In 1970 I sat in a school assembly at a private Christian high school in Hialeah, Florida, to hear a biblical defense of its policy of excluding black students—a policy that had begun to be an issue for many of the white students.
The first explanation was general—that God intended the peoples of the world to be separate and pure—first evident in Noah’s famous curse against his son Ham, traditionally believed to be the father of the African races: “Cursed be Canaan [Ham’s son]; a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren” (Gen. 9.25). This chestnut had also been used in the antebellum Baptist churches of the South to defend the enslavement of black Africans. Now it was used to defend segregation.
Further, the speaker pointed out that, throughout the Old Testament, God commands the Israelites to keep themselves separate from the inhabitants of the land He has given to them. God Himself promotes racial division—even genocide—to ensure that Israel will remain morally and ethnically “pure.”
The speaker also pointed out that blacks had their own churches and thus were capable of forming their own Christian schools, if they liked, separate but equal. The speaker even boasted that our school contributed generously to a number of black congregations around Dade County.
Last, the speaker invoked the apostle Paul in the Epistle to the Romans: “I know, and am persuaded by the Lord Jesus, that there is nothing unclean of itself: but to him that esteemeth any thing to be unclean, to him it is unclean. But if thy brother be grieved with thy meat, now walkest thou not charitably. Destroy not him with thy meat, for whom Christ died” (Rom. 14.14-15).
The speaker affirmed that, for himself, nothing was actually “wrong” with intermingling with people of other races, but there were brethren of tender consciences who could not abide the presence of black people in their white church, and it was out of consideration for these weaker Christians, so easily offended and grieved, that the racial divide ought to be maintained.
The irony here is explosive. The quoted passage, in its whole context, is in fact a direct rebuttal against the Old Testament teachings of separation. Paul is calling for Jews and Gentiles to come peaceably and lovingly together. And he further urges the Roman churchgoers to welcome minorities into their midst and accommodate their somewhat overwrought dietary scruples. But here our speaker used these words to defend racial discrimination as a sop to the bigots, for whom integration was indeed “unclean”—though, of course, the speaker himself was no bigot, he assured us.
On this same occasion, a classmate of mine rose to her feet to support the speaker’s reasoning. Her voice quavering, she too quoted scripture, “‘What communion hath light with darkness?’” What could be clearer? God wants whites and blacks to be separate.
So, this week, I’m reminded of the compassionate conservatives and God-fearing Christians who, without an ounce of hate for gay men and lesbians, so they say, chose to deny basic rights and legal privileges to homosexuals, i.e. marriage and adoption—on the grounds of certain parts of the Old Testament that condemn sexual impurity (almost as much as the scriptures condemn racial impurity and promote genocide)—and vote in policies not only for their own inbred, paranoid congregations and schools, but for the whole state of California (or Florida, or Arizona, or Arkansas).
And further they defend this singularly un-Christlike action by claiming to defend the children, as well as the tender-conscienced bigots, failing to consider that perhaps one in twelve of those children will grow up to love his or her own sex—and that easily one in three of those bigots have sex hang-ups that would make the average hooker blush.
The more “liberal” among them, including our new president elect, his competition, and the current President, offer the consolation of civil union—separate but equal-ish. Some, like Governor Palin of Alaska, pat themselves on the back for disagreeing (however un-emphatically) with extremists who would grind the gays down into the mud.
How do these righteous souls justify their anti-gay rhetoric?
They are God’s people, easily grieved and offended, protective of their children and their weaker brethren.
They are the majority and can do what they damn well please to minorities (even if, in other respects, they too are minorities).
They have the right not only to disapprove of and condemn other peoples’ lives, they can, within whatever legal boundaries still exist, persecute and destroy those who live such lives …
And—this itself must be some kind of miracle of divinely regenerating love—while their boot heel rests on the brow of the despised homo, they can proclaim themselves to be God’s martyrs for righteousness, abused, persecuted, and unjustly reviled … by the makers of South Park.
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Friday, November 7, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
The Worldly and the Pure
My teen years were spent as a fundamentalist. Back then (the early 1970s) a fundamentalist was somebody who affirmed the inerrancy of the Bible and lived a life of separation from the world.
Aspects of “the world” I was expected to shun included social drinking, movies, dancing, smoking, flared-leg trousers, miniskirts, heavy petting, mixed-race dating, divorce, masturbation, the peace symbol, sideburns, rock music, Good News for Modern Man, union membership, dirty jokes, gambling, and skepticism.
For a year and a half I even attended a Christian educational institution that preached “second degree separation,” which involved keeping a distance also from people who, although good and decent enough in their own behaviors, were yet not sufficiently separated from the world, so defined.
It is rather amazing, then, that I wound up, by age 30, an open homosexual with no desire to marry or adopt, tolerant and even supportive of prostitution and pornography, strongly inclined towards far-left politics and averse to religion—now even the blandest new age pablum irks me a little, even Unitarianism feels like I’m being clubbed over the head with simple-minded superstition.
Now I am deeply suspicious of almost all forms of purity and puritanism—even in the secular realm. In the early 1990s, when I followed a strictly vegetarian diet and belonged to one or two animal-rights organizations, I stopped short of criticizing others for eating meat—and affirmed, for no good reason, that I would happily eat meat again when I desired it again. (And I did, more out of convenience, though, than a born-again palate.)
Since my years as a Christian, I have found it difficult to be a joiner of, much less a true believer in, any organizations, even those for which I have a strong affinity. I belonged to ACT UP for a year in the eighties; more recently I sent a check to the Human Rights Campaign, even though I can’t fully comprehend why anyone, gay or straight, would want to marry, join the military, or be the subject of even benign stereotyping in Hollywood films.
I have not found a satisfactory “home” in the gay “community.” I have nothing rainbow colored in my home. I neither shun nor affect effeminate mannerisms—I consider myself neither queenly nor straight-acting, though I would not mind being called either one, provided sufficient qualification.
I have tried to form a character of integrity, with definite values, which nevertheless avoid strict strictures or wonted won’t’s. I can’t even say that I am entirely pure of puritanism as I sometimes sense a tendency in myself to pontificate and, when teaching literature, to preach from the text as if it were holy writ.
Politically I tend towards an idealistic form of socialism combined with libertarian, democratic values—but I don’t call myself a socialist, anarchist, or libertarian, and only recently started calling myself a democrat and a liberal, but only because it struck me as a little anal retentive (i.e. purist) to constantly distinguish myself from every known category of political persuasion.
I simply have to accept that labels have some value, however limited. I abandon any and every label when it begins to smack of exclusivity.
Thus, I am “homosexual,” “gay,” or “queer” entirely by whim, using whichever label tickles my fancy at a given moment.—I’d even feel better about myself if I could honestly call myself “bisexual,” since that strikes me as even more worldly. And I prefer to say I’m “irreligious” rather than “atheistic” (too puritanical in its ax-grinding) or “agnostic” (too wimpy—as if I’m advertising an interest in somebody’s converting me back to the faith).
I still catch myself, from time to time, drifting towards an absolutist mindset again, though seldom towards my old rightwing views. Catch me offguard and I’m likely to sign your petition to outlaw the sale of cigarettes or to demand the firing of a college professor who denies the Holocaust or a radio talk host who makes homophobic remarks … though I will regret doing so before the ink is dry. Why? Because it strikes me as so much more reasonable and worldly to be usually permissive, rather than censorious and reactive.
I had much rather be worldly than pure. The desire for purity tends to lead to persecution, it seems to me. What is the point of drawing a line in the sand unless you want to condemn others to the other side of that line?
Again, I’m not opposed to character or even strict definitions—but, as a rule, worldliness lends itself more easily to conversation. It seems to say “yes” more often than “no.”
The worldly relates, by its very definition, to the real world we live in; by contrast, purity is just a concept, one with no clear analogues to reality and one with a striking tendency to exclude common sense … and, too often, common decency.
Aspects of “the world” I was expected to shun included social drinking, movies, dancing, smoking, flared-leg trousers, miniskirts, heavy petting, mixed-race dating, divorce, masturbation, the peace symbol, sideburns, rock music, Good News for Modern Man, union membership, dirty jokes, gambling, and skepticism.
For a year and a half I even attended a Christian educational institution that preached “second degree separation,” which involved keeping a distance also from people who, although good and decent enough in their own behaviors, were yet not sufficiently separated from the world, so defined.
It is rather amazing, then, that I wound up, by age 30, an open homosexual with no desire to marry or adopt, tolerant and even supportive of prostitution and pornography, strongly inclined towards far-left politics and averse to religion—now even the blandest new age pablum irks me a little, even Unitarianism feels like I’m being clubbed over the head with simple-minded superstition.
