Several years ago now, I was in France visiting Violet. In France a lot of bathrooms have this strange set up where both men and women walk through the same door only to land in this tiny area that serves as a sort of bathroom-purgatory, if you will. This is the place where the sinks, mirrors and towels are. So, both men and women stand there together while waiting to pee or what-have-you. I found that generally to the left is the womens stall and to the right is the mens. So as it goes, we all stand there, men and women together, waiting for our binary gender appropriate door to open and to then be freed to let us in and be relieved.

So I am in France visiting Violet, looking more masculine than feminine (which is not to say that I think I looked more boy than just me but more than not the French thought I was a guy.) She and I are getting lunch at a cute little bistro and I have to pee. I walk into the French bathroom purgatory area and I wait. Both stalls are busy. I am in this bathroom purgatory with one man. As we wait, in walks a woman.

And then there were three.

A thing I noticed about France (this I learned the hard way again and again): Out in public, women don’t tend to smile at folks they don’t know really. And if a man smiles at a women or vice versa it isn’t unfair to assume they might be flirting a little.

So, I’m in France waiting to pee in the bathroom purgatory with both a man and a women. What I have yet to mention is that when the woman walked in I smiled at her which led her to give me a very awkward and blatant scoff as she turned her whole body away from me. So, either she caught that I am just a stoopeed american girl OR I am crammed in a little room and just accidentally said to some random woman, “Oh, oui!? You like my smile, no?! Well zen… hough hough hough! (that is my impression of a french laugh, it offends Violet to no end.) A second later she mumbled something casual sounding to me in french which led me to respond according to her tone, ” Ah, oui.” And I did what I could to not smile.

At this point, speaking almost no french, I had taught myself  how to answer a french question or statement with “oui” or “non” simply by interpreting the inflection of the sentence. I was usually pretty good at guessing correctly.

Maybe it was the bathroom purgatory pressure or maybe I was just doomed to do nothing right, but as that woman looked me right in the eyes and said, “vous la pue de la la de dee da fou le gwagh pa nui hough de le sweegh doo!?!” I had NO idea if I should go with “Oui!” or “Aaaaah, non, non, non!” I went with “oui” again, which was clearly the. wrong. answer.

Next thing I knew a man came out of the mens stall, washed his hands and left. Now there was an empty stall for a man with the three of us staring at the door. And then both the man and woman in purgatory with me looked at me wondering what I was going to do… and so did I!

The purgatory man looked at me, opened the stall door, like a man might do when he’s holding a door for a lady and probably wouldn’t do for another dude that needs to pee, and used his other hand to make the motion of “after you.”

At this point I realized how utterly confused our situation was:

The man that was holding the door for me was there first, so even if I was a guy it was his turn. And clearly he knew this and he knew that I knew this and now I had realized that he knew that I was a girl BUT when this other woman entered our bathroom purgatory both the man and I silently agreed that she clearly thought I was a man and totally mistook my smile for a french, “Hey, how yOu doin? Eh?‘” On top of that, the man that was in the purgatory bathroom before me not only got that I was female and that I was being mistaken for male by an uptight french woman who I had unintentionally flirted with and then answered two of her questions incorrectly BUT he knew I needed some help. SO his reaction was to attempt to save me by giving up his spot in line and escort me into the mens room.

Totally confusing, no?

I gave him an “I don’t know about this” look and he smiled at me and I smiled back while reluctantly walking into the stall. And really, that might have been the record holder for “most innocent smile exchange between the sexes in all of French history.” I walked through his held open door, to which the woman thought nothing of and I peed. Finally.

I walked out of the stall and saw the man that had held the door still waiting, the woman that kind of hated me was now in the womens stall. I stopped, smiled, and held open the door to the mens room for him. We both laughed and as he walked through I said quietly, “Mercy” and through a very thick french accent he said, “You are very welcome, madam.”

With all of us sitting in a circle, in little plastic desks, in my old high school, there was a room full of young, springy attentive eyes, like all of the questions had all already been asked years ago and everyone was still waiting, with bated breath, for answers.

One of the two teachers that have (bravely and not without backlash) volunteered to watch over this club said, “Well, why don’t we start out by introducing ourselves.” I told them who I was and that I went to this school 40,000 years ago. They giggled. Marie introduced herself. And as the students went around saying their names and what grade they were in it was remarkable how easy it was to remember myself then- so unpolished and so young.

Two of the girls were blushing madly and couldn’t actually make eye contact with me while telling me their names. I remember that feeling too- how anything lesbian-ish at all would just set my chest on fire and make my already awkward existence even more awkward. Like the first time I heard that song, “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover” on the radio. I remember the moment exactly:

I was getting ready for school, adding mad amounts of Aqua Net hairspray to my long, long blond hair when this new song started playing on the radio. The song was good, I like it. And then, all of a sudden, Sophie B. Hawkins ever so stealthily slipped in this line, “I lay by the ocean making love to her with visions clear…” And I froze. I think my heart might have stopped and I know I stopped breathing. I absolutely could not believe what she just said! I was frozen like a statue of myself. I looked in the mirror, unable to move- I looked like the statue of liberty, holding a hairspray bottle over my head like a torch. And as accidental as that last reference was, hearing that line in that song woke up a deep, dark place in me that I didn’t even know about, and set something inside of me free. Something in me, in who I was, started to move, and I felt really, really alive… and terrified, in a good way. And now that I think about it, it might have been the first time I felt totally out of control of my body’s reaction to feeling sexual. I couldn’t not feel, let alone stop, that sharp electric ripple that whipped down through my spine and physically forced me to curl forward and wrap my arms around that weirdly-good nausea feeling that had gone off like a bomb in my tummy (that I would feel for the second time ever, kissing Marie for the first time later that same year.)

