Its a Sunday morning. I've been sleeping in on Sundays for as long as I can remember, but for some reason, despite the fact I was writing till 2am (burning Sandalwood incense that was making me a little high) and listening to Pink Floyd, I'm still awake at 9:30. Shit. My Sundays usually involve a trip to Wal-Mart, maybe later I'll catch a movie with a few of my good friends who also doesn't ascribe to Sundays, and once in a while, I'll go over to the flea market and pick up some more CDs and Sandalwood incense. I haven't gone to church regularly since elementary school. However, somewhere in the dark recesses of my psyche, is a layer of Catholic Guilt, and I feel guilty if I don't confess some sins once in a while. I've got a big one to confess this week and as I don't really have a priest to confess to, I'll confess to you guys, through this column.
Its something I've been horrified of ever since Who Wants to Be A Millionaire came on TV. Sure, I watched Millionaire, right along with everyone else in America for the first few months. But that was different. That was a game show. I love watching Game Show Network. It doesn't count, however sad it may be. It boosted my already vast stores of trivial knowledge. (And yet I still suck at Trivial Pursuit. Go figure.) I found I could answer a lot of the questions faster and more accurately than the contestants. And I did scream at my TV. Once. When the man who went for the million dollar question was asked "What Ship Rescued the Survivors of the Titanic?" Yes kids, this was after everyone in America had heard Leonardo DiCaprio declare he was the "King of the World". When the man got the question wrong (The answer is The Carpathia, you idiot! The Carpathia!) I yelled. I screamed. I would have cussed him out but my mother was sitting next to me and I don't curse in front of my mother. Maybe its because I loved learning about the Titanic way before the movie came out and could probably tell you anything you wanted to know about that night in April. Maybe its because if it were me up there *I* would have been walking with a million dollars.
Then, the real sinning began when an enterprising network saved its soul in the form of a little something called Survivor. While I'm sure this show made a fascinating study for the Sociologists among us, I thought it was much more exciting to watch my slightly tipsy family members interacting with other slightly tipsy family members at Christmas dinner than a bunch of random people eating bugs in the middle of nowhere and complaining about the heat. Besides. Air Conditioning is a beautiful thing. Sunburns in weird places, are not.
I balked at the atrocity of Survivor (Yes, I did watch the last episode of that first season), and wanted to vomit during multiple episodes of Fear Factor. I never quite understood the point of either Big Brother or The Mole. The Bachelorette was interesting, as was its predecessor, The Bachelor . However, I didn't see how difficult it could be for someone as good looking as Alex or Trista to meet someone other than through the murky channels of Reality Television.
And then it happened, that thing I don't like to talk about, that I need to confess. You see, despite all of these previous attempts to lure me into the evil web of Reality TV Addiction, one of them caught me. Sometime in either June or July, I got hooked on a Reality TV Show. It came in the form of a makeover show, called Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I swear on my Les Miserablés novel I only watched it because after weeks of "Is that really him???" I realized that yes indeed, Jai ("The Culture Guy") was in fact the same actor I saw on Broadway a few summers ago. He's a fantastic dancer and is just adorable, either as "The Culture Guy" on Queer Eye or as Angel in RENT. That, and it was pretty fun to get to see the straight guy outnumbered by a bunch of gay men for once.
I was particularly intrigued to know what these straight, mostly attached men ("I missed too many wedding anniversaries", "I want to propose to the girlfriend", " I want the girlfriend to move in", etc.) felt whenever one of the guys made an overtly sexual joke in his direction (And virtually every scene involves at least one) or at the end of the episode, when one of the queers would kiss the straight guy on the neck or on the cheek. I wonder if they thought it was a gesture out of friendship or the thought of another boy kissing him on the cheek was a threat to his own masculinity.
And then something very intriguing happened. A very enterprising soul at BRAVO came up with the concept of what is now commonly referred to as "Queer-o-Vision". Playing episodes of Queer Eye For the Straight Guy, following episodes of another new show for all the homos out there in Reality TV land. Yes kids, I'm talking about Boy Meets Boy.
In case you haven't been watching Queer-o-Vision on BRAVO Tuesday nights because you, like myself, are horrified at the idea of Reality TV and are protesting by not viewing, (Or protesting because watching a show "because its gay" is stupid. Agreed.) this is the premise. A ridiculously good looking queer bachelor named James is given fifteen men to get to know, and possibly have a relationship with. Every week, James and his potential mates (Oh, and his best woman friend, Andra) go on group dates and hang out around the pool, and every week three guys are eliminated. The rest are asked to stay when offered a glass of champagne. If you watched Alex and Trista on their shows, this is quite reminiscent of the rose ceremony. Here's the catch: Some of the men are actually straight and neither James, Andra, or the gay mates know this. (You'd think you'd be able to click into your gaydar and just know, but trust me, it wasn't that easy with all of them.)
In order to win the game the straight mates must pretend to be someone they aren't. He has twenty five thousand dollars as incentive to beat the gay guys and win the money. If one of the gay mates are chosen, he and James go on a fabulous trip to New Zealand, I believe it was. Plus, James gets the twenty-five thousand. Say what you want about the fairness to James about the stipulation and getting emotionally involved with a guy who turns out to be straight. (And who among us hasn't had a crush on a close friend who was straight?) You have to admit, its a very intriguing concept.
Let me put this into perspective. A straight guy gets a taste of life on the other side. Where Queers outnumber Breeders and its the Norm to be gay. Where you hear the term "breeder" and know its you they're talking about and you can't let anyone in on the fact its you they're talking about. Where you are expected to be who you aren't and to hide who you truly are in order to fit in with the greater society, even if that society is a house. Where you are expected to live a lie or else be "found out". Where you're constantly questioning your motives, the way you talk, the way you walk, the way you sway your hips, the pronouns you use to talk about your lovers. Where you are constantly questioning yourself if you're hiding who you are to prove a point (rather, to prove to the homos you're not straight.) or to win the prize for the best actor. Where every minute of every day there is the chance that the nagging thoughts in the back of your mind of, "Why am I afraid of showing them who I really am" will slip and you will come to a point where one more man tries to kiss you thinking you're "one of them" and when you don't respond he questions whats wrong with you, and you have to throw up your hands and say, "I can't take this anymore. I'm straight." On that day, you realize the only person you're really fooling is yourself. You can't be afraid of being who you are because if you're living for someone else and not yourself, you're living a lie. To these men (and presumably women who watch the show), I say, welcome to our world.
Most of the straight guys came off the show saying how that experience had changed their perspective of the way queer folk (that would be us) viewed the world-as outcasts. And how it would be impossible to come out of living in that house with those guys and not learn something about themselves.
Most notable of all these in my mind, was Dan. Dan was a jock-type, short, stocky, good looking, and whenever questioned about his past relationships, he muttered something murky about a man in New York he was currently seeing but they were "open" to dating other people. Two episodes ago, when he got kicked off, Dan came out as a straight guy and said something about how he admired the gay men (and presumably women as well) who had gone through what he had merely tasted for a few weeks, trying to fit into a culture to which they knew they didn't belong-straight culture. He said how he admired them for having the courage to throw up their hands and say, "I can't take this anymore" and stop denying who they were. Dan, I applaud you, wherever you are.
This is what Reality TV should be about. Not lies or deception to win twenty five thousand dollars, but people having genuine learning experiences about themselves and other people. After a dozen or more test trials, the people finally got it right. So hats off to you, BRAVO for finally making Reality TV somewhat bearable, and a special thanks to Dan, wherever you are, for showing you true colors are beautiful, even if they are aren't necessarily a rainbow.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
The Letter I'll Never Send
Note to readers: This piece is meant to be a monologue of sorts from myself to my mother about the things I wish she knew about me, and in how many ways my life changed during the period described.
Mother, can I talk to you for a minute? There's something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about lately...well, about the last fifty-three days actually. There's a whole part of my life that you've been purposely kept in the dark about, and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. Things have happened in the last fifty-three days that you don’t know about, that have made me question some things about myself and who I am. I was born with the innate knowledge that I know if not who I am, I know who I love. That knowledge is quite possibly the only thing (other than a very dear friend who’s existence you know nothing of, nonetheless how much he means to me) that has gotten me through the last fifty-three days...I know who I love. Or do I? Or does anyone, truly know who they love? I’m not even sure anymore. You’re asking me what love has to do with all of this. You’re asking me, with the insatiable romantic spirit, what love has to do with anything. Love has everything to do with this, mother.
Don’t get me wrong. Believe me, I’m not talking about …him. Please, don’t make me think of him right now, the man to whom I gave two years of my life. We are close friends now, nothing more, although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him back in my life. I don’t really think its him I miss, exactly, I miss the way he used to make me feel. The way he still does. You know, I thought I’d never feel that way about anyone. Ever. But you know what? I think I may have found that person.
I know you’re worried about me, mother. I think I know at least one reason as to your fears. You think I’m gay, that I love girls, don’t you? Its all right, I don’t mind being upright and honest with you about this, one of us has to start the conversation. You’re half right-I do love girls. But not even I am qualified to tell you weather or not I’m gay. To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure, I’ve never really been sure, and I don’t care. Yes, its true most of my friends are gays, lesbians, and bisexuals, but you should also know how little an effect my friends, gay, straight, or elsewise have on me, have ever had on me.