Now I am deeply suspicious of almost all forms of purity and puritanism—even in the secular realm. In the early 1990s, when I followed a strictly vegetarian diet and belonged to one or two animal-rights organizations, I stopped short of criticizing others for eating meat—and affirmed, for no good reason, that I would happily eat meat again when I desired it again. (And I did, more out of convenience, though, than a born-again palate.)
Since my years as a Christian, I have found it difficult to be a joiner of, much less a true believer in, any organizations, even those for which I have a strong affinity. I belonged to ACT UP for a year in the eighties; more recently I sent a check to the Human Rights Campaign, even though I can’t fully comprehend why anyone, gay or straight, would want to marry, join the military, or be the subject of even benign stereotyping in Hollywood films.
I have not found a satisfactory “home” in the gay “community.” I have nothing rainbow colored in my home. I neither shun nor affect effeminate mannerisms—I consider myself neither queenly nor straight-acting, though I would not mind being called either one, provided sufficient qualification.
I have tried to form a character of integrity, with definite values, which nevertheless avoid strict strictures or wonted won’t’s. I can’t even say that I am entirely pure of puritanism as I sometimes sense a tendency in myself to pontificate and, when teaching literature, to preach from the text as if it were holy writ.
Politically I tend towards an idealistic form of socialism combined with libertarian, democratic values—but I don’t call myself a socialist, anarchist, or libertarian, and only recently started calling myself a democrat and a liberal, but only because it struck me as a little anal retentive (i.e. purist) to constantly distinguish myself from every known category of political persuasion.
I simply have to accept that labels have some value, however limited. I abandon any and every label when it begins to smack of exclusivity.
Thus, I am “homosexual,” “gay,” or “queer” entirely by whim, using whichever label tickles my fancy at a given moment.—I’d even feel better about myself if I could honestly call myself “bisexual,” since that strikes me as even more worldly. And I prefer to say I’m “irreligious” rather than “atheistic” (too puritanical in its ax-grinding) or “agnostic” (too wimpy—as if I’m advertising an interest in somebody’s converting me back to the faith).
I still catch myself, from time to time, drifting towards an absolutist mindset again, though seldom towards my old rightwing views. Catch me offguard and I’m likely to sign your petition to outlaw the sale of cigarettes or to demand the firing of a college professor who denies the Holocaust or a radio talk host who makes homophobic remarks … though I will regret doing so before the ink is dry. Why? Because it strikes me as so much more reasonable and worldly to be usually permissive, rather than censorious and reactive.
I had much rather be worldly than pure. The desire for purity tends to lead to persecution, it seems to me. What is the point of drawing a line in the sand unless you want to condemn others to the other side of that line?
Again, I’m not opposed to character or even strict definitions—but, as a rule, worldliness lends itself more easily to conversation. It seems to say “yes” more often than “no.”
The worldly relates, by its very definition, to the real world we live in; by contrast, purity is just a concept, one with no clear analogues to reality and one with a striking tendency to exclude common sense … and, too often, common decency.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Using Meanness for Good, Not Evil
I inherited a mean streak from my mother—a tendency to be critical of my betters and unpleasant precisely in those situations where deference and conciliation are demanded.
I would be quite happy to be a wealthy man, but fail to see the logic of paying someone no better than I am 636 times my salary. I don’t really care what the job is; it can’t actually be worth that much more than what I do. Period.
In my life, I have rarely had kind words for wealthy people. Wealth is something I just can’t respect, in and of itself. (By contrast, beauty or a sense of humor, all by itself, counts for a great deal with me.)
I am also not the guy who will ever say these words: “Let’s vote again to make it unanimous.” I don’t get it, frankly. We weren’t unanimous. Some of us wanted this, and others wanted that. We decided on a vote to settle it—so it’s settled, but clearly some of us did not get our way. Why pretend different? Deal with the reality.
If we decided to settle the matter with three tosses of a coin, would we then have to pretend that a 2:1 divide was really 3:0?
I am not an etymologist, but “mean” meaning “low, degraded in behavior” seems related to “mean” meaning “average”—and “kind” meaning “noble and good” seems related to “kind” meaning “of the same type.” Who would come up with such a moralized dichotomy of “mean” and “kind”?
Well, the old aristocracy, that’s who. For them, the “average” human being was despicable. What right-thinking lord would want to be thought of as merely ordinary? And “kind” simply meant, for them, “like us”—our kind. That is, better.
Later, the middle classes acquired some posh, and nobody wanted to be “mean” anymore, not even the poor, who were demonstrably less than average—in wealth, education, position, prestige, power, health, and autonomy, at least.
Noblesse oblige became mandatory even for the ignoblesse.
Whoever dismissively spoke of the “lowest common denominator” must have had the same idea. “Lowest” kind of puts “common” in its place.
None of this is metaphysical. Being mean won’t send you to hell, though it may make a lot of people tell you to go there.
Sarah Palin comes off as mean, but I don’t fault her for it. When she identifies with Joe Six Pack and pit bulls, she’s talking about “salt of the earth” people—who will never be accepted by their betters as “our kind.”
Governor Palin is inept, coquettish, dull-witted, mendacious, venal, superstitious, and narrow-minded, for which I have to admit I despise her a little—on top of which, she’s wealthy, which doesn’t help her in my book—but none of this is related to her being mean.
Molly Ivins was mean, so was her pal Ann Richards, who, if there was any justice in the world, was the governor who should have had a crack at being VP. Jonathan Swift was mean, but a greater defender of the Irish people never existed—and he wasn’t even Irish. Mark Twain was mean, too, Twain, the quintessential American patriot, who famously once quipped, “All right then I’ll go to hell.”
The Democrats who refused to support Howard Dean four years ago because he hollered like a common yahoo got the four more years of George W. Bush that they deserved.
For a classless society, America puts a whole lot of stock in being classy. Being mean—belligerent, cantankerous, and unpleasant—is the only way a lot of poor people got anything out of this world.
I’m mean. It’s the only thing my mother gave me that I haven’t had cause to regret. I hope I use that meanness more for good than for bad, more realistically I probably just break even, but every now and then we need somebody to cut through all the crap of being nice and proper. I’d like to offer my services.
I would be quite happy to be a wealthy man, but fail to see the logic of paying someone no better than I am 636 times my salary. I don’t really care what the job is; it can’t actually be worth that much more than what I do. Period.
In my life, I have rarely had kind words for wealthy people. Wealth is something I just can’t respect, in and of itself. (By contrast, beauty or a sense of humor, all by itself, counts for a great deal with me.)
I am also not the guy who will ever say these words: “Let’s vote again to make it unanimous.” I don’t get it, frankly. We weren’t unanimous. Some of us wanted this, and others wanted that. We decided on a vote to settle it—so it’s settled, but clearly some of us did not get our way. Why pretend different? Deal with the reality.
If we decided to settle the matter with three tosses of a coin, would we then have to pretend that a 2:1 divide was really 3:0?
I am not an etymologist, but “mean” meaning “low, degraded in behavior” seems related to “mean” meaning “average”—and “kind” meaning “noble and good” seems related to “kind” meaning “of the same type.” Who would come up with such a moralized dichotomy of “mean” and “kind”?
Well, the old aristocracy, that’s who. For them, the “average” human being was despicable. What right-thinking lord would want to be thought of as merely ordinary? And “kind” simply meant, for them, “like us”—our kind. That is, better.
Later, the middle classes acquired some posh, and nobody wanted to be “mean” anymore, not even the poor, who were demonstrably less than average—in wealth, education, position, prestige, power, health, and autonomy, at least.
Noblesse oblige became mandatory even for the ignoblesse.
Whoever dismissively spoke of the “lowest common denominator” must have had the same idea. “Lowest” kind of puts “common” in its place.
None of this is metaphysical. Being mean won’t send you to hell, though it may make a lot of people tell you to go there.
Sarah Palin comes off as mean, but I don’t fault her for it. When she identifies with Joe Six Pack and pit bulls, she’s talking about “salt of the earth” people—who will never be accepted by their betters as “our kind.”
Governor Palin is inept, coquettish, dull-witted, mendacious, venal, superstitious, and narrow-minded, for which I have to admit I despise her a little—on top of which, she’s wealthy, which doesn’t help her in my book—but none of this is related to her being mean.
Molly Ivins was mean, so was her pal Ann Richards, who, if there was any justice in the world, was the governor who should have had a crack at being VP. Jonathan Swift was mean, but a greater defender of the Irish people never existed—and he wasn’t even Irish. Mark Twain was mean, too, Twain, the quintessential American patriot, who famously once quipped, “All right then I’ll go to hell.”
The Democrats who refused to support Howard Dean four years ago because he hollered like a common yahoo got the four more years of George W. Bush that they deserved.