Ok, back to the meeting: There are ten or eleven students, a teacher, a guidance counselor, Marie and me (sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.) After we all introduced ourselves, one boy, who I instantly adored, immediately raised his hand with a subtle swoosh while simultaneously asking me, “Ok, seriously, I need to know. Do you think your life has changed much since high school or not really so much?”

Marie and I both laughed a little. I responded, “Um, yes. I would say my life has changed very, very much since I went to this school.

A girl raised her hand and asked Marie how she knew me. We both knew this girl was really asking, “Why is this straight woman here?” Marie said, well, like I said, I am married to a man and have two kids now, right? But in high school I was dating jesse. She was my girlfriend for a long time actually, 4 or 5 years and the first person I was in love with.” And womp. Every. Single. Jaw. Fell. It was great. This was exactly why I wanted Marie to come with me.

“You mean, you were both gay in high school?!? Together!?!” A different girl asked, still unable to make eye contact. Marie nodded and explained that no one knew of course. “No one!” She said, “It was too dangerous. Can you imagine falling in love for the first time, or even having a really big crush on someone and not being able to tell anyone! Not your mom, your friends, no one.” Most heads shook side to side while a few kids made it obvious that, yes, indeed they do know how that feels.

The same boy that I totally adore raised his hand and said, “Here’s the deal. I’m Mexican, duh! And my mom knows I’m gay but I haven’t told my dad yet. And my mom always says that it makes her sad that I’m, you know, gay or whatever, cause she doesn’t want people to make my life hard. She says if I tell people I’m gay I’ll lose friends or not get jobs or get to live where I want to or whatever. She says that being gay or whatever is just going to be way hard. What do you think, jesse? Is it totally way hard? Does that stuff really happen?”

I had already decided, before this meeting, that I was only here to support these awesome kids, not to teach them really. They can teach each other but maybe I can help guide things a little. They already know a lot, they are very self aware and this is their club, their experience. But most likely they don’t have the language for a lot of things yet, that they might be thinking or trying to say, that I could help with. Like the question my sweet, fabulous boy just asked- there’s some internalized homophobia in there, right? And I don’t need to teach them vocabulary (yet!) or how to spell it, but just help them see what they already know a bit clearer. And, I had also decided that although I didn’t want to scare them, I was most certainly not going to lie – about anything.

So, I looked my fabulous favorite boy right in the eyes and said, “Well, let’s just be honest here, you worry about all of that too, right? I mean, your mom didn’t invent that worry – you think about that too and it’s freakin’ stressful, right?!” He and a few others nodded dramatically. And instantly his entire body language changed. I hadn’t said much of anything yet but all of a sudden his eyes softened and he just looked relaxed. And I realized right then, more than anything, that just by being there, just by sitting in this room with these kids, I was validating them. All of them. All of it. Not just their experiences or their confusion or fears or sexual identities – but all of it. I was proof that what they were going through was really, really hard and most importantly, that it was all very real.

I smiled at all of their sweet, attentive faces and took a deep breath. “So, here’s the deal. Here’s the truth. I have no idea how your life is going to go. But for me, in my life, I have lost friends after they found out I was gay. I have lost a job after I came out. And I know there are a few apartments I tried to rent and didn’t get because my roommate for a one bedroom was another girl. I know all of this for a fact.” And now I really had their attention. I was the adult that was telling them the truth and they were ready for whatever I had to say.

I took another deep breath and saw that even the two teachers were frozen, paying a sort of attention that I am not use to and I continued, “But here is what else I know for sure: I don’t have any place in my life for people that don’t want me. Yes, I have been surprised by a friend’s reaction and it totally hurt my feelings, a lot. But if someone doesn’t want to spend their time with me, for whatever reason – that is a big loss for them and what can I do about it anyway? I’m certainly not going to try and talk someone into liking me. And I will definitely meet other new people, the world is HUGE, let me tell you – it’s freaking HUGE- and I’ll make new friends, all of my life, and they’ll like all of me. My real friends celebrate and cherish who I am, all of me, because that is what friends do and I deserve that!.. And why would I want to rent a home that doesn’t want me in it? You know how many places there are to live?! I will find one that wants me. I always have. And I would NEVER EVER want to work for a job that doesn’t get how fabulous I am. I am totally fabulous and I deserve to work for a place that totally gets that”… at which point my sweet boy interrupts with a snap, “You are fierce, girl. So fierce!”

I laughed and continued, “So, here’s the deal, your mom might be totally right, about all of it or maybe none of it, we can’t know. She doesn’t know, she just obviously loves you a lot and wants the world to be good to you. But we also can’t live in this constant state of fear of rejection either or we’ll never get anywhere, right? I mean, you might not get a job because you’re Mexican or I might not get it because I’m a girl, or maybe they won’t like something else about us. There are a million different reasons that the world will come up with to come down on us and make things hard and being gay is totally up for grabs that way. So? What do you do about that?”

It took them a second to realize I was asking them a question. “Seriously, what do YOU do about that? What have you done? What can you do? You certainly wouldn’t be in this club if you weren’t trying to do something about that.”

The other blushed-girl started to mumble, “I think it’s just about exposure. Like, if you’ve never met a gay person then maybe you’re afraid of them or something- but I don’t know why. They’re just people too. It’s totally weird that people say such stupid stuff about people when they don’t even know.”

My brain was screaming, “AAAAAAH! You totally get it! You are right on top of the entire philosophy and structure of the perpetuation of discrimination!” My mouth smiled big, which made her blush ever harder, and I said, “I think it’s about exposure too, like getting information before you decide on something. I think you are totally right.”