When did this start? I guess it all started with that damn rainbow armband I display on my purse, ever since the Amnesty protest that wasn’t a protest. Your words have stuck with me: “You know Jen, if you wear that, people may think that you’re…” Why couldn’t you say the word? Lesbian. It’s not so difficult, you know. I remember what I said to you…I looked directly into your eyes and said, “Mother, I’m not gay. If I were, you know I’d tell you." Like the day grandma was over and the subject came up, yet again, and you looked into my eyes again and told me, "I would never love you any differently if either you or your brother came out to me." I hugged you that day, not only for my own reassurance, but for all the kids, too many of them I knew, who’s parents and friends and family had nothing but horrible, vile things to say about homosexuals. Like my best friend’s mother, who believed I was a “lesbian out to seduce her daughter.” As much as I love my best friend, and I love her dearly, we’re closer than sisters (Just not in that way…but truth be told, I wouldn’t mind if we were.) but the woman is straight. She has a straight boyfriend who she loves and who loves her more than anything in the universe. He’s a good man for her and I wouldn’t dare. You stood up for me to her mother, even though I knew I could see the question marks circling your head about your own daughter’s sexuality. The refrain was the same: “I’m not gay. I’d tell you if I was.”
I thank God you are someone not only I can talk to about just about everything, but for those who maybe couldn’t tell their parents just yet, you knew, and loved them just the same because of the person they were, and not because of their sexuality.
I thank you mother, for allowing me to join the gay organization on campus. I’m proud of the work I do for the club. They make me feel at home. I belong with these people, even though I’m not one of them, not sexually anyway. I haven’t been through the process of coming out to everyone, and I don’t know what its like for your boyfriend to leave you for another man. I have come to realize these people are just normal human beings(Well, as normal as a group of college students can get), who have the same problems I do, only they’re just gay. I’m still getting used to a club where the men wear makeup and have more piercings in more orifices as opposed to the women who don’t and have virtually nothing in comparison. I think the thing that attracts me to them most, is their openness about expressing who they are without caring what everyone else in The Olive Garden may think of them. I’ve always been that way and it’s like coming home to a place where I actually belong. I don’t need to come out of the closet to do that, let alone a closet that may or may not exist.
These last fifty-three days I’ve been more than a little emotionally out of whack. In these last fifty-three days I haven’t coyly slid into your bed beside you and gossiped about my life. These last fifty-three days I’ve gone to my own room crying my eyes out in the name of unrequited love or jumping for silent joy in the back yard in the middle of the night thanking whoever is up there beyond the stars that I have something to live for. I’ve been so happy and so sad and pissed off and jubilant and depressed all because of one person who was once just a mystery to me, someone who has just bounced into my life, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that. You know nothing of how I’ve felt these last fifty-three days, at least not about this. I’ve wanted to tell you so many times, but the words just weren’t there. Just think mother, I haven’t even written a poem about this yet, and you know as well as I do what the subject of most of my poetry is about. Yes, love, and so much more…I guess this is my attempt to catch you up on the last fifty-three days.
You see mom, there’s this girl. No, no one you’ve met. I have not had the courage to introduce you to her. All right, if you must know, her name is Charlotte. Mother, she’s beautiful…There are no other words to describe her. She is beautiful in every possible way a person can be beautiful…in heart, mind, body, spirit, soul, she’s just so beautiful. She takes my breath away. Everything that attracted me to him is now attracting me to Charlotte and that is something I thought I’d never feel again.
I have found every quality I have ever sought for in a man, in the beautiful body of this amazing woman I have come to adore in these last fifty-three days. Sure, I’ve talked to numerous friends, straight, gay, and in between, and they all believe I’m bisexual. Both of my best friends are convinced of this. The club members all think I’m confused. I, quite frankly, don’t like the idea of labeling myself, mother. If I fall in love with a woman, I want to just be with her without having to tell the world I’m bisexual. I’ve always believed, you know this, and I’ve written articles in the news paper about this, that I don’t believe in labeling people, because labeling leads to stereotypes and stereotyping leads to unnecessary problems.
I guess the reason I never told you was because I wasn’t sure how you’d react. Sure, you’d love me just the same, you’ve told me before, and it would go without saying. But with my preference pendulum swinging as it has lately, I didn’t want to tell you about her and then be with men for the rest of my life. You know? If I told you, I wanted to be sure, and I’m just…not.
It made me feel a little uncomfortable, that I could say something about how cute my best friend and her boyfriend are together (But I could never talk to you of how I liked both of them last year. No, that was kept to myself, especially after her mother believed I was out to make her a lesbian. The truth is, the girl just is not interested, and she’s with a wonderful man. They are happy together, and they more than deserve each other, which is something I can’t say about every couple I know.) but you said yourself when I said something about another friend and her girlfriend, you said it would take you getting used to. I figured if I couldn’t tell you how happy I am that he found someone to love as deeply as he does, I couldn’t tell you about Charlotte. And that’s a shame, because you know how hard it is for me to keep something like this from you.
I guess I should just stop beating the bush and just say it. Mom, I like girls. Don’t get me wrong, mother. I love checking out the beautiful men when I walk down the beach with my friends. But what you may not know, that I haven’t told you in the last fifty-three days since Charlotte walked into my life, that every time I walk down the beach, I’ve kept watching the girls Michael may think are beautiful. (And between you an I, he has horrible taste in women, for a straight man. Far too skinny and nothing in their heads.)
I know you’ll understand this, unlike many other parents I know. I always think of Allison's mother, who is afraid I’m the scary “Lesbian out to seduce her daughter.” When I think of how lucky I am to have you as a mother. I just wanted to say thank you, mother, for letting me talk about these last fifty-three days.
Love,
your daughter
What John Lennon Said About Love
I cried the day he told me he was gay.
It wasn’t that the thought of Bryan being gay surprised me. To be perfectly honest with you, I had always known. I must admit this though-there did come a point in our friendship when I had begun praying for all straight woman-kind that their knight in shining armor they waited for day and night, the man they had hoped would come save them from their dragons, would do so and not seek a knight of his own.
I knew that day what I had known all along. The man I had loved for as long as I can remember was gay. Bryan was gay. I had always regarded sexual identity as just one of many traits, acquired over time or something he was born with, the things I had always loved about him: the actor, human rights activist, poet, philosopher, and so many other things that made him…Bryan. I especially loved the way he treated his friends as family and loved them as such. I could say or do nothing to change him, nor did I wish to alter such an intrinsic part of one of my dearest friends. There was something special about him from the moment I met him that I couldn't quite place, but I knew it was there. As time progressed and I became better acquainted with this utterly fabulous man, I found it more and more difficult to grasp exactly how lucky I truly was to have met such a wonderful person.
The day I knew Bryan was gay was just an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, three days after I graduated from high school. It wasn’t a big secret he had been keeping from us all, for fear we would hate him forever, that we would excommunicate him from our close-knit family of friends. He never turned to me and said, "I'm gay." or bounced into the chorus room one day during lunch and said, "Hey guys, I have an announcement to make." It was a much more subtle understanding that day among us all, and I will never forget the look in his eyes. It was as if the sparkles that had fled from them the year or so ago was back again, and this time it was permanent.
But what an injustice to straight woman-kind! Surely this is an injustice of a higher sort, a cruel joke the Gods are playing on us silly mortals. (As of course you know, they like to do things like that, they’re Gods, what else are they going to do with their unlimited amount of time? Surely they aren’t trying to convince the muses to help us poor starving writers out there with our Writer’s Block, or even carousing with scores of Goddesses, but no! Do you know what their entertainment is up there? That’s right, making fun of us silly mortals and the stupid things we do, like fall in love, regardless of which gender we fall in love with.) Is Loki up to his old tricks again? Well if you know Loki as well as I do, you know he is probably the one responsible for this terrible fact every straight woman has faced, or will face, sometime in her life: being attracted to a gay man. If you haven’t, let me tell you now, its not one of the most pleasant situations of your life. I should know. Its happened to me, silly little mortal me, at least twice. But enough about me. I’m going to tell you the rest of my story now.
I gained such an insight to the tenacity of the human spirit that day that I had never experienced before. I will never know what it was like for him, to stand before the people he had loved throughout school, not to mention dealing with his family, and coming out of the closet, for better or for worse. I knew as well as he did who he had to worry about the most, but I admired him for his courage to put himself out there like that. To stand boldly before the people you love, the family you were born to and the family composed of friends you have chosen, to tell them something some of them will never accept, understand, or believe, who you are and what you stand for, that has to take some guts. I guess I never told him how I admired him for his ability to do so.
I feared for him when he finally did make it known this was who he was, for better or worse, we would either accept him or we weren’t his friends in the first place, and I knew the latter was never an option. I had learned first hand early on in my school career how malicious the high school grape vine could be. I wanted so much for him then, as I still do now, and always will. I wanted him to be able to be himself- the same kid I could talk to for hours over coffee, if our schedules were not in constant conflict. He was still the same person I could confide in when I knew I had no one else. But living in Podink Nowhere, how could a man proclaiming himself gay possibly have a nice, normal dating life (well, as normal as teenage dating can get) as any straight man can boast of?