For a classless society, America puts a whole lot of stock in being classy. Being mean—belligerent, cantankerous, and unpleasant—is the only way a lot of poor people got anything out of this world.
I’m mean. It’s the only thing my mother gave me that I haven’t had cause to regret. I hope I use that meanness more for good than for bad, more realistically I probably just break even, but every now and then we need somebody to cut through all the crap of being nice and proper. I’d like to offer my services.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
My Facebook Conservatives
One "mixed blessing" of Facebook is that I have been reacquainted with people I knew 30-40 years ago in my fundamentalist, conservative past.
It puts me in the odd position of having to come out of the closet all over again, and then, inevitably, I get involved in debates over whether Obama is an anti-American Muslim, whether Western society persecutes Christians (surprising, how many fundies STILL see themselves as persecuted), and whether Republicans or Democrats are to blame for the shithole America has become.
I haven't heard from any of that crowd in over two weeks, so I may have pissed the last of them off, though I've maintained a fair and reasonable tone in pointing out the lapses in logic and the absence of evidence in their arguments. Well, maybe not--I did tell the Obama-is-a-Muslim person that only slobbering idiots believe that story.
Also, for some reason, the only students of mine who have signed me on as a Facebook friend are conservative and Christian, but they, having had me in class recently, must know I can pick over their bones for supper, so they never raise the issues of politics or religion with me directly.
Oddly, my chief appeal for the past 15 years as a college English instructor has been to conservative, religious students. Perhaps they perceive my strictness as authoritarian and take an immediate masochistic shine to me. Sometimes I think it's the Flannery O'Connor factor, that the grotesqueries of that mindset are still somehow apparent in my bearing and speech, even though I no longer actually have that mindset.
Sometimes I think they like that when I disagree with them, I don't attack them personally (except, on rare occasions, to say that only "slobbering idiots" believe the sorts of things they believe).
And sometimes I think they sense a kindred spirit--somebody who's been where they are and escaped—and, though right now they have absolutely no consciousness of it, they would like to escape, also.
Conservatives prefer to play with a stacked deck in argument--they hardly ever simply look at evidence with an open mind and deduce their positions from the available facts. Instead, they like to approach the facts with a prefabricated position already in place. Typically, they enter an argument with a handful of strong factual evidence that supports their claim, but almost never can defend the representativeness of their evidence (i.e. their facts are usually "exceptions," not "typical cases") and almost never can integrate their evidence into a consistent and coherent big picture. (Fundamentalist Christians, especially, have got so used to accepting inconsistencies in their dogma that they are usually blind to the inconsistencies in their politics.)
The irony that for the past 20 years almost all terrorists are ultra-conservative escapes most conservatives--who prefer to imagine that Bill Ayers and the Weathermen and perhaps even the Symbionese Liberation Army are still major threats to the security of the nation.
But the so-called Islamo-fascists are pro-life, anti-gay, anti-feminist, God-first, country-first (not even a contradiction in a theocracy), pro-preventive war (“the Bush doctrine”), pro-shock-and-awe (i.e. terrorism), and pro-strategic-use-of-torture.
American-born terrorists target abortion clinics, gay nightclubs, and black churches, not the Elks Lodge or Macy’s. Ann Coulter once quipped, “My only regret with Timothy McVeigh is that he did not go to the New York Times building” (1). Eric Robert Rudolph, who bombed the 1996 Olympics Centennial Park, as well as an Atlanta lesbian bar, became a folk hero for a large number of conservative Southerners, one of the reasons the FBI gave for its having taken seven years to find and apprehend him (2).
Despite all this, conservative wags like Bill O’Reilly continue to paint liberals (and the left in general) as the “friends of terrorists.”
My old conservative acquaintances are upset with me when I point out such inconsistencies in thinking. Oddly, they are less upset to find out that I’m homosexual and godless (hardly blinking, apparently, at the thought of my frying for an eternity in Hell).
The cut-off point for their tolerance appears to be when they hear I’m voting for Barack Obama. That I consider myself considerably to the left of Obama on almost every issue, including war, the death penalty, and “family values,” is, to my conservative friends, quite beyond the pale.
(1) Gurley, George. “Coultergeist.” New York Observer.26 Aug. 2002.
(2) “Profile: Eric Rudolph.” 14 Apr. 2005. BBC News.
It puts me in the odd position of having to come out of the closet all over again, and then, inevitably, I get involved in debates over whether Obama is an anti-American Muslim, whether Western society persecutes Christians (surprising, how many fundies STILL see themselves as persecuted), and whether Republicans or Democrats are to blame for the shithole America has become.
I haven't heard from any of that crowd in over two weeks, so I may have pissed the last of them off, though I've maintained a fair and reasonable tone in pointing out the lapses in logic and the absence of evidence in their arguments. Well, maybe not--I did tell the Obama-is-a-Muslim person that only slobbering idiots believe that story.
Also, for some reason, the only students of mine who have signed me on as a Facebook friend are conservative and Christian, but they, having had me in class recently, must know I can pick over their bones for supper, so they never raise the issues of politics or religion with me directly.
Oddly, my chief appeal for the past 15 years as a college English instructor has been to conservative, religious students. Perhaps they perceive my strictness as authoritarian and take an immediate masochistic shine to me. Sometimes I think it's the Flannery O'Connor factor, that the grotesqueries of that mindset are still somehow apparent in my bearing and speech, even though I no longer actually have that mindset.
Sometimes I think they like that when I disagree with them, I don't attack them personally (except, on rare occasions, to say that only "slobbering idiots" believe the sorts of things they believe).
And sometimes I think they sense a kindred spirit--somebody who's been where they are and escaped—and, though right now they have absolutely no consciousness of it, they would like to escape, also.
Conservatives prefer to play with a stacked deck in argument--they hardly ever simply look at evidence with an open mind and deduce their positions from the available facts. Instead, they like to approach the facts with a prefabricated position already in place. Typically, they enter an argument with a handful of strong factual evidence that supports their claim, but almost never can defend the representativeness of their evidence (i.e. their facts are usually "exceptions," not "typical cases") and almost never can integrate their evidence into a consistent and coherent big picture. (Fundamentalist Christians, especially, have got so used to accepting inconsistencies in their dogma that they are usually blind to the inconsistencies in their politics.)
The irony that for the past 20 years almost all terrorists are ultra-conservative escapes most conservatives--who prefer to imagine that Bill Ayers and the Weathermen and perhaps even the Symbionese Liberation Army are still major threats to the security of the nation.
But the so-called Islamo-fascists are pro-life, anti-gay, anti-feminist, God-first, country-first (not even a contradiction in a theocracy), pro-preventive war (“the Bush doctrine”), pro-shock-and-awe (i.e. terrorism), and pro-strategic-use-of-torture.
American-born terrorists target abortion clinics, gay nightclubs, and black churches, not the Elks Lodge or Macy’s. Ann Coulter once quipped, “My only regret with Timothy McVeigh is that he did not go to the New York Times building” (1). Eric Robert Rudolph, who bombed the 1996 Olympics Centennial Park, as well as an Atlanta lesbian bar, became a folk hero for a large number of conservative Southerners, one of the reasons the FBI gave for its having taken seven years to find and apprehend him (2).
Despite all this, conservative wags like Bill O’Reilly continue to paint liberals (and the left in general) as the “friends of terrorists.”
My old conservative acquaintances are upset with me when I point out such inconsistencies in thinking. Oddly, they are less upset to find out that I’m homosexual and godless (hardly blinking, apparently, at the thought of my frying for an eternity in Hell).
The cut-off point for their tolerance appears to be when they hear I’m voting for Barack Obama. That I consider myself considerably to the left of Obama on almost every issue, including war, the death penalty, and “family values,” is, to my conservative friends, quite beyond the pale.
(1) Gurley, George. “Coultergeist.” New York Observer.26 Aug. 2002.
(2) “Profile: Eric Rudolph.” 14 Apr. 2005. BBC News.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Hey, Ripley's a Dozen!
Born on 11 Oct. 1996, Tom Ripley has been with me since the end of November that same year. He's celebrating the big day, eating BusyBones and dried beef strips. He is also playing with his "long" toys today--two plush dildo-shaped toys representing a duck and a Halloween witch-dog (no, not Sarah Palin). He wants raw burger and pussy, though.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
The Tears She Shed to Save Me
My mother died in 1995, after 5-6 years of senile dementia. Had she lived, she would be 88 today.
The most painful period of my life was late in 1994, having to care for my mother alone while my father (usually her principal caregiver) was in the hospital, following quadruple bypass surgery. What giving care to someone in her condition means I won’t go into now—needless to say it involves odious tasks for which I was unprepared, tasks exacerbated by my father’s absence, which caused my mother further discombulation and helplessness.