And we talked about that for a while. We talked about a lot of things. These kids are on it, they are so so ready to do good work. They decided they want to start a “That’s so gay” campaign, where they would do something about stopping that expression from being used so often in a discriminatory way at school. We also talked about t-shirts for the club, that one girl suggested should all be different colors of the rainbow. They told me what it was like to go to this school now and how there was a lesbian couple who had applesauce flung on them while holding hands in the hallway. They didn’t know who Mathew Sheppard was, so Marie told them that story. They also didn’t know Ellen was ever not out. So, then we talked about coming out and what that had been like for different folks. We talked about a lot and my heart was swooning the whole way through.

As the meeting started to wrap up the students asked, in an adorable, desperate, whiny, puppy way, if I would, “Please, please, pleeeeease come to another meeting soooooon!.” And I was flattered and said that of course I would.

I also said, “Before you all leave, I just want you guys to be totally sure, in case you weren’t or were wondering at all, that you are totally incredible and you have changed the whole entire world by starting this club. I mean, the whole entire world is a different and better place, in a huge way, just because of you guys. You made my life better even before we met today, just by starting this club. And you will never know exactly how many people you make feel better, how many lives you help, but I promise you it is way more than even the highest number you could possibly come up with and it will only continue to get bigger. It is an absolute privilege to have met you all today and to have been invited to this meeting. You are all my personal heroes and I am so impressed with all of you, for who you all are. So, thank you, very much.” To which my favorite fabulous boy flippantly said, “You too girl.”

And as they all started to leave to catch the last school bus, my favorite, fabulous boy was leaving the room when he so perfectly put the gay icing on the gay cake, “And, jesse… girl, you got yourself some goooood hair, by the way. Seriously. Fierce.”

(Looking for the line? Go to 3:18)

Aaah greg. Sweet, charming, beautiful, wonderful, greg.

I met greg. I talked with greg. I had dinner with greg and I hugged greg. Yes, there is more to the story than this, but I thought I’d put the highlights right out there for you. I mean, if any of the just mentioned does not totally fascinate you, you also probably don’t like chocolate or puppies or having fun and will most likely find this post a snoozer… keep in mind, that means something is wrong with you.

On Sunday, Kristen, Sin and I got back from Jess’ party with just enough time to get things a bit together before greg and her girlfriend, both of whom I had never met and was quite excited about meeting, came over. Sin had errands to run and so a runnin’ she went. Kristen had long planned the menu and as soon as we got back to Brooklyn she got in the kitchen and started Tearing. It. Up.

Violet is a fabulous cook and because of this I am not just well fed but also a well trained kitchen bottom with over 4 years of experience. Yes, I’ll stick my fingers in the pesto and the pudding when you’re not looking (you totally didn’t see me, did you! Stealth), but I can slice and dice and sauté all under particular orders like a pro. This worked to both Kristen’s and my favor quite nicely.

We had two hours and some serious prepping to do before greg and her girlfriend arrived so naturally, I created a ‘Lady Gaga’ station on Pandora, and we rocked the kitchen dance club style. Chopping sweet potatoes to “Po po po poker face po po poker face” is like a natural rhythm really. And like I told the lettuce, “Baby when its love if it’s not rough it isn’t fun” as I ripped it up into the bowl. Perfect, yes? Agreed.

And the menu Kristen came up with was no small task and as time began to thin she just kept her cool and kept cooking. Somehow by the time our company arrived all was prepared, including sliced lime wedges for drinks.

And then the buzzer buzzed which was my cue to double check that my hair was perfect and that my zipper was up. Check and check (insert snapping S shaped swoosh of hand here.)

Ten seconds later there they were. In walked greg first. And anyone can know she’s beautiful and smart with knock out fashion sense if you check out her blog… I knew this. But still, folks, somehow I was just not prepared.

In the two seconds she turned away from me to take off her coat I managed to down the rest of my glass of wine (you totally didn’t see me, did you? Double stealth.) As she turned back around, sans coat, in a dress that could kill a small village, with knee high boots that would at least make a small village unable to speak coherently, and mentioned that traffic was bad, my fag-brain was screaming, “Love. This. Get. Up. Something. Fierce! Dayamn, girl. Flawless. Perfect. Hot. Love it! Love it! Love it!” My mouth said, “Sorry the traffic was bad. Great dress. Can I get you a drink?”

(I heard later that she was wearing a fabulous necklace but I was too scared. After getting caught looking at my doctors cleavage about a month ago– yes, you heard me: super fail – I have been practicing being a mature adult that can get through an evening without my eyes dropping and I did and I am quite proud of myself, except it turns out I really missed out… on some fabulous jewelry, that is.)

And then, in walked greg’s girlfriend and I was doubly impressed with everything happening. I was very excited to spend the evening in this company.

(Note: Because greg’s girlfriend isn’t really in the blog world I consider her an innocent bystander more than anything else. This is just to say that I am intentionally being overly vague. I will mention however, that if we lived closer I would try, with relentless effort, to make her like me so that I could be her friend that she would want to hang out with regularly. Also, she has a killer smile, but you could find that out on greg’s blog.)

So, I fixed them a couple of drinks. And by ‘I fixed them a couple of drinks’, I mean I stood next to Greg and watched her fix a couple of drinks, as everything she did was deeply interesting and truly impressive.

Eventually we all settled around the table and started to chat while eating some very tasty food. I was permanently leaned in towards greg with my hands folded underneath my chin in awe. I tried to ask her about anything and everything so that she would keep talking and continue to be so freaking-out-of-this-world-fabulous. greg is so engaging, so charming, and so easy to talk with. My new long distance bff, aka greg’s girlfriend, was so very fun and easy-going and made me laugh a lot.

At some point, and who knows how really, Cher came up and I tried to teach Sinclair how to flip hair the way Cher does (WHY did I not ask greg to try?!? And the regrets begin…) There was also a point where greg’s gf and I bonded over constantly being verbally attacked for… dear gawd, do I bring this up again?… gulp… both agreeing that, without any information or details, but purely on looks and looks alone,we think Sarah Palin is attractive (aaand cue the angry emails. But folks, it’s just Tina Fey’s evil twin, really. Ok, moving on! This is about greg. Move. on.)