I soon learned, after talking to Bryan and many others, that my fears were my own. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he knew something I didn’t. Bryan knew exactly who he was, what he stood for, and who he loved. I cheered him on as I always had, dismissing my tears resulting from tumultuous relationship difficulties of my own, deciding your problems were more important than mine. And thanks to my dear friend and our decreed Gods of Coffee and Pasta Alfredo, we helped each other through our problems. We were a team, as I had always hoped we would be. Maybe batting for different teams as it were, but I cared not, because we were friends and in little leauge softball, it doesn’t matter which team you play for; you all come out victorious in the end. I knew that Bryan was still the same man I loved ten minutes before I knew he was gay, and you know what? I loved him even more for telling me. Coming out to our friends was the core of what I believe he is: The man who fights for what he believes in, is true to himself, and to those who he holds dear to his heart.
I guess I should explain now that I am one of…those poets. You know the type. Keeps a little sketch diary of the things and people she sees, recording little details and fragments of verse that skip through her imagination from time to time. One of those poets who can write ten poems about every situation, every love interest, however fleeting, she has ever had in her life, and has done so. Saying this, I wrote a poem depicting my feelings not about his coming out day, but that of my dear friend Joshua who had come out to me the year before. When I stood at that podium at an open-mic poetry night I faithfully attend once a month and introduced the piece, I suffered my usual case of momentary panic, but this time I knew I was somewhat justified. What would they say if I read a poem that was so blatantly about a drag queen who also happened to be one of my dearest friends?
Once more I gazed intently into Bryan’s eyes at the back of the room. I knew then the poem I was about to read was what I had been waiting to tell him, the things he needed to hear, and things I needed to tell the friend who was there that night and not so far out of his closet yet. I was going to speak for all those who I knew have never been able to speak about such things. I was the voice in the silence and I would read these words, mine, Joshua’s, Bryan’s, and all the others who must never speak a word of the one they love because according to some relative or priest it wasn’t right. Joshua was not able to be there that night I transformed his story and that of so many others into poetic expression. But Bryan was there. This was the opportunity I had been waiting for months.
I will never forget the moment I read that piece, titled “Beautiful Boy” (Rightfully so, after the incredible song by John Lennon) to that hushed audience. I wasn’t even sure was ready to hear such a thing, but I was more than ready to read it. I felt like I had to read it. About halfway through the poem, I could feel his eyes upon me as I spoke the words that were if I was speaking the words upon his heart:
Maybe at one point
You felt like a freak of nature
Why me?
Why couldn’t it be someone else…
I was in tears at this point, but I knew it wasn’t over yet, as I could feel his eyes burning into mine as I continued to read:
You knew it wasn’t right, at least not for you
You knew who you were
Your true friends understand
You only lost those
Who should have been there in the first place.
You had the courage to chase after your dreams
And became an actor
An unruly, unfit profession
So your father told you
But you knew it was who you were
This was the life you were born to live
I don’t recall ever feeling such a current of love as that night he held me beneath the full moon of that humid Floridian August night. I never loved you more than that night.
Something I learned that year, something that Bryan taught me, was that no part of growing up and finding yourself is easy. To realize you are different, that you somehow do not fit into the puzzle of society can not be easy, and to accept those differences, to go beyond the barriers and celebrate who you are, that’s bravery at its finest. I cried the day he told me he was gay, as I am crying as I write this, because I know the magnitude of fear I felt then, and not even that can surpass the joy I feel for him now.
You see, that same knight in shining armor that has a thousand well-qualified women both known and unknown to him pining for the day the would meet, found a knight of his own not long after that humid Wednesday in June. I’d like to think of him as a long-awaited award for conquering the most challenging and treacherous dragon of them all-accepting one’s own self.
It took all my strength to finish the piece at open-mic poetry night, but by some miracle or the grace of the Gods, I did it. I will never forget that moment I finished when my eyes met yours, nor the look in your eyes as I spoke the final two lines of the poem. Those two lines will ring true for Bryan, for Joshua, and all the rest who have ever and will ever say to me, "Jen, I have something to tell you.":
I couldn’t love you more
But you know I love you just the same.
It wasn’t that the thought of Bryan being gay surprised me. To be perfectly honest with you, I had always known. I must admit this though-there did come a point in our friendship when I had begun praying for all straight woman-kind that their knight in shining armor they waited for day and night, the man they had hoped would come save them from their dragons, would do so and not seek a knight of his own.
I knew that day what I had known all along. The man I had loved for as long as I can remember was gay. Bryan was gay. I had always regarded sexual identity as just one of many traits, acquired over time or something he was born with, the things I had always loved about him: the actor, human rights activist, poet, philosopher, and so many other things that made him…Bryan. I especially loved the way he treated his friends as family and loved them as such. I could say or do nothing to change him, nor did I wish to alter such an intrinsic part of one of my dearest friends. There was something special about him from the moment I met him that I couldn't quite place, but I knew it was there. As time progressed and I became better acquainted with this utterly fabulous man, I found it more and more difficult to grasp exactly how lucky I truly was to have met such a wonderful person.
The day I knew Bryan was gay was just an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, three days after I graduated from high school. It wasn’t a big secret he had been keeping from us all, for fear we would hate him forever, that we would excommunicate him from our close-knit family of friends. He never turned to me and said, "I'm gay." or bounced into the chorus room one day during lunch and said, "Hey guys, I have an announcement to make." It was a much more subtle understanding that day among us all, and I will never forget the look in his eyes. It was as if the sparkles that had fled from them the year or so ago was back again, and this time it was permanent.
But what an injustice to straight woman-kind! Surely this is an injustice of a higher sort, a cruel joke the Gods are playing on us silly mortals. (As of course you know, they like to do things like that, they’re Gods, what else are they going to do with their unlimited amount of time? Surely they aren’t trying to convince the muses to help us poor starving writers out there with our Writer’s Block, or even carousing with scores of Goddesses, but no! Do you know what their entertainment is up there? That’s right, making fun of us silly mortals and the stupid things we do, like fall in love, regardless of which gender we fall in love with.) Is Loki up to his old tricks again? Well if you know Loki as well as I do, you know he is probably the one responsible for this terrible fact every straight woman has faced, or will face, sometime in her life: being attracted to a gay man. If you haven’t, let me tell you now, its not one of the most pleasant situations of your life. I should know. Its happened to me, silly little mortal me, at least twice. But enough about me. I’m going to tell you the rest of my story now.
I gained such an insight to the tenacity of the human spirit that day that I had never experienced before. I will never know what it was like for him, to stand before the people he had loved throughout school, not to mention dealing with his family, and coming out of the closet, for better or for worse. I knew as well as he did who he had to worry about the most, but I admired him for his courage to put himself out there like that. To stand boldly before the people you love, the family you were born to and the family composed of friends you have chosen, to tell them something some of them will never accept, understand, or believe, who you are and what you stand for, that has to take some guts. I guess I never told him how I admired him for his ability to do so.
I feared for him when he finally did make it known this was who he was, for better or worse, we would either accept him or we weren’t his friends in the first place, and I knew the latter was never an option. I had learned first hand early on in my school career how malicious the high school grape vine could be. I wanted so much for him then, as I still do now, and always will. I wanted him to be able to be himself- the same kid I could talk to for hours over coffee, if our schedules were not in constant conflict. He was still the same person I could confide in when I knew I had no one else. But living in Podink Nowhere, how could a man proclaiming himself gay possibly have a nice, normal dating life (well, as normal as teenage dating can get) as any straight man can boast of?
I soon learned, after talking to Bryan and many others, that my fears were my own. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he knew something I didn’t. Bryan knew exactly who he was, what he stood for, and who he loved. I cheered him on as I always had, dismissing my tears resulting from tumultuous relationship difficulties of my own, deciding your problems were more important than mine. And thanks to my dear friend and our decreed Gods of Coffee and Pasta Alfredo, we helped each other through our problems. We were a team, as I had always hoped we would be. Maybe batting for different teams as it were, but I cared not, because we were friends and in little leauge softball, it doesn’t matter which team you play for; you all come out victorious in the end. I knew that Bryan was still the same man I loved ten minutes before I knew he was gay, and you know what? I loved him even more for telling me. Coming out to our friends was the core of what I believe he is: The man who fights for what he believes in, is true to himself, and to those who he holds dear to his heart.
I guess I should explain now that I am one of…those poets. You know the type. Keeps a little sketch diary of the things and people she sees, recording little details and fragments of verse that skip through her imagination from time to time. One of those poets who can write ten poems about every situation, every love interest, however fleeting, she has ever had in her life, and has done so. Saying this, I wrote a poem depicting my feelings not about his coming out day, but that of my dear friend Joshua who had come out to me the year before. When I stood at that podium at an open-mic poetry night I faithfully attend once a month and introduced the piece, I suffered my usual case of momentary panic, but this time I knew I was somewhat justified. What would they say if I read a poem that was so blatantly about a drag queen who also happened to be one of my dearest friends?
Once more I gazed intently into Bryan’s eyes at the back of the room. I knew then the poem I was about to read was what I had been waiting to tell him, the things he needed to hear, and things I needed to tell the friend who was there that night and not so far out of his closet yet. I was going to speak for all those who I knew have never been able to speak about such things. I was the voice in the silence and I would read these words, mine, Joshua’s, Bryan’s, and all the others who must never speak a word of the one they love because according to some relative or priest it wasn’t right. Joshua was not able to be there that night I transformed his story and that of so many others into poetic expression. But Bryan was there. This was the opportunity I had been waiting for months.