My work situation and my father’s weakened condition after his surgery forced us to put my mother in a rest home, where she died almost a year later, at age 75.
Even before her final illness, my mother was a troubled woman. At an early age, I became an unwilling confidant as she raged against my father (he was cold, she said; he was cheating on her, she claimed; she would divorce him, she threatened, and then demand that I decide then and there which parent I would choose to stay with). When I tried to defend him or offer an alternative interpretation of the facts, she would fly into a rage against me, slapping me across the face with a belt buckle.
I was an only child, so I got the full force of her adoration at one moment and then the full force of her disappointment and disapproval the next.
Occasionally, fairly frequently, she threw away my birthday and Christmas presents a month after I received them. Once she had a puppy of mine put to sleep, informing me of her decision on a crowded bus, hoping the presence of other passengers would keep me from crying and embarrassing myself and her. I cried anyway. She said I wasn’t taking good care of the dog.
At the same time she exploited my compassion, taking me to pet shops to point out the cute animals in the store windows and complaining that, given the unreasonably high prices, the owners would be unable to sell them and would eventually kill them.
She told me about her past. She had lost the use of her right arm in a drunken automobile accident. All my life it hung limp and paralyzed at her side. She could not therefore pick me up when I was a baby.
One of her brothers had raped her, she said. Her own parents had never told her they loved her, she said, which was why, she said, she so compulsively told me she loved me (even in her dementia, she would repeat phrases like “You’re crazy, I love you”).
She had been a close friend of Hank Williams, she said. In his early career in Alabama, he would get so drunk she had to stand next to him to prop him up close to the microphone.
It was not unusual for me to find my mother alone and crying uncontrollably. In my teenage years I learned to cajole and play the fool to try to break her dark moods.
When we visited her brothers and sisters, my uncles and aunts, typically she got into a teary shouting match with one or all of them. She had little use for her older siblings, whom she felt abused by. And yet she liked to remark on how lonely I must be, as an only child, instilling self-pity, all the more because (I suspect) I was naturally cheerful and self-contained.
In the 1970s, right when I was struggling in private with my homosexuality, my mother joined forces with born-again entertainer Anita Bryant to rid Dade County of its protections for teachers and other county employees, regardless of their sexual orientations. She asked me point blank whether I was gay. I denied it. She said it was a good thing since if she ever found out that I was gay she would put a bullet through my head. Homosexuality equaled murder, in her mind.
It took another seven or so years for me to tell her the truth—and then I did it in a rage of my own, spurred by her heated insistence that AIDS was God’s judgment on the wicked. Irritated that I disagreed with her on this, she asked me again, “Are you gay?” “Yes,” I said. “Then you’re not a Christian!” she said. She literally spat out the words, while she burst into sobs.
To her credit, she eventually came around to accepting me as I am, even referring to Vince, my lover for some time, as her second son.
My mother loved me. I’m not sure she knew how to do this, but she often, maybe too often, repeated the words “I love you” to me. In her crying fits she would tell me that I was the only good thing God had ever given her. Growing up, I felt unworthy of the devotion and tears she spent on me. I was too much the center of her world, the sole justification for her sad existence. Her love for me was both miraculous and scary.
She never left my father, and my father never left her. They needed each other, whether they liked it or not. My friend Luis once remarked, wryly, that his parents had met in church and divorced, while my parents had met in a Miami bar and remained together until death did them part.
When she died, I sobbed uncontrollably—as I had on the crowded bus as a boy. Too heartbroken to be embarrassed by my lack of self-control. I cried because she was dead. Because she had never really had a happy life. Because I had been everything to her and had let her down over and over again. Because, in a way I had never anticipated that I would, I missed her.
Terribly.
The most painful period of my life was late in 1994, having to care for my mother alone while my father (usually her principal caregiver) was in the hospital, following quadruple bypass surgery. What giving care to someone in her condition means I won’t go into now—needless to say it involves odious tasks for which I was unprepared, tasks exacerbated by my father’s absence, which caused my mother further discombulation and helplessness.
My work situation and my father’s weakened condition after his surgery forced us to put my mother in a rest home, where she died almost a year later, at age 75.
Even before her final illness, my mother was a troubled woman. At an early age, I became an unwilling confidant as she raged against my father (he was cold, she said; he was cheating on her, she claimed; she would divorce him, she threatened, and then demand that I decide then and there which parent I would choose to stay with). When I tried to defend him or offer an alternative interpretation of the facts, she would fly into a rage against me, slapping me across the face with a belt buckle.
I was an only child, so I got the full force of her adoration at one moment and then the full force of her disappointment and disapproval the next.
Occasionally, fairly frequently, she threw away my birthday and Christmas presents a month after I received them. Once she had a puppy of mine put to sleep, informing me of her decision on a crowded bus, hoping the presence of other passengers would keep me from crying and embarrassing myself and her. I cried anyway. She said I wasn’t taking good care of the dog.
At the same time she exploited my compassion, taking me to pet shops to point out the cute animals in the store windows and complaining that, given the unreasonably high prices, the owners would be unable to sell them and would eventually kill them.
She told me about her past. She had lost the use of her right arm in a drunken automobile accident. All my life it hung limp and paralyzed at her side. She could not therefore pick me up when I was a baby.
One of her brothers had raped her, she said. Her own parents had never told her they loved her, she said, which was why, she said, she so compulsively told me she loved me (even in her dementia, she would repeat phrases like “You’re crazy, I love you”).
She had been a close friend of Hank Williams, she said. In his early career in Alabama, he would get so drunk she had to stand next to him to prop him up close to the microphone.
It was not unusual for me to find my mother alone and crying uncontrollably. In my teenage years I learned to cajole and play the fool to try to break her dark moods.
When we visited her brothers and sisters, my uncles and aunts, typically she got into a teary shouting match with one or all of them. She had little use for her older siblings, whom she felt abused by. And yet she liked to remark on how lonely I must be, as an only child, instilling self-pity, all the more because (I suspect) I was naturally cheerful and self-contained.
In the 1970s, right when I was struggling in private with my homosexuality, my mother joined forces with born-again entertainer Anita Bryant to rid Dade County of its protections for teachers and other county employees, regardless of their sexual orientations. She asked me point blank whether I was gay. I denied it. She said it was a good thing since if she ever found out that I was gay she would put a bullet through my head. Homosexuality equaled murder, in her mind.
It took another seven or so years for me to tell her the truth—and then I did it in a rage of my own, spurred by her heated insistence that AIDS was God’s judgment on the wicked. Irritated that I disagreed with her on this, she asked me again, “Are you gay?” “Yes,” I said. “Then you’re not a Christian!” she said. She literally spat out the words, while she burst into sobs.
To her credit, she eventually came around to accepting me as I am, even referring to Vince, my lover for some time, as her second son.
My mother loved me. I’m not sure she knew how to do this, but she often, maybe too often, repeated the words “I love you” to me. In her crying fits she would tell me that I was the only good thing God had ever given her. Growing up, I felt unworthy of the devotion and tears she spent on me. I was too much the center of her world, the sole justification for her sad existence. Her love for me was both miraculous and scary.
She never left my father, and my father never left her. They needed each other, whether they liked it or not. My friend Luis once remarked, wryly, that his parents had met in church and divorced, while my parents had met in a Miami bar and remained together until death did them part.
When she died, I sobbed uncontrollably—as I had on the crowded bus as a boy. Too heartbroken to be embarrassed by my lack of self-control. I cried because she was dead. Because she had never really had a happy life. Because I had been everything to her and had let her down over and over again. Because, in a way I had never anticipated that I would, I missed her.
Terribly.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Getting Old
Today I find myself enjoying becoming an old man. Reading Wordsworth, puttering about the apartment, affectionately knuckling my dog’s bony ribs, eating rolled oats with butter.
It’s a good thing.
This morning I’m re-embracing my adolescent love of solitude and independence—not to be equated with isolation or social phobia.—but neither calculating how to adjust to current trends nor agonizing over how to build an identity of my own—not terribly concerned with preparing for my future or reading the beads of my past. I’m kind of settling in today to the self that I have built up for the past half century.
It’s comfortable—and just my size.
Last night I corresponded at length with an old friend from over 30 years ago and in the process discovered that I don’t miss my youth at all. It was, of course, fantastic while it lasted—if I wasted some hours of it along the way, and I did, I like to think I wasted very few. I had adventures, revelations, excitement, laughter, passion, friendship, and sex with precisely the people I wanted to—what more could I ask for?