The evening flowed rather easily for me, as maybe I haven’t mentioned or made clear enough: I was totally infatuated with our company. Throughout the evening, I again went through the brain flips of trying to separate greg from her blog. And again, as the evening progressed it became easier to do.

I hadn’t realized how many blanks I had filled in about her that shifted, of course, once we met. More so than any other blogger I had met this weekend. Even her voice. I hadn’t really considered that I didn’t know what her voice sounded like, or maybe I had created an idea of one. And so, as soon as she said hello, that two dimensional bubble popped and a new, real and in person version of greg began to filter through.

To me, greg’s blog feels personal in a different way somehow, almost like reading a journal. It’s always in the moment and it’s brave and honest, like a letter from a friend that trusts you. I’m not totally sure what it is, but I feel like she keeps me up to date on her day to day, what’s on her mind (yes, I realize it is more actuate to say us, but this is about me now). I feel like she creates a real-life context for herself, including pictures of moments that just happened. Her blog feels like it’s in real-time, like a window.

I’m not sure what it is, but I think I almost forgot that we didn’t know each other until we met. And on top of realizing all of this, I then realized that my feeling this way was not necessarily mutual. My blog, more than not, tends to be in stories about other people, other things, my observations, my version of life, and in no particular order or time frame, and not usually about me in the now, really. She mentioned exactly that at one point, saying, “So, jesse, who I know very little about, tell me about yourself.”

We also talked about many of the finer things in life, such as the Real Housewives of New Jersey. (Did greg totally reenact the table flipping scene from the last episode? Yes. Was it perfect? Don’t ask dumb questions, of course it was. Did I eventually stop asking and then immediately answering my own questions in a ridiculous New Jersey accent? Ya, I did. Did I want to? No. But we needed to move on.)

We continued to have course after course of Kristen’s wonderful, homemade meal and eventually broke into the beautiful dessert that greg had brought.

And just as I decided to sneak off and call Violet to see if we could please keep them, almost as quickly as the evening began, it started to get late. It was Sunday night and some of us still work. They needed to get going.

We all hugged goodbye and like a kid who’s being left with the babysitter for the first time, I attempted to keep a strong face as I waved goodbye- just as greg turned back and said she wanted another hug. My brain was singing, in its best Louis Armstrong impression “…and I think to myself, what a wonderful worrrrrrrld” My mouth said, “It was so wonderful to finally meet you.”

And then, just like that, they were gone.

Saturday morning.

Sometime around 10 a.m. Sinclair came into the room where I was sleeping and began attempting to nurse me back to life with coffee. Unfortunately, before we went to bed the night before, not so many hours earlier, the three of us drunkenly polished off the last of the cinnamon rolls and were forced to eat sub-incredibly-fabulous breakfast foods that normal people, who had never had these cinnamon rolls, would find perfectly fine.

Eventually we all started feeling and acting like the living kind and started to get ourselves together enough to head out. Today we were off to JessHeIs’ Bye Bye Boobies party and fundraiser. We gathered up ties and shirts and dresses and shoe that were then all hung in the Outback with care. We grabbed several different vessels to fill with water in an attempt to un-pickle ourselves from the night before.

Although I was dragging a bit I was terribly excited to get there. Tonight I was going to meet a whole slew of bloggers that I follow daily and have been oh so excited to meet.

After some serious traffic issues along side apocalyptic rain showers (that never let up) we arrived. I got out of the car and saw some dude walking towards me with his hand out. JessHeIs shook my hand, threw his arm around my shoulder and within two seconds I felt like we were old friends.

I went inside and BOOM, there they all were (and the blogger name dropping bomb begins…) Leo MacCool, Freedomgirl, Tina-cious, JessHeIs, Sinclair, Kristen and I were all of a sudden just standing in a room together like normal real life human beings. My mind went from excited little sparklers to big huge explosions as I tried to connect this online world to these faces in front of me.

I read them everyday. I check in with them and comment and care about them. I wait for their next post like I wait for Violet to call me from work. It makes my day. And when Jess asked me how Fraidy and the little guys were doing I did a back flip in my brain. This collision was amazing to me. It was so weird and so wonderful.

For some folks, I think the ability to connect these worlds might be a little easier. But for me, I have never ever had a relationship with someone online and online only. And to make the previous statement a bit truer, until I met these folks I hadn’t formally realize that I had relationships online. Really important relationships. I still haven’t totally grasped that people even read this blog, and less than a hand full of people I know even know about this space. And yes, Violet and I were long distance for a long time, but I met her in person first. We had already kissed and taken walks together – and then came the distance. This was just totally different.

Before the party we all went to pizza together. (I ate a piece of clam pizza by the way. Supposedly Jess’ part of the world thinks this is normal? But if you are like me and think this is just a terrible and strange and most likely VERY BAD idea, fair enough. We understand each other. Ditto, friend. But I tried it anyway and it was actually really good! Jess laughed at me as my face went from, “Oh god, this is not going to be ok,” to “Damn clam! Way to taste delicious!”)

At dinner I sat next to the lovely Freedomgirl and as she and I started talking about life in general, we couldn’t help but to stumble upon a lot of information we already knew because of things we’ve written. She’d start talking about something and I’d say, “Oh ya, I’ve read about that.” And this kept happening. A few minutes into dinner Jess said, “Dudes, we already know everything. We’re gonna run out of stuff to talk about in 10 minutes.”