I will never forget the moment I read that piece, titled “Beautiful Boy” (Rightfully so, after the incredible song by John Lennon) to that hushed audience. I wasn’t even sure was ready to hear such a thing, but I was more than ready to read it. I felt like I had to read it. About halfway through the poem, I could feel his eyes upon me as I spoke the words that were if I was speaking the words upon his heart:
Maybe at one point
You felt like a freak of nature
Why me?
Why couldn’t it be someone else…
I was in tears at this point, but I knew it wasn’t over yet, as I could feel his eyes burning into mine as I continued to read:
You knew it wasn’t right, at least not for you
You knew who you were
Your true friends understand
You only lost those
Who should have been there in the first place.
You had the courage to chase after your dreams
And became an actor
An unruly, unfit profession
So your father told you
But you knew it was who you were
This was the life you were born to live
I don’t recall ever feeling such a current of love as that night he held me beneath the full moon of that humid Floridian August night. I never loved you more than that night.
Something I learned that year, something that Bryan taught me, was that no part of growing up and finding yourself is easy. To realize you are different, that you somehow do not fit into the puzzle of society can not be easy, and to accept those differences, to go beyond the barriers and celebrate who you are, that’s bravery at its finest. I cried the day he told me he was gay, as I am crying as I write this, because I know the magnitude of fear I felt then, and not even that can surpass the joy I feel for him now.
You see, that same knight in shining armor that has a thousand well-qualified women both known and unknown to him pining for the day the would meet, found a knight of his own not long after that humid Wednesday in June. I’d like to think of him as a long-awaited award for conquering the most challenging and treacherous dragon of them all-accepting one’s own self.
It took all my strength to finish the piece at open-mic poetry night, but by some miracle or the grace of the Gods, I did it. I will never forget that moment I finished when my eyes met yours, nor the look in your eyes as I spoke the final two lines of the poem. Those two lines will ring true for Bryan, for Joshua, and all the rest who have ever and will ever say to me, "Jen, I have something to tell you.":
I couldn’t love you more
But you know I love you just the same.
The Kafka Paper
Once in a while, usually when it's relevant, I like to tell the story about how I squeaked out of gym in college because I could elect to take a health credit instead, which is exactly what I did. This class, Psychology of Adjustment, was perfect for me. The teacher was an older hippie woman and we wrote a lot of papers. These papers had to be at least four pages, but we were encouraged to stop writing whenever we felt like we'd said everything we had to say. Incidentally, my papers generally ran into eight to ten pages each. This particular teacher absolutely loved me, and endlessly praised my writing, calling it both humorous and provocative-weather that is true or not, I'll let you decide. I think it's very indicative of who I was two years ago when I wrote it.
I still talk about one particular paper I wrote for this class, feeling it was among the strongest writing I'd ever done. In eight pages, I got to expound on nearly every subject that makes my inner geek happy-musical theater, literature, homosexuality, bisexuality, politics, and religion. I also painted the briefest, most accurate portrait of one of my dearest friends and got to make very light fun of a man I no longer speak to. The task was to tell our dear Dr. Jae who we thought we were, and what would happen if we woke up one morning completely changed into something different, ala Kafka's Metamorphosis. We had to talk about how our friends and family would react to our change, how we lived with it. For this particular paper, I conducted an experiment to see what that reaction would be like, on a much smaller scale.
I had been talking about this particular paper several times recently, and went on a quest through the bowels of my hard drive, with no luck. I thought it was lost forever. And then, after a moderate stroke of genius, I looked through the archives of the online journal I've kept since high school, and I Found It.
So, without further ramblings, I bring to you, "The Kafka Paper".
*****
In Jerry Herman’s brilliantly funny musical La Cage aux Folles, the character Albin, tired of hiding who he is, sings the moving anthem, “I Am What I Am.” A verse of the poignant lyrics are as follows:
I don’t want praise, I don’t want pity
I bang my own drum
Some think its noise, I think its pretty
And so what if I love each sparkle and each bangle?
Why not try things from a different angle?
Your life is a sham till you can shout,
“I AM WHAT I AM!”
The song has since become something of a coming out anthem for homosexuals, bisexuals, and everyone in between, and was also on one of the season soundtracks for Showtime’s gay drama “Queer as Folk”. The reason I cite this particular song is because everyone does (or should) go through periods in their lives where they question who they are and what they believe in. I’ve gone through this soul searching process thrice in the last ten years, twice for religious reasons, once for questioning my sexuality.
In a much more recent musical, Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx’s Avenue Q, the cast sings a beautiful ensemble piece called “I Wish I Could Go Back to College”, in which the character Princeton, a young man fresh out of school and looking for his place in the world, sings the following line: “In college you know who you are.” In Princeton’s spirit, I am in college, and not only do I know who I am, I have a pretty good idea of what I want and need to do with my life. I know what I believe in, I know where my sexual attractions are, and unlike other times in my life, I’ve finally stopped running from the truth-I embrace and celebrate it. I am who I am, I love who I love, and though I recognize that I am ever evolving, and will until I die, this is where I stand at this particular moment in my life.
I’m a twenty-two year old Taurus, politically way left of Bill Clinton, liberal socialist, pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, anti-death penalty, anti-discrimination, anti-racism, and anti-Bush. Religiously, I am a cultural Catholic who attends an Episcopalian church two hours every year (in addition to the rare wedding or funeral) on December 24th, but for the rest of the year, I subscribe to my own brand of Agnosticism that says, “I don’t know if God exists and I really don’t care.” Sexually, I am emotionally and physically bisexual and spiritually homosexual (Try figuring that one out, and then explain it to me.). I don’t believe in violence, war, guns, pantyhose, scare tactics, rape, politics, censorship, shaving your legs for reasons other than aesthetics, or political correctness. I sound like a cat who missed the bus to Woodstock by a few generations, don’t I? But that’s who I am. Who I am is what I believe in, and in this world, you have to believe in something. I believe in the healing power of music, choice, sunrises, sunsets, sexual freedom between consenting adults, literature, truth, beauty, freedom, and above all else I believe in Love. I believe everyone, especially AIDS patients, should be as free to light up a joint as they are to smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol, safely and responsibly. I strongly believe in the importance of education, and that every child who wants to go to college should be able to go. I read banned books, listen to uncensored music, and proudly quote Douglas Adams, Jon Stewart, and Allen Ginsberg’s poetry at great length. My great passion is music, my love is literature, and my intense fascination is social-history.
I was clearly born in the wrong era. Do 20-somethings nowadays really listen to National Public Radio, watch PBS, and care about the state of the union? Do they watch The History Channel with such religious zeal they’ve seen all those documentaries at least twice? Do they keep a visible list of the books they’ve read in the last year, and books they want to read? Do they get sick of the apathy in people our age when it comes to political issues that affect them? Do they find themselves having to seek out older folks who do care about those things, just to have someone to talk to? Do they really watch CNN and C-SPAN? I answer all those questions with a resounding YES. So maybe I’ll never win a popularity contest because I was too busy caring more about the election than Britney Spears, and I really am an incurable nerd. I will say, however, if I ever end up on Jeopardy, I have good odds at giving them all a run for their money. Ken Jennings, eat your heart out. Since I readily embrace my nerd status, I’ve often thought about what it would be like if, say, I were to wake up tomorrow as a flamboyantly gay Catholic male.
I wake alone. There are no girlfriends or boyfriends to speak of, but should I be spending the night at the apartment of the young man I’m sleeping with (who once told me he supports gay marriage as long as they’re both hot), I’m sure he’d be in for quite a shock. Long before he’s had his coffee, he’d be questioning how he felt about what he’d been doing the previous night with who he thought was a woman. I imagine myself looking down at that beautifully proportioned young man, and into the lovely brown eyes and at my newly acquired body parts that look an awful lot like his, and hear the following conversation in my head: “Sorry, Fletcher, I guess I’m a man”. “What happened to your vagina?” He’d ask, quickly pulling the covers over us, or jumping out of bed so quickly his poster of Miss November is almost compromised in the process. “I don’t know.” I shrug, and as I peer at Miss November, I realize that I am much less interested looking at her than I had been the previous night. Jennifer had enjoyed watching her as Fletcher was going about his business, but me? The newly transformed person inside this male body had no interest in her. I ponder this as I feel for my shorts and leave a very confused friend in a state of shock as I stumble into the bathroom and take a good look at myself in the mirror.
The change is astounding. The hair that has been long all my life is gone, replaced with a short cut that looks like it had been done only twenty minutes ago. The color is different as well, and has been replaced with Jennifer’s natural color-dark brown. The male body I see has been sculpted into one that is tall, lean, and flat. Oh my god, I’m one of those gay guys Jennifer used to go nuts about. I realize, as I flashed a smile and, borrowing some clothes from Jennifer’s very, very confused friend, find her car keys and jump into her purple Neon. I proceed to drive to Jennifer’s favorite coffee shop where I get bagels and coffee, drive to the beach, and contemplate what I am to do next.
I desperately try to remember those shows Jennifer had seen on TV about transsexuals and how one of the first steps they perform is to create a new identity. On the beach that morning, I christened myself Joshua and celebrated by going to the mall and finding something to wear until either I change back into a woman or I am able to go through Jennifer’s closet and find what still fits. I catch Joshua swishing his hips back and forth more than Jennifer ever did, and, knowing that its not entirely safe to do such things in Daytona, he carefully monitors his patterns of speech, gestures, and those hips.