This friend found me through Facebook, as have a few others recently. He knew me before I announced my homosexuality, back when I was in the closet, trying to sort some of the affections and affectations acquired secondhand in the preceding years, namely my evangelical Christian faith. He, on the other hand, has happily married, adopted two children, now grown, and built a career teaching religion at a midwestern seminary. He, too, seems at peace with his life, different from mine as it is. He wrote me a lengthy message. I wrote a long message back—celebrating my own memories and fondness for the time we spent together as friends back then, also speaking frankly, yet kindly, I hope, about how life has so far removed me from all that now. What his response to my message is, I have no idea.
So today I’m getting old, really getting it.
I’m not nostalgic. I’m both deeply in tune with my present situation—this now—and aware that all of this unfolded over decades—and continues to unfold—for how much longer? Less than the journey’s already been, that’s for sure.
Outside the cicadas sound their science-fictiony hum, in overlapping percussive waves, and my trousers tumble rhythmically in the dryer, zippers ticking erratically. The light in the venetian blinds is gray-green—autumn is coming. My toes are cold in thin socks. My cock strikes a different pose in my Polo Ralph Lauren briefs as the eroticism of my body, gray, palely age-spotted, and going to flab, becomes a conscious thought. I smell the salt of my skin.
I’m not becoming complacent. I hope not. I’m still well aware of the millions of things that need to be done to make the world a better place. I am not resigned to death—though today it doesn’t worry me. I can still imagine tomorrows that I would like to experience. I am not claiming any kind of wisdom here. This is not the end of the book—but it is a point where you can sort of see the end coming.
It’s a good thing.
This morning I’m re-embracing my adolescent love of solitude and independence—not to be equated with isolation or social phobia.—but neither calculating how to adjust to current trends nor agonizing over how to build an identity of my own—not terribly concerned with preparing for my future or reading the beads of my past. I’m kind of settling in today to the self that I have built up for the past half century.
It’s comfortable—and just my size.
Last night I corresponded at length with an old friend from over 30 years ago and in the process discovered that I don’t miss my youth at all. It was, of course, fantastic while it lasted—if I wasted some hours of it along the way, and I did, I like to think I wasted very few. I had adventures, revelations, excitement, laughter, passion, friendship, and sex with precisely the people I wanted to—what more could I ask for?
This friend found me through Facebook, as have a few others recently. He knew me before I announced my homosexuality, back when I was in the closet, trying to sort some of the affections and affectations acquired secondhand in the preceding years, namely my evangelical Christian faith. He, on the other hand, has happily married, adopted two children, now grown, and built a career teaching religion at a midwestern seminary. He, too, seems at peace with his life, different from mine as it is. He wrote me a lengthy message. I wrote a long message back—celebrating my own memories and fondness for the time we spent together as friends back then, also speaking frankly, yet kindly, I hope, about how life has so far removed me from all that now. What his response to my message is, I have no idea.
So today I’m getting old, really getting it.
I’m not nostalgic. I’m both deeply in tune with my present situation—this now—and aware that all of this unfolded over decades—and continues to unfold—for how much longer? Less than the journey’s already been, that’s for sure.
Outside the cicadas sound their science-fictiony hum, in overlapping percussive waves, and my trousers tumble rhythmically in the dryer, zippers ticking erratically. The light in the venetian blinds is gray-green—autumn is coming. My toes are cold in thin socks. My cock strikes a different pose in my Polo Ralph Lauren briefs as the eroticism of my body, gray, palely age-spotted, and going to flab, becomes a conscious thought. I smell the salt of my skin.
I’m not becoming complacent. I hope not. I’m still well aware of the millions of things that need to be done to make the world a better place. I am not resigned to death—though today it doesn’t worry me. I can still imagine tomorrows that I would like to experience. I am not claiming any kind of wisdom here. This is not the end of the book—but it is a point where you can sort of see the end coming.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
All men's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone (Blaise Pascal)
Sometimes I just have to get away from the music.
My appreciation of music (although I took college courses called Music Appreciation and History of Music) is limited—eclectic, occasionally ecstatic (I used to go into a trance on the dance floor—and I am still apt to lean forward and tap my toe during a classical concerto, in contrast to the staid reserve of season ticket holders), but still it is limited.
As a rule, I don’t surround myself with music—and the free iPod I got with my MacBook I gave away to a friend more likely to use and enjoy it.
I’m just as likely to soak in (and feel deeply) regular environmental noises as to play CDs or listen to the radio.
As I write this, the rain is hitting the branches outside my window. My dryer is whirring and rhythmically clunking with a load of bath towels. My dog is sniffing and licking his teeth. The neighbors are opening and shutting drawers. I hear my own breathing, and now and then hear (or just almost hear) the sound of my heart beating.
Lao Tzu says silence is a source of strength. Rarely do I experience real silence—absolute quiet is impossible, I guess, short of the grave. But moments of silence, fleeting and imperfect, can sometimes be (to speak prettily for a moment) lovely as melodies and bracing as drums.
My appreciation of music (although I took college courses called Music Appreciation and History of Music) is limited—eclectic, occasionally ecstatic (I used to go into a trance on the dance floor—and I am still apt to lean forward and tap my toe during a classical concerto, in contrast to the staid reserve of season ticket holders), but still it is limited.
As a rule, I don’t surround myself with music—and the free iPod I got with my MacBook I gave away to a friend more likely to use and enjoy it.
I’m just as likely to soak in (and feel deeply) regular environmental noises as to play CDs or listen to the radio.
As I write this, the rain is hitting the branches outside my window. My dryer is whirring and rhythmically clunking with a load of bath towels. My dog is sniffing and licking his teeth. The neighbors are opening and shutting drawers. I hear my own breathing, and now and then hear (or just almost hear) the sound of my heart beating.
Lao Tzu says silence is a source of strength. Rarely do I experience real silence—absolute quiet is impossible, I guess, short of the grave. But moments of silence, fleeting and imperfect, can sometimes be (to speak prettily for a moment) lovely as melodies and bracing as drums.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Frisson
This morning I had a sensation I haven’t felt since (I think) childhood.
Playing hooky from division meetings at work and recovering from something I shouldn’t have eaten yesterday afternoon, I was reading chapters out of several books, when I attempted and immediately succeeded in replicating the sense of a vibration under the skin—all around the body—almost like the feeling of the sun lightly and pleasantly on the skin, only in this case felt on the hidden side of the skin.
Physical (or almost physical), not imaginary (or, at least, not entirely imaginary), not exactly sexual, but exciting—like the feeling of excitement, a bright, clean feeling.
Hard to explain.
When I was in elementary school, I had this feeling when people borrowed something belonging to me—a pen or a pencil, say—and as they handled it or used it I would feel a bubbling sensation, as if (I imagined) they were somehow touching me—but it wasn’t that exactly, the sensation was all inside. Later, as an adult, I remembered the feeling, but thought it might have been a symptom of pre-adolescent pansexuality.
This morning, I was able to maintain the feeling while continuing to read and do various tasks around the apartment. I sense it even now as I write, to varying degrees.
It’s somewhere between a sense of temperature (hot/cold) and a different consciousness, perhaps a deeper than usual awareness of being—mindfulness or heightened presence in the senses.
I wonder how long I can keep this up.
.
Playing hooky from division meetings at work and recovering from something I shouldn’t have eaten yesterday afternoon, I was reading chapters out of several books, when I attempted and immediately succeeded in replicating the sense of a vibration under the skin—all around the body—almost like the feeling of the sun lightly and pleasantly on the skin, only in this case felt on the hidden side of the skin.
Physical (or almost physical), not imaginary (or, at least, not entirely imaginary), not exactly sexual, but exciting—like the feeling of excitement, a bright, clean feeling.
Hard to explain.
When I was in elementary school, I had this feeling when people borrowed something belonging to me—a pen or a pencil, say—and as they handled it or used it I would feel a bubbling sensation, as if (I imagined) they were somehow touching me—but it wasn’t that exactly, the sensation was all inside. Later, as an adult, I remembered the feeling, but thought it might have been a symptom of pre-adolescent pansexuality.
This morning, I was able to maintain the feeling while continuing to read and do various tasks around the apartment. I sense it even now as I write, to varying degrees.
It’s somewhere between a sense of temperature (hot/cold) and a different consciousness, perhaps a deeper than usual awareness of being—mindfulness or heightened presence in the senses.
I wonder how long I can keep this up.
.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Cause
My life is full of plot holes and continuity errors, probably why I have no problem with these things in movies and novels.
I have a problem with cause and effect. I’ve grown up, of course, educated in the high probability that actions have effects and that events do not occur without causes. It’s just difficult for me to recognize them in the real world, apart from fiction. (Novelist E.M. Forster demonstrated that causality is the very basis of fiction—“The king died and then the queen died” is no story; however, “The king died and then the queen died OF GRIEF” is a story.)