As the night continued, eventually, I started realizing how to separate the person from the blog. It started to feel obvious the more we talked. I started to realize that the differences are (and tend to be) in the subtleties: Things you can’t read through a typed font, things you can’t express or share with letters, things you can’t know without watching it happen or without watching it being told. There is an intimacy in hearing the voice, the inflection, watching the body language. In person, there is a back and forth, a give and take.

Jess has an easy-going, brotherly demeanor and one of my favorite smiles. Tina is just as easy-going and funny and so gracious, with eyes that are almost hypnotic and full of expression. Leo has a gentle and brilliant delivery and her humor is subtle and quick and witty. Freedomgirl’s timing in her speaking is absolutely mesmerizing, it rolls you in. Sinclair has a delicate kindness and intentional endless caring, that comes through in everything she does and says.

The details fill in differently in person. The same story now has sound, a personalized tone, a laugh, eyes, gestures, body language. And just the telling of the story now has a shared context. There’s an energy created simply by being present together. And we were all present and we were all together.

After pizza we all headed back to Jess and Tina’s house-turned-blogger-hostel to get cute and shmancy for the party. Ties were tied, lipsticks were applied and then blotted and then applied again and again, hair was brushed and sculpted, suit jackets were buttoned and off we were.

The torrential downpour of rain had not even slightly let up. It was some of the hardest rain I had ever seen. The driveway had turned into a small lake and had everyone’s feet totally soaked through. And if it weren’t for our instantly flawless coordination of our magical shield of umbrellas we would have been a really hot crowd gone quite soggy in seconds. But we had umbrellas, a lot of them, and each other. So, while the rain did what rain does, we did what we do- we covered each other until it was safe.

We got to the party around 9ish, all of us dry (minus our feet) and looking like a hot little group of fabulousness. The music was blasting, the crowd was mingling, the drinks were flowing, the jello shots were rainbow colored and the cheetos were unnaturally orange and tasted perfect.

As the night progressed, eventually everyone was dancing to loud, faggy-clubby queer music that the DJ kept seamlessly rolling (while in between songs she had some girl plastered up against the wall with her mouth – go DJ, go, yo.) At one point, the sexy, smooth Sinclair busted out a hot little drag show to Faith by George Michael. I had the opportunity to meet a lot of friends that Jess and Tina have collected along the way in their life and I was totally impressed with the entire situation.

The next morning I woke up at Casa de Jess n Tina to the smell of fresh coffee and quiche. We all sat around the kitchen table, some of us feeling a bit perkier than others, and I had my last meal… for now anyway, with some truly remarkable people who double as some of the most important people in my life.

The sun, the day after the party of course, was shining as bright as a summer’s day and the sky was as blue and clear as the ocean. So before we all went our separate ways, we went outside, for the first time without umbrellas, all together, and took a group photo.

We gathered our things, and I hugged each real person, and said goodbye… for now.

Cue in fabulously perfect theme song…

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(now that you are totally taken by Jess, like I am, if you happen to have an extra dollar or two or fifty or more and want to help a really amazing guy get where he’s going, your donation towards his top surgery is a really big deal and your donation is a really big help. CLICK HERE TO DONATE DIRECTLY TO JESS. Thank you!

After being greeted by the one and only Sinclair Sexsmith and finally getting to meet the oh so lovely Kristen late Thursday night, I woke up Friday morning in Brooklyn.

Kristen started our morning off with cinnamon roll biscuits from scratch (which were, without flinching in any spec of a doubt, the most delicious thing that either a biscuit or cinnamon had ever done.) After breakfast we all spent the afternoon hanging out together and being fairly restful, as we predicted correctly, this would be our last resting opportunity for several days.

That evening I had dinner plans with one of my favorite friends, Mikey, who recently moved to New York, and then we were off to meet a lovely crowd of folks at a local dyke bar in Park Slope.

Once at the bar and full knowing that we were all asking for nothing less than a wee bit of trouble, right off the bat the whole lot of us counted to three and drank our *car bombs down and gone (*a half pint of Guinness with a shot of whiskey and Irish cream.)

An hour or so later Mikey and I decide we wanted to play a game of pool. There is a back room to this bar where the pool table lives and Sinclair warned me, more than once, that she has never felt very comfortable back there. “Phshaw to that,” I thought. “It’s just pool. It is our national lesbian sport (besides camping and rugby). It is our birthright!”

Mikey and I wrote our names down on the list and waited. An hour or so later a large woman with a very serious demeanor found us up front and declared rather than asked us, “You are Mikey and jesse. You’re up against Suz and me”

We went back and the game began. It was awkwardly quiet. Both Mikey and I felt the chill right away and tried to talk to and befriend Barb a bit with absolutely no success. I mean, her disdain was so blatant and only became increasingly painful as the game continued.  One of us would say something to her or ask her a question and receive absolutely nothing in return. Not a look, not a glance, gesture, scoff, not a nothing. It was really uncomfortable, to say the very, very least and it made for a long game. I whispered to Mikey, “How can she already hate us? We just got here.”

Mikey told me not to worry, that we just needed to get into the game and that things would lighten up. We both tried to keep things light. Oh how we tried.

At several different points in the game Barb switched out her personal pool stick for a different one. Switched out her very own personal pool sticks, as in plural, more than one, you ask? Yes. She was not only totally scary and wearing a black, three fingered pool glove and had made it very clear, without needing to formalize the sentiment, that we were not invited to her birthday party, she also had several pool sticks of her own.

I bit my tongue three different times but finally I decided I had a really great one liner. It was sure to crack a smile. The fourth time Barb traded out pool sticks I said, “Hey! This isn’t golf!” – aaand cue solo awkward laugh with cricket sounds in the background. She didn’t even look at me.

Mikey also tried to lighten things up with her own technique that I like to call: irresistible southern charm. She walked right up to Barb, stood beside her and postured herself exactly the same way Barb was standing: arms crossed, pool stick in the nook of her right elbow, slouched posture with a bent right knee.