When I’ve procured something wearable that will project my new image as metrosexual, rather than the fag-of-the-month, I pile into Jennifer’s car and drive home, wondering what has happened. Why, in all of God’s green earth, did He choose me to have this opportunity? He must have known Jennifer, though she’s not exactly the most religious woman on the planet, has been dying to know what it’s like to literally walk through life for a period of time in the shoes of a gay man. She must be ecstatic, of course, I can feel her screaming, “How lucky are you, Joshua, you get to sleep with all the gay boys I’ve ever liked!” but at the same time, I’m scared. Daytona isn’t exactly the safest place for me. But where can I go? New York, a city Rita Mae Brown once described as a city so full of queers that one more won’t rock the boat, is too far away. There is one place, I realize, much closer to home, where my newly acquired swish will be welcome with open arms. I hear myself calling Jennifer’s best friend Laura and inform her that I’ll be at her apartment before the end of the afternoon, and that everything will be explained as best I can.
After talking to Jennifer’s very confused friend, I find myself inexplicably driving into the church on the corner, where Jennifer is only seen on a rare occasion. Crossing myself, I quietly enter the dark wood doors and sinking into a pew, I inexplicably start to cry. I can hear Jennifer asking why we’re in a church, but I am crying so, I can barely understand her questions. I see the familiar face of the Father, an old friend of Jennifer’s, and cry harder. He places a hand on my shoulder and asks what was wrong, and I confessed to him that I was gay, and how on earth I was going to live my life as a devout Episcopalian and a homosexual. I hear Jennifer’s voice in my head, saying that God loves me just the way I am, but how would she know that? She doesn’t even believe in anything! Father Jeff turns to me and says that nothing is wrong with my thoughts or feelings towards men, that God does love me. Jeff and I pray together, which Jennifer is stunned to find was the first genuine prayer she’s said in years. I shake his hand in gratitude and piling into Jennifer’s purple Neon, begin the two hour drive to Gainesville, to see her best friend.
Laura takes a long look at me and asks me who I am and what happened. I explain the fantastic story-I had been sleeping over at Fletcher’s house (At which she shook her head and said, “Again?!”) and I woke up like this. She had more questions that I hadn’t even begun to ponder. How long will this last? Does this transformation mean that Jennifer is still bisexual, or something else? I told her that the transformation hadn’t been only physical. I explained to her about the church, and how I had broken down and cried. She expressed the same confusion that Jennifer had: “You don’t believe in anything!” I know, I tried to tell her, if anyone knows that it’s you. I explained, how, upon scrawling a note to Fletcher, I discovered I was now right handed. I also mentioned how I was pretty sure I was gay, a fact that was cemented when I realized I wasn’t slightly interested in her-something I knew Jennifer had been for the duration of their enduring friendship. Laura, bless her, took a long look at me and asked in a quiet voice I had never heard from her before, what I should be called. I asked her to call me Joshua, and she hugged me, declaring I could stay as long as I’d liked, and she could try to hook me up with a few of her gay friends. After living with Jennifer’s best friend (who quickly grew accustomed to living with another gay guy) for a while, I seemed content in never changing back, though I could tell that Jennifer wanted to come back. A week later, waking beside Laura after a night at her favorite gay bar, I found myself once again with parts that looked more like hers and less like those I had had the previous week.
The thing that most interested me about Kafka’s Metamorphosis (and there were many) was that Gregor never questioned why he was transformed into a hideous bug. He literally shrivels up and dies because he realizes his life is completely devoid of meaning. In my scenario, Joshua was still able to live a relatively normal existence, while still being with friends and participating in things that Jennifer once enjoyed. Joshua, unlike Gregor, had something to hold onto while he waited to see what happened next. Of course, the only way to know how someone will react to change is to experience change. In a seemingly unrelated event, I dyed my hair red last week. I had never done it before, and always wanted to do so. So, on Wednesday night after my Italian class, I went to have a few drinks at my favorite bar, talked to the bartender, and subjected myself to a baseball game on TV. I drove home thinking about change. More specifically, I thought about what you had said to the girl who could never imagine being gay-that maybe to explore that, she needed (but didn’t have to) write about it. I’d had this thing I was afraid of doing, and I found myself believing the only way to know how people (myself included) would react, was to just do it. The first question out of my mother’s mouth was “WHY?” I needed a change. I did it, and you know what? Every time I’ve passed a mirror in the last week, I can’t help but laugh-My hair is RED! And I absolutely love it. The consensus has been favorable, and unlike my imaginary penis, the reaction is genuine, and my hair is going to be this way for white a while, and I think even though I could definitely get used to the idea of being a redhead (just like I think I could get used to the idea of being a gay man), I’ll probably still laugh a bit whenever I look into the mirror.
*****
Epilogue:
I've changed very little since writing this paper. I'm 26 years old, and I no longer talk to Fletcher. Laura is still my best friend, and I have every confidence she would react exactly the same if such a thing were to actually happen.
I still talk about one particular paper I wrote for this class, feeling it was among the strongest writing I'd ever done. In eight pages, I got to expound on nearly every subject that makes my inner geek happy-musical theater, literature, homosexuality, bisexuality, politics, and religion. I also painted the briefest, most accurate portrait of one of my dearest friends and got to make very light fun of a man I no longer speak to. The task was to tell our dear Dr. Jae who we thought we were, and what would happen if we woke up one morning completely changed into something different, ala Kafka's Metamorphosis. We had to talk about how our friends and family would react to our change, how we lived with it. For this particular paper, I conducted an experiment to see what that reaction would be like, on a much smaller scale.
I had been talking about this particular paper several times recently, and went on a quest through the bowels of my hard drive, with no luck. I thought it was lost forever. And then, after a moderate stroke of genius, I looked through the archives of the online journal I've kept since high school, and I Found It.
So, without further ramblings, I bring to you, "The Kafka Paper".
*****
In Jerry Herman’s brilliantly funny musical La Cage aux Folles, the character Albin, tired of hiding who he is, sings the moving anthem, “I Am What I Am.” A verse of the poignant lyrics are as follows:
I don’t want praise, I don’t want pity
I bang my own drum
Some think its noise, I think its pretty
And so what if I love each sparkle and each bangle?
Why not try things from a different angle?
Your life is a sham till you can shout,
“I AM WHAT I AM!”
The song has since become something of a coming out anthem for homosexuals, bisexuals, and everyone in between, and was also on one of the season soundtracks for Showtime’s gay drama “Queer as Folk”. The reason I cite this particular song is because everyone does (or should) go through periods in their lives where they question who they are and what they believe in. I’ve gone through this soul searching process thrice in the last ten years, twice for religious reasons, once for questioning my sexuality.
In a much more recent musical, Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx’s Avenue Q, the cast sings a beautiful ensemble piece called “I Wish I Could Go Back to College”, in which the character Princeton, a young man fresh out of school and looking for his place in the world, sings the following line: “In college you know who you are.” In Princeton’s spirit, I am in college, and not only do I know who I am, I have a pretty good idea of what I want and need to do with my life. I know what I believe in, I know where my sexual attractions are, and unlike other times in my life, I’ve finally stopped running from the truth-I embrace and celebrate it. I am who I am, I love who I love, and though I recognize that I am ever evolving, and will until I die, this is where I stand at this particular moment in my life.
I’m a twenty-two year old Taurus, politically way left of Bill Clinton, liberal socialist, pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, anti-death penalty, anti-discrimination, anti-racism, and anti-Bush. Religiously, I am a cultural Catholic who attends an Episcopalian church two hours every year (in addition to the rare wedding or funeral) on December 24th, but for the rest of the year, I subscribe to my own brand of Agnosticism that says, “I don’t know if God exists and I really don’t care.” Sexually, I am emotionally and physically bisexual and spiritually homosexual (Try figuring that one out, and then explain it to me.). I don’t believe in violence, war, guns, pantyhose, scare tactics, rape, politics, censorship, shaving your legs for reasons other than aesthetics, or political correctness. I sound like a cat who missed the bus to Woodstock by a few generations, don’t I? But that’s who I am. Who I am is what I believe in, and in this world, you have to believe in something. I believe in the healing power of music, choice, sunrises, sunsets, sexual freedom between consenting adults, literature, truth, beauty, freedom, and above all else I believe in Love. I believe everyone, especially AIDS patients, should be as free to light up a joint as they are to smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol, safely and responsibly. I strongly believe in the importance of education, and that every child who wants to go to college should be able to go. I read banned books, listen to uncensored music, and proudly quote Douglas Adams, Jon Stewart, and Allen Ginsberg’s poetry at great length. My great passion is music, my love is literature, and my intense fascination is social-history.
I was clearly born in the wrong era. Do 20-somethings nowadays really listen to National Public Radio, watch PBS, and care about the state of the union? Do they watch The History Channel with such religious zeal they’ve seen all those documentaries at least twice? Do they keep a visible list of the books they’ve read in the last year, and books they want to read? Do they get sick of the apathy in people our age when it comes to political issues that affect them? Do they find themselves having to seek out older folks who do care about those things, just to have someone to talk to? Do they really watch CNN and C-SPAN? I answer all those questions with a resounding YES. So maybe I’ll never win a popularity contest because I was too busy caring more about the election than Britney Spears, and I really am an incurable nerd. I will say, however, if I ever end up on Jeopardy, I have good odds at giving them all a run for their money. Ken Jennings, eat your heart out. Since I readily embrace my nerd status, I’ve often thought about what it would be like if, say, I were to wake up tomorrow as a flamboyantly gay Catholic male.