And given the exacting conditions of cause—that event X must precede event Y, that X and Y must be proximate, that X cannot occur without Y, and that Y cannot occur without X, it’s a wonder to me that anybody believes in causality.
Though I understand logic very well, I am not by nature a logical creature. I’m a thwarted intuitionist—“thwarted,” that is, by my education and a society that goes so far as to identify scapegoats—no problem if they’re innocent, in many cases—just to satisfy its craving for cause and effect.
I’m not denying that causes and effects exist. I’m just saying that they are a difficult concept for me to wrap my head around. However, the limits of language being what they are, I still use the language of causality, words like “therefore,” “so,” “because,” and “consequently.”
As I’ve gotten older, I am more skeptical about the efficacy of politics, expertise, even medicine—not just because they so seldom produce the effects they seem to promise but also because the so-called effects, when they are identified, are often matters of prior belief rather than open-minded observation.
I’m not holding my breath for science to tell me where my homosexuality came from or for politics to predict what’s going to happen in the Middle East—however much pundits and experts claim to base their positions on evidence.
I’m also a bit less curious now about what caused the world (God?) or what causes all the bad things in life (the devil?). To quote another favorite novelist, Joan Didion, I give you perhaps the most thrilling opening lines of any novel: “What makes Iago evil? some people ask. I never ask.”
I have a problem with cause and effect. I’ve grown up, of course, educated in the high probability that actions have effects and that events do not occur without causes. It’s just difficult for me to recognize them in the real world, apart from fiction. (Novelist E.M. Forster demonstrated that causality is the very basis of fiction—“The king died and then the queen died” is no story; however, “The king died and then the queen died OF GRIEF” is a story.)
And given the exacting conditions of cause—that event X must precede event Y, that X and Y must be proximate, that X cannot occur without Y, and that Y cannot occur without X, it’s a wonder to me that anybody believes in causality.
Though I understand logic very well, I am not by nature a logical creature. I’m a thwarted intuitionist—“thwarted,” that is, by my education and a society that goes so far as to identify scapegoats—no problem if they’re innocent, in many cases—just to satisfy its craving for cause and effect.
I’m not denying that causes and effects exist. I’m just saying that they are a difficult concept for me to wrap my head around. However, the limits of language being what they are, I still use the language of causality, words like “therefore,” “so,” “because,” and “consequently.”
As I’ve gotten older, I am more skeptical about the efficacy of politics, expertise, even medicine—not just because they so seldom produce the effects they seem to promise but also because the so-called effects, when they are identified, are often matters of prior belief rather than open-minded observation.
I’m not holding my breath for science to tell me where my homosexuality came from or for politics to predict what’s going to happen in the Middle East—however much pundits and experts claim to base their positions on evidence.
I’m also a bit less curious now about what caused the world (God?) or what causes all the bad things in life (the devil?). To quote another favorite novelist, Joan Didion, I give you perhaps the most thrilling opening lines of any novel: “What makes Iago evil? some people ask. I never ask.”
Friday, July 18, 2008
Nature?
Is homosexuality a product of nature or nurture? Did I choose to be attracted to men? Is bisexuality the norm? Did my environment condition me to find the male physique a turn-on? Or was I born “that way”?
I don’t fucking know.
Not that I don’t think the questions are important. They are. For that matter, I’m curious why I prefer brunet to blond, tall to short, hairy to smooth, a bit of paunch, albeit firm, to washboard abs. Moreover, I’d like to understand why I can not develop a taste for Brussels sprouts.
I sympathize with many people’s reasoning that if somehow scientists could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that homosexuality is an acquired genetic trait, society would grow more tolerant of homosexual behavior. Perhaps, but I don’t particularly think so, because biological explanations didn’t do much to win equal rights for women or blacks, now did they? And, in the U.S., a large portion of the population can not digest Darwinism, so forget adding the arithmetic it takes to grasp Mendelian inheritance.
For what it’s worth, my position is that even if I chose to screw men purely on a whim, my right to do so is self-evident in my rights to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” provided I don’t step on other people’s rights to same.
If I can choose between Coke and Pepsi, the path is clear for me to choose between men and women, as well. What’s more, I don’t think I have to sign a binding contract to fuck one sex exclusively.
That said, it’s hard for me to believe that any man doesn’t believe his penis has a mind of its own. Can I remember ever instructing my penis to crave men? No, I do not. Quite the opposite. As a good born-again Christian for years and years I prayed that the stubborn little prick would wise up and accept the majority opinion in such matters. Neither it nor God responded to my attempts to negotiate.
When guys ask me how I decided to be gay, I ask them how they decided to be straight. Several have told me that they do in fact remember making such a decision, but most guys get my point right away.
Do I remember a point in my life when I said, “What the hell I guess I’m gay.” You bet. And what a relief! Since then it’s all been a matter of semantics: do I really think the word “gay” applies to me? hasn’t it come to be basically a marketing term for a target group of consumers? does it imply, as some would argue, a whole set of subcultural affects above and beyond homosexual attraction? Those questions still pop up from time to time.
But did I ever decide not to be ashamed of myself for my sexual inclinations and tastes? Most definitely, yes.
And do I believe that I’m entitled to equal rights with my heterosexual peers? Hell, yes.
But would I feel any better knowing I had no choice whatsoever in whom I’d like to sack? I’d have to say no. It would interest me theoretically, I guess, but it wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference to me.
I don’t fucking know.
Not that I don’t think the questions are important. They are. For that matter, I’m curious why I prefer brunet to blond, tall to short, hairy to smooth, a bit of paunch, albeit firm, to washboard abs. Moreover, I’d like to understand why I can not develop a taste for Brussels sprouts.
I sympathize with many people’s reasoning that if somehow scientists could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that homosexuality is an acquired genetic trait, society would grow more tolerant of homosexual behavior. Perhaps, but I don’t particularly think so, because biological explanations didn’t do much to win equal rights for women or blacks, now did they? And, in the U.S., a large portion of the population can not digest Darwinism, so forget adding the arithmetic it takes to grasp Mendelian inheritance.
For what it’s worth, my position is that even if I chose to screw men purely on a whim, my right to do so is self-evident in my rights to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” provided I don’t step on other people’s rights to same.
If I can choose between Coke and Pepsi, the path is clear for me to choose between men and women, as well. What’s more, I don’t think I have to sign a binding contract to fuck one sex exclusively.
That said, it’s hard for me to believe that any man doesn’t believe his penis has a mind of its own. Can I remember ever instructing my penis to crave men? No, I do not. Quite the opposite. As a good born-again Christian for years and years I prayed that the stubborn little prick would wise up and accept the majority opinion in such matters. Neither it nor God responded to my attempts to negotiate.
When guys ask me how I decided to be gay, I ask them how they decided to be straight. Several have told me that they do in fact remember making such a decision, but most guys get my point right away.
Do I remember a point in my life when I said, “What the hell I guess I’m gay.” You bet. And what a relief! Since then it’s all been a matter of semantics: do I really think the word “gay” applies to me? hasn’t it come to be basically a marketing term for a target group of consumers? does it imply, as some would argue, a whole set of subcultural affects above and beyond homosexual attraction? Those questions still pop up from time to time.
But did I ever decide not to be ashamed of myself for my sexual inclinations and tastes? Most definitely, yes.
And do I believe that I’m entitled to equal rights with my heterosexual peers? Hell, yes.
But would I feel any better knowing I had no choice whatsoever in whom I’d like to sack? I’d have to say no. It would interest me theoretically, I guess, but it wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference to me.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Offense
Earlier this week somebody asked me whether people ever get offended at some of the things I say. “Sure, sometimes,” I said, and asked him whether he was offended by something I had said. “No, just wondering,” he said, “because of some of the things you say in class.”
I don’t set out to offend anybody. I have almost no compulsion to shock others. I have opinions, even entire worldviews, that are at odds with what people are used to hearing, but I don’t adopt them simply to be contrary.
In the classroom I rarely share my opinions, less out of timidity or prudence (I sometimes do express personal positions and see nothing wrong with teachers freely expressing their opinions) than out of a desire to get students to think for themselves, knowing, from experience, that students often grab hold of teachers’ opinions as substitutes for coming up with their own.
But I have no problem if my ideas offend others. It’s part of the learning process. A lot of people are offended by anything that doesn’t neatly fit into the order of things as they have come to understand it. I imagine Plato’s wanderer shocked some cavedwellers when he pointed out that the shadows on the wall are not the only reality there is. Any ideas to substantially improve society are at first going to sound shocking to those who have spent lifetimes nesting in the status quo.