Mikey (please keep in mind the butter-like Tennessee accent): Hey Barb. (NO response.) I heard y’all had a little pool club goin’ here, huh?

Barb: League.

Mikey: Well, see, I just moved here. I’m really not great at pool but it is fun. And if y’all play here all the time. I mean, I’m pretty busy and don’t live very close by but I would like to meet people and, well, maybe I could join y’alls little pool club?

Barb: League. (long pause, zero eye contact) No.

Poor Mikey. She walked back over looking quite defeated and said, “Well, that Barb has really hurt my feelings.”

I told her it wasn’t us. Barb was made of ice and stone. We were fine and kind of suck at the game but we were having a good time, or trying to anyway. Mikey nodded.

The game continued as Mikey and I did our best to amuse each other and have a good time.

Now we were 5 to 2 (and to clarify per Violet’s request, that means we still had 5 balls on the table that we needed to get in while they only had 2.) Barb’s pool partner, Suz, was up. I loved Suz. She was short and drunk with hat-head-hair to her shoulders and a big baggy red flannel shirt that fell over her baggy jeans. All she did was giggle and snort at anything anyone said or didn’t say.

At one point she walked by me and I whispered, “I love you Suz. I don’t know what I would do without you.” She snorted and giggled as she slapped me on the back before aiming up her next shot.

Suz was a good shot, but she was also a bit drunk and not on her game.

Eventually they got to the 8 ball while we still had 3 on the table (again, to clarify, this means they were on the final ball and we were really losing.) It was Suz’s turn. Barb still looked like someone had just spit on her shoes but at this point I had decided that was just her resting face.

Suz aimed. Suz shot. Aaaaand Suz scratched…. on the 8 ball, which means they LOSE and although we didn’t really WIN, by default we WON! (And the crowd in my head went wild while keeping an eye on the nearest exit should Barb lose her cool.)

So, now we were without grumpy, scary, angry Barb which allowed our breathing to return to normal. As the winners (by default), Mikey and I played another game with a decent guy with a green goatee and his friend.  We lost the game quickly and painlessly to both of our relief. We had had enough of this hard core pool nonsense.

And just like someone had cued in the final credits to our pool adventure, finally my jukebox music came on and the bar was blasting “If I could Turn Back Time” (if you are at all surprised by this there is no hope for you.) And all of a sudden, my main man Sinclair Sexsmith showed up in the forbidden back room and proceeded to dance dance dance. I grabbed a pool stick-microphone and began singing along at the top of my lungs. Yes, my throat was very sore for the rest of the night and into the next day and yes we were totally fabulous.

But mid-song, out of the corner of my eye, there she was. Barb was back. “I’d take back all the words that hurt you and you’d stay…” I don’t know much about Barb, as she was a tough egg to crack, but I do know two things for sure: She hated me and she hated me singing Cher tunes in her pool room. The only time all night that we made any eye contact was while I was singing. “If I could reach the stars…” She caught my glance and beat me up with the look she shot. But I was singing Cher, I just didn’t have room to care.

After the song was over Mikey and I lingered in the back room a bit, chatting with the few other folks that didn’t hate us and who had personalities. And then, all of a sudden I hear, “Move” and feel a pretty blunt shove to my back that jolted me forward. Barb pushed me. Pretty hard really and I knew exactly what this was. This was the white shark bump-and-bite technique: First, the shark bumps you really hard with its nose to disorient you and as a test. After that, if you see the shark again it’s because she is going to eat you.

My brain, now on a few pints of beer, thought, “What the hell?!” My mouth, also talking through a few pints said, “Listen dude, I may look butch or whatever, but I am actually more fragile and sensitive than anything. ‘Can you get out of my way’ would have worked just fine.”

I am not a fighter. I do have a mouth on me but I do not throw or get in the way of punches. Ever. (Except for that one time in the 6^th grade when I beat up Jake Nepp for picking on my little brother.) Mostly, my skills are in my swift ability to talk a little shit and run like all hell. (Fight and flight, remember?)

So, I made this comment to Barb with car-bomb-confidence but as it was all falling out of my mouth I had this alternate vision of seeing the shark come back and me flying by the crowd of folks in the front room yelling, “Nice to meet you all! Gotta go now! I’ll text you when it’s safe to stop running, Sin!” Fortunately, the pool shark wasn’t hungry for an innocent-little-fag-fish right then and there was no need to flee. Barb was all bump and no bite.

At this point I was a bit jostled and a little pissed off, as any innocent out of town fish who was just trying to chill with the pool school would be. So, instead of letting my mouth get me into any real trouble I went back up front, told Sin she was right about the pool room and carried on with the night and with a wonderful group of pleasant, non-angry, interesting and fun folks.

As we were leaving the bar that night I turned back and put several more Cher songs on the jukebox, just for Barb.

The last song, of course, was Just Like Jesse James.

Having recently been laid off, having more time on my hands, and with spring sprung and creeping into summer the Seal and I have been outside, out and about, for most of our day, more than not.

This morning the Seal and I went for a long walk, like we do. The lilacs are fully bloomed and just beginning to drop. The Seal and I both love to smell them in huge, dramatic inhales and stop frequently to do so. The tulips are all spent, give or take a few late bloomers, the blue bells are standing and tired, the daffodils are weeks gone and the rhododendron are all tightly budded, ready to explode at any given moment . The cherry blossoms make it look like it snowed pink last night, but only in very particular patches.

On our walk this morning the Seal had a blossom stick to the top of her nose and after shaking her head a few times with no relief she just walked on, crossing her eyes every once in a while to focus on it. I thought it looked cute and springy and let the decoration stay until it finally fell several blocks later.