I wake alone. There are no girlfriends or boyfriends to speak of, but should I be spending the night at the apartment of the young man I’m sleeping with (who once told me he supports gay marriage as long as they’re both hot), I’m sure he’d be in for quite a shock. Long before he’s had his coffee, he’d be questioning how he felt about what he’d been doing the previous night with who he thought was a woman. I imagine myself looking down at that beautifully proportioned young man, and into the lovely brown eyes and at my newly acquired body parts that look an awful lot like his, and hear the following conversation in my head: “Sorry, Fletcher, I guess I’m a man”. “What happened to your vagina?” He’d ask, quickly pulling the covers over us, or jumping out of bed so quickly his poster of Miss November is almost compromised in the process. “I don’t know.” I shrug, and as I peer at Miss November, I realize that I am much less interested looking at her than I had been the previous night. Jennifer had enjoyed watching her as Fletcher was going about his business, but me? The newly transformed person inside this male body had no interest in her. I ponder this as I feel for my shorts and leave a very confused friend in a state of shock as I stumble into the bathroom and take a good look at myself in the mirror.
The change is astounding. The hair that has been long all my life is gone, replaced with a short cut that looks like it had been done only twenty minutes ago. The color is different as well, and has been replaced with Jennifer’s natural color-dark brown. The male body I see has been sculpted into one that is tall, lean, and flat. Oh my god, I’m one of those gay guys Jennifer used to go nuts about. I realize, as I flashed a smile and, borrowing some clothes from Jennifer’s very, very confused friend, find her car keys and jump into her purple Neon. I proceed to drive to Jennifer’s favorite coffee shop where I get bagels and coffee, drive to the beach, and contemplate what I am to do next.
I desperately try to remember those shows Jennifer had seen on TV about transsexuals and how one of the first steps they perform is to create a new identity. On the beach that morning, I christened myself Joshua and celebrated by going to the mall and finding something to wear until either I change back into a woman or I am able to go through Jennifer’s closet and find what still fits. I catch Joshua swishing his hips back and forth more than Jennifer ever did, and, knowing that its not entirely safe to do such things in Daytona, he carefully monitors his patterns of speech, gestures, and those hips.
When I’ve procured something wearable that will project my new image as metrosexual, rather than the fag-of-the-month, I pile into Jennifer’s car and drive home, wondering what has happened. Why, in all of God’s green earth, did He choose me to have this opportunity? He must have known Jennifer, though she’s not exactly the most religious woman on the planet, has been dying to know what it’s like to literally walk through life for a period of time in the shoes of a gay man. She must be ecstatic, of course, I can feel her screaming, “How lucky are you, Joshua, you get to sleep with all the gay boys I’ve ever liked!” but at the same time, I’m scared. Daytona isn’t exactly the safest place for me. But where can I go? New York, a city Rita Mae Brown once described as a city so full of queers that one more won’t rock the boat, is too far away. There is one place, I realize, much closer to home, where my newly acquired swish will be welcome with open arms. I hear myself calling Jennifer’s best friend Laura and inform her that I’ll be at her apartment before the end of the afternoon, and that everything will be explained as best I can.
After talking to Jennifer’s very confused friend, I find myself inexplicably driving into the church on the corner, where Jennifer is only seen on a rare occasion. Crossing myself, I quietly enter the dark wood doors and sinking into a pew, I inexplicably start to cry. I can hear Jennifer asking why we’re in a church, but I am crying so, I can barely understand her questions. I see the familiar face of the Father, an old friend of Jennifer’s, and cry harder. He places a hand on my shoulder and asks what was wrong, and I confessed to him that I was gay, and how on earth I was going to live my life as a devout Episcopalian and a homosexual. I hear Jennifer’s voice in my head, saying that God loves me just the way I am, but how would she know that? She doesn’t even believe in anything! Father Jeff turns to me and says that nothing is wrong with my thoughts or feelings towards men, that God does love me. Jeff and I pray together, which Jennifer is stunned to find was the first genuine prayer she’s said in years. I shake his hand in gratitude and piling into Jennifer’s purple Neon, begin the two hour drive to Gainesville, to see her best friend.
Laura takes a long look at me and asks me who I am and what happened. I explain the fantastic story-I had been sleeping over at Fletcher’s house (At which she shook her head and said, “Again?!”) and I woke up like this. She had more questions that I hadn’t even begun to ponder. How long will this last? Does this transformation mean that Jennifer is still bisexual, or something else? I told her that the transformation hadn’t been only physical. I explained to her about the church, and how I had broken down and cried. She expressed the same confusion that Jennifer had: “You don’t believe in anything!” I know, I tried to tell her, if anyone knows that it’s you. I explained, how, upon scrawling a note to Fletcher, I discovered I was now right handed. I also mentioned how I was pretty sure I was gay, a fact that was cemented when I realized I wasn’t slightly interested in her-something I knew Jennifer had been for the duration of their enduring friendship. Laura, bless her, took a long look at me and asked in a quiet voice I had never heard from her before, what I should be called. I asked her to call me Joshua, and she hugged me, declaring I could stay as long as I’d liked, and she could try to hook me up with a few of her gay friends. After living with Jennifer’s best friend (who quickly grew accustomed to living with another gay guy) for a while, I seemed content in never changing back, though I could tell that Jennifer wanted to come back. A week later, waking beside Laura after a night at her favorite gay bar, I found myself once again with parts that looked more like hers and less like those I had had the previous week.
The thing that most interested me about Kafka’s Metamorphosis (and there were many) was that Gregor never questioned why he was transformed into a hideous bug. He literally shrivels up and dies because he realizes his life is completely devoid of meaning. In my scenario, Joshua was still able to live a relatively normal existence, while still being with friends and participating in things that Jennifer once enjoyed. Joshua, unlike Gregor, had something to hold onto while he waited to see what happened next. Of course, the only way to know how someone will react to change is to experience change. In a seemingly unrelated event, I dyed my hair red last week. I had never done it before, and always wanted to do so. So, on Wednesday night after my Italian class, I went to have a few drinks at my favorite bar, talked to the bartender, and subjected myself to a baseball game on TV. I drove home thinking about change. More specifically, I thought about what you had said to the girl who could never imagine being gay-that maybe to explore that, she needed (but didn’t have to) write about it. I’d had this thing I was afraid of doing, and I found myself believing the only way to know how people (myself included) would react, was to just do it. The first question out of my mother’s mouth was “WHY?” I needed a change. I did it, and you know what? Every time I’ve passed a mirror in the last week, I can’t help but laugh-My hair is RED! And I absolutely love it. The consensus has been favorable, and unlike my imaginary penis, the reaction is genuine, and my hair is going to be this way for white a while, and I think even though I could definitely get used to the idea of being a redhead (just like I think I could get used to the idea of being a gay man), I’ll probably still laugh a bit whenever I look into the mirror.
*****
Epilogue:
I've changed very little since writing this paper. I'm 26 years old, and I no longer talk to Fletcher. Laura is still my best friend, and I have every confidence she would react exactly the same if such a thing were to actually happen.
The Art of Loving on Both Sides of the Barricade
I'm sure you've heard all the rumors about me. I'm just trying to be different and stray from the norm of being straight. I'll leave you for a man. I'll leave you for another woman. I only make out with women when I'm drunk at a party or a club, and only to attract men. I'm not bisexual-I'm a Dyke in Progress. One day, I will have to submit to a lonely, solitary existence with only my vibrator, a lifetime supply of AA batteries, and a subscription to Playboy to keep me company. Someday, in the not so distant future, I'll be the crazy cat lady, and name my feline friends "Dorothy", "Gertrude", and the names of my last three ex-lovers.
My mother will tell you I'm confused, that I'm only going through a phase that will end whenever I graduate from college and settle down with a nice man. My best friend Laura will tell you I'm lucky, because I have twice as many chances for a date as she does on the weekends. My roommates will tell you I'm a whore who will sleep with anyone with a pulse. I was briefly enamored with a woman, whose girlfriend told me I’m disgusting because I sleep with men. Straight men will tell you I'm sexy because I sleep with women, except the straight men with whom I choose to associate. The only lesbian I ever dated once told me I only sleep with men because I'm in denial. To be fair, she might have been a little bitter. After all, I did promptly break up with her after she cheated on me and blamed me for it. I don't belong in the gay community. That's what gay people have told me. I don't belong in the straight community, either. That's what straight people have told me.
Of course, the only thing even remotely true about any of these statements is that one day, yes, I aspire to be the crazy cat lady who still uses her vibrator on a regular basis, and yes, my exgirlfriend actually had the gall blame me for her cheating. Every one of those statements has been made to me at one point or another in the six years I've been out. After all, according to them, I've only come out as bisexual to ease the transition from the Straight World to the Gay World. I recognize the middle of the road can be a safe place for those making that transition, but what about those of us who stay here?
To be fair, a lot of people come out as bisexual first, and I know numerous people personally who have. But for those of us who stay here, it can be a scary in-between place, accepted neither by the Straight World because we are capable of having sexual feelings for another man or woman and that is somehow perceived as wrongful lust, or the larger Gay World because we are routinely accused of being a member when we're in a same-sex relationship, but when in a "straight" relationship, we deny ourselves, deny the truth of our bisexuality. For me, it's not that way at all. When I'm with a man, I still catch myself checking out the pretty girl choir and when I'm with a woman, I'm just as susceptible to flirt with the tall, dark, and handsome cashier at Best Buy.