I’m not running for office or selling anything, so, so what if something I say offends people? It’s something they have to learn to deal with in the same way that I have to deal with some of the strange, silly shit other people say—such as, in a current debate in the North Carolina legislature, that Jesus wants to exclude gay and lesbian kids from the protections granted in a proposed anti-bullying bill.
Furthermore, if you don’t offend people with your ideas sometimes, I have serious reservations about the value of your ideas. If what you have to say or write about is so obvious as to be anticipated, readily absorbed, or taken for granted, why bother communicating it all?
I don’t set out to offend anybody. I have almost no compulsion to shock others. I have opinions, even entire worldviews, that are at odds with what people are used to hearing, but I don’t adopt them simply to be contrary.
In the classroom I rarely share my opinions, less out of timidity or prudence (I sometimes do express personal positions and see nothing wrong with teachers freely expressing their opinions) than out of a desire to get students to think for themselves, knowing, from experience, that students often grab hold of teachers’ opinions as substitutes for coming up with their own.
But I have no problem if my ideas offend others. It’s part of the learning process. A lot of people are offended by anything that doesn’t neatly fit into the order of things as they have come to understand it. I imagine Plato’s wanderer shocked some cavedwellers when he pointed out that the shadows on the wall are not the only reality there is. Any ideas to substantially improve society are at first going to sound shocking to those who have spent lifetimes nesting in the status quo.
I’m not running for office or selling anything, so, so what if something I say offends people? It’s something they have to learn to deal with in the same way that I have to deal with some of the strange, silly shit other people say—such as, in a current debate in the North Carolina legislature, that Jesus wants to exclude gay and lesbian kids from the protections granted in a proposed anti-bullying bill.
Furthermore, if you don’t offend people with your ideas sometimes, I have serious reservations about the value of your ideas. If what you have to say or write about is so obvious as to be anticipated, readily absorbed, or taken for granted, why bother communicating it all?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Kids
Neighborhood kid comes up to me while I'm walking my dog. "What kind of dog is that?" he asks. "A whippet," I say, "like a small greyhound." The kid mumbles something I take to be "He's pretty." "Thanks," I say. "He's skinny," the kid repeats, with consonants this time. "Oh yes," I say, "really skinny." The kid is blunt and expressionless, almost like he's poking my dog or me with a stick when he talks, shows no interest in petting the dog or making further small talk with me. He has the head-shape and facial expressions of a cantaloupe. I think it's the same kid that came up to me a few weeks ago and asked whether my dog was peeing. "Yep." What more could I say? Hardly worth discussing the obvious. I'm not crazy about kids in general and tend to talk to them as if they're adults--small, dumb adults. Not that I hate them or anything. I just don't see the innate charm of being a kid--no more than I'm wowed by infants, teens, ingenues, young adults, the middle aged, or the elderly. What's so endearing about being a certain age? And this kid's an asshole. It's my intuition anyway. I don't have the evidence to prove it, but I'm starting to take notes.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Wave of the Present
I got my first laptop just one year ago. It’s great and, next to my dog, it’s my most valued possession.
I don’t have a cell phone—about eight years ago, I had one for over a year that I used at most six times, for a total of perhaps eight minutes—not worth the expense.
I have a digital camera, which I love, but a part of me misses film—I even miss the 24-hour wait before finding out what the images look like—almost like carrying a pregnancy to full term. For some reason, I take fewer pictures with my digital camera than I did with my old chemo-mechanical cameras.
In some respects, I’m surprised to find myself saying these things, because you’d think modern communications are tailor-made for people like me. Frankly, I’m not particularly good in social situations even of the old-fashioned face-to-face variety. I’m introverted, blunt to the point of rudeness, self-absorbed, easily distracted, and often unmannerly.
In the hierarchy of media, though, I prefer face-to-face talk to the telephone, my least favorite communications tool—just slightly below billboards.
I enjoy e-mail, as a rule, but, next to face-to-face talking, my favorite means of communicating is the handwritten personal letter.
Why?
Letters have texture and scent.
I rather like the flavor of gummed envelopes and stamps.
Letters can be re-read, analyzed, and wrapped in ribbon for storage—and then …
You can unexpectedly come across old letters while you’re looking for something else.
Letters exist in time and space.
Letters are slow—e-mail is like drive-thru fast food compared to a letter’s homemade dinner.
Handwriting is more expressive than typeface. It indicates the personality and mood of the writer, so a handwritten letter displays an array of visual cues and thus offers a fuller communication experience.
Writing letters requires thought, the setting aside of time to do the task, alone. As a result, letters are essentially intimate—especially in contrast to calling somebody from the supermarket checkout.
Letters are not only written in private but also usually read in private.
Letters arrive in sealed envelopes, and opening them is like opening a small wrapped present.
Letters may contain money … or a strand of hair … or the imprint of a kiss … or fingerprints … or tear stains … or a self-addressed stamped envelope for reply.
Handwritten letters are still the preferred means of conveying our most personal sentiments—condolences, congratulations, thanks—which suggests that letters may be key to maintaining some measure of intimacy, respect, and humanity in a machine-driven world.
(For efficiency I can understand using machines in business. But in personal life? Isn’t it a bit like keeping a stapler as a pet? or clocking in and out of your own home? or treating your friends like clients? And is there even an equivalent e-mail term for “love letter”?)
Letters are mysterious, messy, flammable, discreet, material, surprising, impressive, suspenseful, satisfying, and human.
Despite emoticons, the day of the passionate e-mail has not yet arrived. In the meantime, we still have postage stamps, stationery, and ink.
I don’t have a cell phone—about eight years ago, I had one for over a year that I used at most six times, for a total of perhaps eight minutes—not worth the expense.
I have a digital camera, which I love, but a part of me misses film—I even miss the 24-hour wait before finding out what the images look like—almost like carrying a pregnancy to full term. For some reason, I take fewer pictures with my digital camera than I did with my old chemo-mechanical cameras.
In some respects, I’m surprised to find myself saying these things, because you’d think modern communications are tailor-made for people like me. Frankly, I’m not particularly good in social situations even of the old-fashioned face-to-face variety. I’m introverted, blunt to the point of rudeness, self-absorbed, easily distracted, and often unmannerly.
In the hierarchy of media, though, I prefer face-to-face talk to the telephone, my least favorite communications tool—just slightly below billboards.
I enjoy e-mail, as a rule, but, next to face-to-face talking, my favorite means of communicating is the handwritten personal letter.
Why?
Letters have texture and scent.
I rather like the flavor of gummed envelopes and stamps.
Letters can be re-read, analyzed, and wrapped in ribbon for storage—and then …
You can unexpectedly come across old letters while you’re looking for something else.
Letters exist in time and space.
Letters are slow—e-mail is like drive-thru fast food compared to a letter’s homemade dinner.
Handwriting is more expressive than typeface. It indicates the personality and mood of the writer, so a handwritten letter displays an array of visual cues and thus offers a fuller communication experience.
Writing letters requires thought, the setting aside of time to do the task, alone. As a result, letters are essentially intimate—especially in contrast to calling somebody from the supermarket checkout.
Letters are not only written in private but also usually read in private.
Letters arrive in sealed envelopes, and opening them is like opening a small wrapped present.
Letters may contain money … or a strand of hair … or the imprint of a kiss … or fingerprints … or tear stains … or a self-addressed stamped envelope for reply.
Handwritten letters are still the preferred means of conveying our most personal sentiments—condolences, congratulations, thanks—which suggests that letters may be key to maintaining some measure of intimacy, respect, and humanity in a machine-driven world.
(For efficiency I can understand using machines in business. But in personal life? Isn’t it a bit like keeping a stapler as a pet? or clocking in and out of your own home? or treating your friends like clients? And is there even an equivalent e-mail term for “love letter”?)
Letters are mysterious, messy, flammable, discreet, material, surprising, impressive, suspenseful, satisfying, and human.
Despite emoticons, the day of the passionate e-mail has not yet arrived. In the meantime, we still have postage stamps, stationery, and ink.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Custom Made for a Daydreaming Boy
My last day of summer classes was on Monday, and contrary to my expectations, I have not spent the week reading.
I’ve picked up a couple of books, a gay detective story and a gay memoir, but couldn’t get past page 12 on either. The former is clogged up with similes, by my estimate 8-14 per page (like a toilet full of tampons), and the latter tries hard to be David Sedaris but without, you know, humor.
I’m willing to take part of the blame. I’m probably too tired after reading freshmen essays to read much of anything else just yet. I can’t even bring myself to crack open THE MAGUS, though a month ago I greatly enjoyed re-reading Fowles’ THE FRENCH LIEUTENANT’S WOMAN.
