under-valued I felt, how ignored and under-appreciated I've been, because I thought it might make a difference. It hasn't.
When you tell me you haven't seen me do anything to make this year better for me, I can say I have sought opportunities to lead, I have sought to be pushed into my challenge zone. And yet every time I volunteer to lead on something, every time I try to take something new on, it gets taken away from me. This is too difficult for you, this is too much work for one person, so we're going to take it off of your plate. Well you have not let me do enough work all year! How would you have any idea of what is the appropriate amount of work for me? No one has ever shown any interest in my work, no one has ever allowed me to do as much as I am capable of.
I hate blaming other people for my failings, but how can I take the blame for everyone always taking things off of my plate? Why won't they let me prove myself?
I hate it here. I wish I could quit. I wish it were over. I wish I didn't have to stay on another three weeks, every day remembering what a failure this year has been, how I haven't been able to do any of the things I've wanted to do, how I have not been trusted, respected, allowed to do anything that was of any importance. Why do I have to be reminded of my failure every day?
When you're getting a 20% in the class, you still fail even if you ace the final. I know that. I'm not deluding myself into thinking that success in a couple of little projects at the end will give me an A for the year. But why won't they let me feel like I went out with a bang?
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Taucious
Some people are named Natasha, and that's great!
Some people are named Natasha and choose to go by Tasha, and that's okay.
Some people are named Tasha, and that is NOT OKAY.
Some people are named Natasha and choose to go by Tasha, and that's okay.
Some people are named Tasha, and that is NOT OKAY.
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