My sexual identity has absolutely nothing to do with the gender of the person I'm in a relationship with. I was bisexual when I was ten years old, riding around on an ATV through the mountains in Georgia with Loretta, my first girl-crush. I was bisexual in middle school, chasing after boys. I was bisexual when I was fourteen years old and kissed a boy for the first time. I was bisexual in high school when I had a relationship with Gabby, a relationship we never defined because we didn't have the words for it then. I was bisexual when I was nineteen years old and kissed a girl for the first time. I was bisexual when I fell in love with Jenn; I was bisexual when I fell in love with George. I was bisexual when I lost my virginity at the ripe old age of twenty-three. I was bisexual when my last boyfriend proposed to me two years ago, when I said yes, and when we broke up last year. I was bisexual the last time I had sex with a man, and I was bisexual the last time I slept with a girl.
I'm not nearly as confused as my mother will tell you. I'm just as certain of who I am, in my bisexuality, as a gay person is in their homosexuality, as certain a straight person in their heterosexuality. To an extent, I think it makes the people who are certainly gay or certainly straight rather uncomfortable to entertain the idea that there are, in fact, People Like Us who are certainly in the middle, just as certainly as they are in their own sexuality. Jenn, my first girlfriend and the most beautiful and brilliant woman I've ever met, recently told me she hates having that certainty questioned so much, she doesn't tell a lot of people she's bisexual. She said most of them are waiting for her to come out already; and those same people have recently told her, now she's in a contented relationship with a man, she was never bisexual to begin with. I've faced much of the same, which is why I've taken the opposite route- I never stop talking about it. I talk about my lovers, male and female, with equal nonchalance, like it's the most natural thing in the world for me. For me, for the truly bisexual people I know, it is.
I've never been able to adequately explain what it's like to wander in the ambiguous middle ground between gay and straight. My sexual identity, for me, is like handedness. I can't explain what it's like to be left-handed to someone who isn't. It's a subtle power behind my left-hand that makes it more inclined to reach for something than my right hand. My left-handedness is as an intrinsic part of me as my bisexuality-I can't explain it or make it go away. If I could, I don't think I would want to. I think Laura is right-when you come down to it, it’s pretty fucking cool I get a different view of the world than someone who is attracted to one sex or the other.
This is what it’s like for me. When I close my eyes to kiss a lover, I don't care if it's a man or a woman I kiss; just that this person, this wonderful person wants to be with me. I just don't think in terms of boy parts and girl parts; genitalia is as irrelevant to me as physical beauty. If you don't believe me, you should see pictures of some of the people I've chosen to have relationships with. Souls are genderless, and if I'm attracted to another soul in a female body, I want to be with her. If I'm attracted to another soul in a male body, I want to be with him. I can't explain what this really feels like. There is no other sensation like it that I've experienced. You can't explain colors to someone who has never seen them, or is color-blind (believe me, I've tried) anymore than I could explain to you right now what it's like for me to see beauty in someone's soul and being able to look beyond the outward qualities of race and gender. Attraction is all that matters.
I've tried to pinpoint when I knew I wasn't gay or straight, but I can't remember not feeling the way I do. I remember being a little girl and wanting to kiss the pretty girl in class. I remember having a simultaneous crush on a girl in high school and her boyfriend. I remember how natural it seemed, just as natural as breathing, when Gabby and I used to walk through the deserted hallways after school, holding hands. It felt just as natural as when I did it with my boyfriend during the day. My best friend Laura will tell you she sat me down and told me I was bisexual, but I don't remember this at all.
On some level, I always knew I wasn't straight, but I definitely wasn't gay. What was I? I never overanalyzed this; I never plotted out the embarrassing trajectory of my sexuality. The revelation that I was bisexual came in what I can now pin down to four separate events. There was the day someone in our group of friends went around our circle of friends at lunch and proclaimed our sexual preferences. When she got to me, she said I was straight. I felt the wind knocked out of me, My stomach churned heavily, my breathing hastened; that gut feeling, that voice inside of me I'd never known existed cried inside of me for the first time that I remember, No, I'm not straight. I didn't have the courage to speak up in the group when I was eighteen or nineteen, at the time of the inquisition at lunch that day, but I do now. I'm not straight. I never was. The second was when I saw that movie House on Haunted Hill. Bethany asks the other woman, played by Catherine Zeta-Jones, if anyone had ever thought she was crazy. Catherine Zeta-Jones' character shrugs and says, “My boyfriend thinks I'm nuts, my girlfriend thinks I'm normal.” With those ten words, something inside of me clicked. It wasn't just me. The third event was the day the teachers union went on strike, and a number of classes were in the auditorium. In my group was Brenda, a girl I'd known since middle school, but hadn't spoken to in a long time. She and a number of her friends were seated behind me and talking about National Coming Out Day, and I remember her smiling, throwing up her hands and saying she was out. I remember her correcting someone, and saying she was bisexual. Bisexual. It was a word I'd never heard, but I remember so clearly as if it happened yesterday, I looked at her and felt that gut feeling again. Me, too. The final knell came the night my friend Mary slept over. We were sitting together in the recliner, watching a Drew Barrymore movie, but we weren't really paying attention. At least I couldn't. I didn't think there was anything particularly strange about us sitting in the same chair, as we were close friends. This was different. Once in a while, I can still close my eyes and feel her sitting next to me. I felt a heat between us, something I'd never experienced before and rarely since. It was unbearable until we went into my room and lay together in my bed to go to sleep, neither of us knowing what to do next, knowing something was going to happen, something monumental, and we just held each other, waiting for the other to make her first move. I was terrified. I'd barely kissed a man at this point, let alone done anything else, with anyone. When she kissed me the first time, I knew it was all over. Everything finally made sense. That first, scary kiss wasn't the final culmination of a lifetime of questioning like it is for some people. It was more like a light going on in a dark room. I was who I was before Mary kissed me, but after she did, I knew for certain that everything I'd been experiencing, however subtle, was leading me here, to this night, with this girl. This was the final act that would officially tear me out of Ambiguously Straight Land forever and plop me in the middle of the great sexual divide. I had been there my whole life; I've never been straight. But this act, this kiss, was my moving into the big purple house in the middle of the great sexual divide. There was a reason I used to hold hands with Gabby after school. There was a reason I got that gut feeling when Soumiah went around the circle of friends and said I was straight. There was a reason that line from House on Haunted Hill resonated with me. There was a reason the teachers went on strike right after National Coming Out Day and I was stuck in the auditorium with Brenda. There was a reason Mary came over that night. I was supposed to figure this out. And, because of those events and many more, I finally did.
There is a line in the movie Dogma I like to paraphrase a lot: You are who you are. No one can take that away from you. Not even God. If you're like me, if you were that girl, if you were that boy, if you're frustrated by your friends telling you to just come out already, one way or another, don't be. You're not alone. Don't be afraid to celebrate it; celebrate who you are, celebrate the fact that there is an intrinsic quality about you that some people just can't understand, and talk about it with people who do. It's an amazing experience, one I highly recommend. Don't be afraid to move into that big purple house in the middle of the great sexual divide. There's plenty of room, and more of us out there than you think.
My mother will tell you I'm confused, that I'm only going through a phase that will end whenever I graduate from college and settle down with a nice man. My best friend Laura will tell you I'm lucky, because I have twice as many chances for a date as she does on the weekends. My roommates will tell you I'm a whore who will sleep with anyone with a pulse. I was briefly enamored with a woman, whose girlfriend told me I’m disgusting because I sleep with men. Straight men will tell you I'm sexy because I sleep with women, except the straight men with whom I choose to associate. The only lesbian I ever dated once told me I only sleep with men because I'm in denial. To be fair, she might have been a little bitter. After all, I did promptly break up with her after she cheated on me and blamed me for it. I don't belong in the gay community. That's what gay people have told me. I don't belong in the straight community, either. That's what straight people have told me.
Of course, the only thing even remotely true about any of these statements is that one day, yes, I aspire to be the crazy cat lady who still uses her vibrator on a regular basis, and yes, my exgirlfriend actually had the gall blame me for her cheating. Every one of those statements has been made to me at one point or another in the six years I've been out. After all, according to them, I've only come out as bisexual to ease the transition from the Straight World to the Gay World. I recognize the middle of the road can be a safe place for those making that transition, but what about those of us who stay here?
To be fair, a lot of people come out as bisexual first, and I know numerous people personally who have. But for those of us who stay here, it can be a scary in-between place, accepted neither by the Straight World because we are capable of having sexual feelings for another man or woman and that is somehow perceived as wrongful lust, or the larger Gay World because we are routinely accused of being a member when we're in a same-sex relationship, but when in a "straight" relationship, we deny ourselves, deny the truth of our bisexuality. For me, it's not that way at all. When I'm with a man, I still catch myself checking out the pretty girl choir and when I'm with a woman, I'm just as susceptible to flirt with the tall, dark, and handsome cashier at Best Buy.