I’m not watching television either. Everything I find on television is boring—and loud—not a winning combination. I’ve enjoyed watching some dvds (SHELTER is the best-acted gay-themed movie I think I’ve ever seen), but practically every movie I’d be interested in seeing I’ve already seen.
My e-correspondence has not been successful of late. I had already lost one friend a few weeks ago when I defended Barack Obama from charges that he’s a crypto-Muslim and anti-American—looking back, I should have edited the word “dumbfuck” before hitting send.
Last night another friend wrote, “I don’t blame Bush … he gets blamed for everything.” Besides deleting a couple of paragraphs detailing my daydream of personally stomping the President’s face into the sidewalk, I did little to spare the writer’s feelings or illusions. Obviously, these are friends who haven’t seen me in a long, long while—decades, really.
My dog and I take longer walks than usual—about three miles in the mornings and the evenings, when it’s not so hot outside. We play fetch a lot more than usual, too.
I’m gradually upping the amount of exercise I do—nothing spectacular, just push-ups, sit-ups, and curling my 15-pound dumbbells.
And jerking off. I’ve perfected my widescreen fantasy of nude-oil-wrestling Channing Tatum (twins, he turns out to be) in the weightlessness of Barbarella’s spaceship.
I should take a stab at cleaning up the apartment. I’ve washed five weeks’ worth of laundry in the last 48 hours. But there’s dusting to be done, too. And if I could get ambitious, I’d throw out some old stuff that’s just taking up space.
But ambition is what I lack. I am cut out for a life of idleness—physically and mentally. I lounge around the apartment with my dog Tom Ripley, pretty much taking my cues from him on what to do next. Napping excessively works for both of us.
What amazes me is the time just zips by! I used to think that time flew only when I was involved in something stimulating. But I’m hardly into my third nap of the day before I realize the day is over.
I’ve picked up a couple of books, a gay detective story and a gay memoir, but couldn’t get past page 12 on either. The former is clogged up with similes, by my estimate 8-14 per page (like a toilet full of tampons), and the latter tries hard to be David Sedaris but without, you know, humor.
I’m willing to take part of the blame. I’m probably too tired after reading freshmen essays to read much of anything else just yet. I can’t even bring myself to crack open THE MAGUS, though a month ago I greatly enjoyed re-reading Fowles’ THE FRENCH LIEUTENANT’S WOMAN.
I’m not watching television either. Everything I find on television is boring—and loud—not a winning combination. I’ve enjoyed watching some dvds (SHELTER is the best-acted gay-themed movie I think I’ve ever seen), but practically every movie I’d be interested in seeing I’ve already seen.
My e-correspondence has not been successful of late. I had already lost one friend a few weeks ago when I defended Barack Obama from charges that he’s a crypto-Muslim and anti-American—looking back, I should have edited the word “dumbfuck” before hitting send.
Last night another friend wrote, “I don’t blame Bush … he gets blamed for everything.” Besides deleting a couple of paragraphs detailing my daydream of personally stomping the President’s face into the sidewalk, I did little to spare the writer’s feelings or illusions. Obviously, these are friends who haven’t seen me in a long, long while—decades, really.
My dog and I take longer walks than usual—about three miles in the mornings and the evenings, when it’s not so hot outside. We play fetch a lot more than usual, too.
I’m gradually upping the amount of exercise I do—nothing spectacular, just push-ups, sit-ups, and curling my 15-pound dumbbells.
And jerking off. I’ve perfected my widescreen fantasy of nude-oil-wrestling Channing Tatum (twins, he turns out to be) in the weightlessness of Barbarella’s spaceship.
I should take a stab at cleaning up the apartment. I’ve washed five weeks’ worth of laundry in the last 48 hours. But there’s dusting to be done, too. And if I could get ambitious, I’d throw out some old stuff that’s just taking up space.
But ambition is what I lack. I am cut out for a life of idleness—physically and mentally. I lounge around the apartment with my dog Tom Ripley, pretty much taking my cues from him on what to do next. Napping excessively works for both of us.
What amazes me is the time just zips by! I used to think that time flew only when I was involved in something stimulating. But I’m hardly into my third nap of the day before I realize the day is over.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Driving 55
Long long ago I gave up on wishing I could be somebody else. Sure, I would change some things if I could, opportunities more than choices.
I’m 55, 55 and a quarter, on the crest of middle age, with the certainty of an eventual wipeout in view.
I’m single. By choice. No regrets. Naturally, opportunities for sweaty casual fucking thin out with age, especially for someone like me, lacking the desperation the situation perhaps calls for, averse to pursuing unexciting quarry for the sake of having my ticket punched. But, honestly, no regrets.
As a community college instructor, I have good seats for observing the young—the beautiful and the not so beautiful—so I can say with certainty that I do not wish to be young again. I like young people, looking at them and teaching them and hearing their outlooks on life. But I do not want to join them. Envy is not what I am writing about.
Still I want to be the best that I can be, and I have to admit I have let myself go lately. I haven’t stepped in a gym for five years. Letting oneself go is of course liberating in its own way—a way of shouting fuck you to other people’s expectations—but carried too far, it dims energy, pleasure, and hopefulness.
I think it would do me good to look after myself better than I have been doing.
To live is to move forward.
I’m 55, 55 and a quarter, on the crest of middle age, with the certainty of an eventual wipeout in view.
I’m single. By choice. No regrets. Naturally, opportunities for sweaty casual fucking thin out with age, especially for someone like me, lacking the desperation the situation perhaps calls for, averse to pursuing unexciting quarry for the sake of having my ticket punched. But, honestly, no regrets.
As a community college instructor, I have good seats for observing the young—the beautiful and the not so beautiful—so I can say with certainty that I do not wish to be young again. I like young people, looking at them and teaching them and hearing their outlooks on life. But I do not want to join them. Envy is not what I am writing about.
Still I want to be the best that I can be, and I have to admit I have let myself go lately. I haven’t stepped in a gym for five years. Letting oneself go is of course liberating in its own way—a way of shouting fuck you to other people’s expectations—but carried too far, it dims energy, pleasure, and hopefulness.
I think it would do me good to look after myself better than I have been doing.
To live is to move forward.
Monday, June 23, 2008
“Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker, and Tits"
George Carlin (1937-2008); Dody Goodman (1914-2008)
I never found George Carlin either offensive or funny, though I believe people when they say how much his standup meant to them. He seemed like a nice enough guy in interviews, and I hate to hear that anyone decent has died, but I didn’t get him, I guess … like the “seven words” bit, a classic, but these words have not made me feel giddy or naughty since I was maybe thirteen. And it’s not as if he was the first comic to use these words.
Carlin is still a hard act to follow, but comic actress Dody Goodman also died yesterday, in the shadows of the announcement of his death. She, at least, I thought was funny—though, a bit shrill in long exposures—thankfully, she never was onscreen long enough to wear out her welcome with me. She wasn’t a standup comic, at least not to my knowledge, but her distinctive voice and timing, along with her “dizzy redhead” look of perpetual amazement, worked well for her in shows like MARY HARTMAN, MARY HARTMAN and the small character roles she got in films like BEDTIME STORY and GREASE.
I’m kinda lukewarm in the eulogies department, I see. Sorry about that, for all you fans out there. But today I walked out into the sunlight after my classes and suddenly realized I was walking in a different, distinctive way, not my usual stride.
Then it occurred to me that I was walking like my friend Luis used to walk on days like this, Luis who died four years ago last month of complications with Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
That realization choked me up all of a sudden, and I thought, “Shit. Luis should be here now, walking his own motherfucking walk.”
So for those of you who knew or loved Carlin or Goodman, my thoughts are with you now, and with my pal Luis.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
24 Satisfying Things that Make Every Day a Pleasure
peeing
shitting
jerking off
picking off a dry scab, touching the pink new skin underneath
smelling hot food
cuddling a pet
taking off shoes
getting mail
scratching an itch
pulling the sheet and the blanket up to your collarbone
noticing clouds or stars or squirrels or pinecones
passing the asshole who just cut you off on the freeway
remembering a dream or a part of a dream
pouring wine into a glass
popping a pimple or blackhead
making somebody smile
taking a deep breath
stapling
leaning against a tree
laughing till you cry
counting your money
blowing your nose
having the last word
massaging your toes
shitting
jerking off
picking off a dry scab, touching the pink new skin underneath
smelling hot food
cuddling a pet
taking off shoes
getting mail
scratching an itch
pulling the sheet and the blanket up to your collarbone
noticing clouds or stars or squirrels or pinecones
passing the asshole who just cut you off on the freeway
remembering a dream or a part of a dream
pouring wine into a glass
popping a pimple or blackhead
making somebody smile
taking a deep breath
stapling
leaning against a tree
laughing till you cry
counting your money
blowing your nose
having the last word
massaging your toes
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