There is this older woman, 75 maybe, that lives in the neighborhood. Margaret is her name. She is always out walking with her dog. Always. It is almost impossible to stray more than a few blocks from home without passing by her. I use to catch her at my bus stop, sitting outside the bagel shop, sipping coffee and giving every other bite of her bagel to Thomas, her rolly polly little wiener dog.

Thomas has several outfits, depending on the weather, of course. He mostly sports either his blue sweater for cold, dry days or a little yellow raincoat for the rainy days. If my jacket style is similar to what Thomas is wearing I know I have properly prepared. She and I have always said hello in passing. Some days are chattier than other, like during the election, she would go on and on about how its “plenty time to let this Obama kid get going and get things going right for a change!” She is clearly quite intelligent, well spoken, progressive and very sweet and it always cracks a smile onto my face when I see her and her little fat dog walking around together.

I haven’t seen Margaret or Thomas around in months and I have thought about this a lot. I have been curious and worried with obvious suspicions but haven’t figured out how to go about finding anything out.

So, the Seal and i were out this morning, for a nice long stroll when all of a sudden, a block and a half a head of us i saw what appeared to be an older person walking what appeared to be Thomas in his little blue sweater.They were crossing the street and turning a corner and I had seconds before they would be out of site so I yelled, “That isn’t Thomas by any chance, is it?” as I began to jog towards them. A voice, not Margaret’s, said back, “This little weeny here? Ya, thats him. Who’s askin?”

My stomach sank a bit as I was jogging over, to find out about Margaret. As I got closer I could see this old man, clearly not Margaret. He had slicked back white hair, snow-white side burns, the most typical gray old-man-pants with the most typical brown leather old man shoes, a green button down collared shirt with a big blue postal jacket, a tough-guy posture, leaned up against a fence, holding the leash of that fat little rolly polly wiener dog, Thomas, that the Seal and I were oh so happy to see.

“Hi there,” I said. “My name is Jesse. Sorry to chase you down a street but I just haven’t seen Thomas or Margaret in some time.” And then I just went for it, “Is Margaret ok?”

And as soon as this old man opened his mouth and said, “Damn near died I tell you. Goddamn doctors are only human but if I hadn’t raised em’ some hell over there, well then, who knows. Nearly killed her liver with some goddamn medicine that she didn’t even need, I tell you what, I’ve had it with those damn doctors. Think they’re god but dumb as bricks, some of ‘em” I realized that this old man was an old woman. This old man was Margaret’s partner.

I smiled big and said, “But she is ok. Man, that is great to hear.”

“Of course she’s ok. They all think she’s just this sweet old lady. Well, that’s cause she is. But I ain’t.” and she laughed big, holding her belly.

We talked for a while, well she did the talking, like a grumpy old man, complaining on and on about everything from how the damned winter killed all the rosemary around here: “In all my life of living here, when in the hell have I ever had to pay for rosemary at the store? Now I’m buying the stuff from California. Damn snow took ‘em all out.” To complaining about the roundabouts at the end of all of our streets: “If your car is too big for ya, well, shame on you for it. But if it ain’t, cause you need it, like my 4×4 pickup truck, well, now, you try to get that son of a bitch around that damn circle. Try it. Gonna run up the side every time, so what good is that? Don’t slow me down none either, just pisses me off.”

I stood there listening, agreeing with everything regardless, and marveled at what an amazingly beautiful and masculine person Margaret’s partner was (I never got her name but she mentioned that they had lived in their house for more than 30 years together). And how relieved I was that Margaret was ok. And how happy I was that she had someone looking after her, taking care of her. How lucky I am to be right where I am, right now.

We said goodbye and as the Seal and I walked off I heard, “Come on, you little weeny. Let’s go now.” A few seconds later I turned around and saw Margaret’s partner bent over, picking one of the last tulips standing and I realized that bringing your girl a flower never gets old.

I went to bed last night with this nagging feeling that I might die. Not that I would die, but that I might.

I know I’ll die, of course I do. Of course I will. But minus a few exciting moments in my life I don’t regularly consider this as an impending situation for myself. Last night, as I lay next to Violet, who was sound asleep by hours already, I battled a few different philosophies around the idea of dying and somehow fell fast asleep.

- – - – - – -

I am allergic to bees. Very allergic. If the allergist who discovered this for me read my blog he might have said I was ‘allergic-squared’ because I am. But instead he said I was ‘off the charts’ allergic. I have only known this for less than two years now and so my relationship with bees, which has always been a bit odd anyway, has shifted.

I am a gardener by trade and by passion and so I spend quite a bit of time with bees. I still love them and find them more fascinating and beautiful than most animals (octopi and elephants also making the list of top-animal-awe). I understand that bees do more good for the world than I could ever thank them for – but there is this new twist to it now. If one of them, just one, just any ol’ bee, for whatever reason, was to sting me – who knows- and that scares me in the same way that all of those things that could, but haven’t, and probably won’t, but could, things scare me. It ’s peripheral, but it’s there.

Most days I have a pocket full of Benadryl and an Epi Pen in my bag, just in case. And when they are buzzing around I am still not afraid of them really, they’re just doing their thing and I know that, but I’m obviously more on guard than I use to be. But we still get on together as a pretty strong team: I weed, sculpt, tend to and water the earth around their flowers, plants and berries while they pollinate and flourish the colors and fruits and buds into their fullest, illuminated ability. Not a bad team, right?

But I do, and have always had, this odd relationship with bees, that for the most part I think would be too hard to explain. But quite simply, I’ll be, or the bee will be, in the strangest of places for a bee to be – and still somehow, there will be me and a bee.

I have been on an 60 story elevator ride alone with a bee. I recently found a dead bee in the bag I took to work each day. A bee and I once drove through 4 different states together without my knowing (until it left me at a rest stop in Tennessee). I once walked an entire block, covered in a foot of snow, with a bee buzzing at my feet like an obedient pet the whole way. Maybe these don’t sound that odd, but my strange bee moments have been frequent and always notable and make room for pause, like, ‘hey there little bee, what are you doing here?’ And now that I am knowingly quite allergic, I ask this with a bit more concern tucked into my wonder.