My sexual identity has absolutely nothing to do with the gender of the person I'm in a relationship with. I was bisexual when I was ten years old, riding around on an ATV through the mountains in Georgia with Loretta, my first girl-crush. I was bisexual in middle school, chasing after boys. I was bisexual when I was fourteen years old and kissed a boy for the first time. I was bisexual in high school when I had a relationship with Gabby, a relationship we never defined because we didn't have the words for it then. I was bisexual when I was nineteen years old and kissed a girl for the first time. I was bisexual when I fell in love with Jenn; I was bisexual when I fell in love with George. I was bisexual when I lost my virginity at the ripe old age of twenty-three. I was bisexual when my last boyfriend proposed to me two years ago, when I said yes, and when we broke up last year. I was bisexual the last time I had sex with a man, and I was bisexual the last time I slept with a girl.
I'm not nearly as confused as my mother will tell you. I'm just as certain of who I am, in my bisexuality, as a gay person is in their homosexuality, as certain a straight person in their heterosexuality. To an extent, I think it makes the people who are certainly gay or certainly straight rather uncomfortable to entertain the idea that there are, in fact, People Like Us who are certainly in the middle, just as certainly as they are in their own sexuality. Jenn, my first girlfriend and the most beautiful and brilliant woman I've ever met, recently told me she hates having that certainty questioned so much, she doesn't tell a lot of people she's bisexual. She said most of them are waiting for her to come out already; and those same people have recently told her, now she's in a contented relationship with a man, she was never bisexual to begin with. I've faced much of the same, which is why I've taken the opposite route- I never stop talking about it. I talk about my lovers, male and female, with equal nonchalance, like it's the most natural thing in the world for me. For me, for the truly bisexual people I know, it is.
I've never been able to adequately explain what it's like to wander in the ambiguous middle ground between gay and straight. My sexual identity, for me, is like handedness. I can't explain what it's like to be left-handed to someone who isn't. It's a subtle power behind my left-hand that makes it more inclined to reach for something than my right hand. My left-handedness is as an intrinsic part of me as my bisexuality-I can't explain it or make it go away. If I could, I don't think I would want to. I think Laura is right-when you come down to it, it’s pretty fucking cool I get a different view of the world than someone who is attracted to one sex or the other.
This is what it’s like for me. When I close my eyes to kiss a lover, I don't care if it's a man or a woman I kiss; just that this person, this wonderful person wants to be with me. I just don't think in terms of boy parts and girl parts; genitalia is as irrelevant to me as physical beauty. If you don't believe me, you should see pictures of some of the people I've chosen to have relationships with. Souls are genderless, and if I'm attracted to another soul in a female body, I want to be with her. If I'm attracted to another soul in a male body, I want to be with him. I can't explain what this really feels like. There is no other sensation like it that I've experienced. You can't explain colors to someone who has never seen them, or is color-blind (believe me, I've tried) anymore than I could explain to you right now what it's like for me to see beauty in someone's soul and being able to look beyond the outward qualities of race and gender. Attraction is all that matters.
I've tried to pinpoint when I knew I wasn't gay or straight, but I can't remember not feeling the way I do. I remember being a little girl and wanting to kiss the pretty girl in class. I remember having a simultaneous crush on a girl in high school and her boyfriend. I remember how natural it seemed, just as natural as breathing, when Gabby and I used to walk through the deserted hallways after school, holding hands. It felt just as natural as when I did it with my boyfriend during the day. My best friend Laura will tell you she sat me down and told me I was bisexual, but I don't remember this at all.
On some level, I always knew I wasn't straight, but I definitely wasn't gay. What was I? I never overanalyzed this; I never plotted out the embarrassing trajectory of my sexuality. The revelation that I was bisexual came in what I can now pin down to four separate events. There was the day someone in our group of friends went around our circle of friends at lunch and proclaimed our sexual preferences. When she got to me, she said I was straight. I felt the wind knocked out of me, My stomach churned heavily, my breathing hastened; that gut feeling, that voice inside of me I'd never known existed cried inside of me for the first time that I remember, No, I'm not straight. I didn't have the courage to speak up in the group when I was eighteen or nineteen, at the time of the inquisition at lunch that day, but I do now. I'm not straight. I never was. The second was when I saw that movie House on Haunted Hill. Bethany asks the other woman, played by Catherine Zeta-Jones, if anyone had ever thought she was crazy. Catherine Zeta-Jones' character shrugs and says, “My boyfriend thinks I'm nuts, my girlfriend thinks I'm normal.” With those ten words, something inside of me clicked. It wasn't just me. The third event was the day the teachers union went on strike, and a number of classes were in the auditorium. In my group was Brenda, a girl I'd known since middle school, but hadn't spoken to in a long time. She and a number of her friends were seated behind me and talking about National Coming Out Day, and I remember her smiling, throwing up her hands and saying she was out. I remember her correcting someone, and saying she was bisexual. Bisexual. It was a word I'd never heard, but I remember so clearly as if it happened yesterday, I looked at her and felt that gut feeling again. Me, too. The final knell came the night my friend Mary slept over. We were sitting together in the recliner, watching a Drew Barrymore movie, but we weren't really paying attention. At least I couldn't. I didn't think there was anything particularly strange about us sitting in the same chair, as we were close friends. This was different. Once in a while, I can still close my eyes and feel her sitting next to me. I felt a heat between us, something I'd never experienced before and rarely since. It was unbearable until we went into my room and lay together in my bed to go to sleep, neither of us knowing what to do next, knowing something was going to happen, something monumental, and we just held each other, waiting for the other to make her first move. I was terrified. I'd barely kissed a man at this point, let alone done anything else, with anyone. When she kissed me the first time, I knew it was all over. Everything finally made sense. That first, scary kiss wasn't the final culmination of a lifetime of questioning like it is for some people. It was more like a light going on in a dark room. I was who I was before Mary kissed me, but after she did, I knew for certain that everything I'd been experiencing, however subtle, was leading me here, to this night, with this girl. This was the final act that would officially tear me out of Ambiguously Straight Land forever and plop me in the middle of the great sexual divide. I had been there my whole life; I've never been straight. But this act, this kiss, was my moving into the big purple house in the middle of the great sexual divide. There was a reason I used to hold hands with Gabby after school. There was a reason I got that gut feeling when Soumiah went around the circle of friends and said I was straight. There was a reason that line from House on Haunted Hill resonated with me. There was a reason the teachers went on strike right after National Coming Out Day and I was stuck in the auditorium with Brenda. There was a reason Mary came over that night. I was supposed to figure this out. And, because of those events and many more, I finally did.
There is a line in the movie Dogma I like to paraphrase a lot: You are who you are. No one can take that away from you. Not even God. If you're like me, if you were that girl, if you were that boy, if you're frustrated by your friends telling you to just come out already, one way or another, don't be. You're not alone. Don't be afraid to celebrate it; celebrate who you are, celebrate the fact that there is an intrinsic quality about you that some people just can't understand, and talk about it with people who do. It's an amazing experience, one I highly recommend. Don't be afraid to move into that big purple house in the middle of the great sexual divide. There's plenty of room, and more of us out there than you think.
New Beginnings
It's no secret that I have long been an admirer of Dan Savage, Augusten Burroughs, David Sedaris, Michael Thomas Ford, and other humorous, insightful columnists and essayists. As much as I found myself smiling and nodding my head to things they would write about, there were things that I, as a bisexual female, could not relate to in the world of gay men that they write about. In spite of an exhaustive search, I have yet discovered a lesbian or bisexual writer who spoke to me, and not just part of me.
From 2003-2005, I began writing what became a fairly popular column for a now-defunct website. I had become the columnist I had always wanted to read, and I was thrilled when others responded the way I had always dreamed they would. There was no title to my column then, and I haven't written one for that site since 2005. In the world of batshit crazy writers, the month of November is synonymous with Nanowrimo. The challenge of Nanowrimo is to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. Two years ago, the busiest person I know (who I am sure will come up a time or two) managed to finish. I have yet to do so. This year, I am determined. If she can do it while juggling eight billion things at once, surely I can do it. I know I can. And I am hell-bent upon doing it this time. At the same time, I've always wanted to continue writing those essays that for two years, gained me a marginal amount of notoriety among my small readership. The essays I'm going to post here were largely written for that website (edited for clarity, omission of certain personal details, and other such things) as well as a few new ones.
Welcome to my world.
Support the revolution and your local microbrewery.
-Jen
From 2003-2005, I began writing what became a fairly popular column for a now-defunct website. I had become the columnist I had always wanted to read, and I was thrilled when others responded the way I had always dreamed they would. There was no title to my column then, and I haven't written one for that site since 2005. In the world of batshit crazy writers, the month of November is synonymous with Nanowrimo. The challenge of Nanowrimo is to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. Two years ago, the busiest person I know (who I am sure will come up a time or two) managed to finish. I have yet to do so. This year, I am determined. If she can do it while juggling eight billion things at once, surely I can do it. I know I can. And I am hell-bent upon doing it this time. At the same time, I've always wanted to continue writing those essays that for two years, gained me a marginal amount of notoriety among my small readership. The essays I'm going to post here were largely written for that website (edited for clarity, omission of certain personal details, and other such things) as well as a few new ones.
Welcome to my world.
Support the revolution and your local microbrewery.
-Jen
Monday, March 12, 2007
David Levithan
Here’s what I know about the realm of possibility—it is always expanding, it is never what you think it is. Everything around us was once deemed impossible. From the airplane overhead to the phones in our pockets to the choir girl putting her arm around the metalhead. As hard as it is for us to see sometimes, we all exist within the realm of possibility. Most of the limits are of our own world’s devising. And yet, every day we each do so many things that were once impossible to us.
-David Levithan
-David Levithan
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