- – - – - – - -

So, yesterday (ah, the point to all of this!) Violet went to take a quick mid-day nap when all of a sudden I heard, “jeeeeeessseeeee!” in a sleepy-sweet and mildly alarmed tone. I went upstairs assuming I would be removing a spider or something and I walked in to our bedroom to find this not-so-little bee sleeping oh so soundly right in the middle of my pillow.

I went downstairs to get a jar to catch it and put it outside but when I got back upstairs the bee was gone. We both timidly looked for the bee for a while. I checked behind picture frames and drawers while Violet combed the bed. No bee.

What bothered me the most was how the bee got in the house – in our bedroom. No windows have been open in quite some time and we just couldn’t figure it out.

As soon as we gave up looking and I had already decided that I would sleep on the couch that night, there, two steps in front of me was the not-so-little bee, sitting as properly as the Seal does when she wants something, just staring at me. We caught it, put it out side and got on with our day.

It wasn’t until I went to bed last night that I started to wonder again, how in the world that bee got inside. And why was it on my pillow? All of a sudden I was overwhelmed with this fear that the bee on my pillow was a prelude or foreshadowing to something and I really scared myself. What if I had just lay my head on that bee sleeping on my pillow? What if there were more bees in the room, even just one more – and I fell asleep and was stung? Would it wake me up? Would I sleep right through? It was amazing really, to think, to all of a sudden realize, how fragile it all is. One little bee, me and a sting. Done. I think it eventually all felt too easy, too unbelievable that I exhausted myself and somehow fell asleep.

I woke up, obviously, and am just a little more aware of myself today than yesterday. Violet is almost annoyed with all of the kisses but happy to have come home to her favorite dinner and dessert, all home made. My grandma, my mom, my dad, my brother, an old friend and Ruth were all happy to hear from me, but curious.

No catch, just glad to be here.

About 4 years ago I lived with my godparents, Ruth and Harold. A few months prior to my moving in Harold had been diagnosed with a pretty aggressive cancer and as they are two of the most important people in my life and both in their 80’s I offered to move in and help out where I could. Towards the end of Harold’s life he was in bed full time with Hospice folks coming in and out to help take care of different things.

As Harold began to swing in and out of consciousness the amount of care he needed became an around the clock job. Eventually, day and night became of no use or matter to him and so, being on his schedule, it had little to do with my life either.

Sometimes at night, after Ruth would go to bed, there would be this eerie moment of quiet normalcy about the house. For a few hours, around 10 or 11p.m. we were all doing what everyone else was doing. Ruth and Harold would both be sleeping and I would go off into the TV room and try to unwind a bit before I went to bed. I’d try to zone out on the TV over a few beers or some of Ruth’s Wild Turkey that I found hidden up high in the cupboard above the stove.

As I’d watch TV at night I learned to divide my attention in half, so that I could relax a bit. Half of me would watch television and the other half stayed tuned in to Harold’s oxygen machine, making sure it was always a consistent rhythm. That oxygen machine became a strange and soothing lullaby of sorts: as long as I could hear it fill and release I could relax and with my bedroom across the hall from Harold and Ruth, that  machine became the song that put me to sleep.

One night in the TV room I ran into the show, Six Feet Under, that I had never heard of before. I caught an episode in the middle of the third season and was instantly swept away. It quickly became the only consistent appointment I kept. At 10p.m. on Thursdays I would settle in to catch the latest episode. The show absolutely fascinated me. It was a strange show that came at strange timing on a strange subject and it felt like a strange mirror that I held up to see a bigger picture than I would have found on my own, in that little house. And every once in a while there would be a bit of dialog that would unexpectedly break me, make me cry, making more room for what I was in for.

Harold passed away about a month after I moved in and I ended up living with Ruth for about 8 months after that (in which time I met Violet, stories to come). Harold died in a sort of peace that I would not have imagined possible.

Every once in a while I’ll re-watch an episode or two, just because it is such a great show and in an admittedly strange way, I start to miss the characters now and then. Last night I watched an episode and heard one of my favorite exchanges between David and his dad (his dad has been dead for a few years at this point). I heard it for the first time about a month after Harold passed away.

(both staring out of a sunny window in David’s house)

Dad: The point is right in front of your face.

David: Well I’m sorry but I don’t see it.

Dad: You’re not even grateful are you?

David: Grateful? For the worst fucking experience of my life?

Dad: You hang on to your pain like it means something, like it’s worth something. Well, let me tell you, it’s not worth shit. Let it go… Infinite possibilities and all he can do is whine.

David: Well, what am I suppose to do?

Dad: What do you think? You can do anything you lucky bastard, you’re alive. What’s a little pain compared to that?

David: It can’t be so simple

Dad: What if it is.

After my parents split up my brother and I lived with my mom almost full time. We saw dad every other weekend until he moved to Chicago, when visits turned into bi annual events. I think I was around 11 when my newly single mom decided to go back to school for her master’s degree. This decision was of such a super human nature that even in my selfish little world of me-me-me I recognized how incredibly hard my mom worked, around the clock, with almost no help, continuously and somehow, most of the time, with a smile.

Monday through Friday she woke up, got herself together, made three lunches, got my brother and me together, drove us to school, drove herself to school, taught for 8 hours, picked us up, fed us, checked our homework, went off to her night classes, came home, did a few things around the house, and then went to sleep only to do this all over again in just a few hours. For years.

My mom did this for years until finally, one night she was on her way to her last class. She didn’t make a very big deal about this but she had mentioned at the beginning of the month that her last class was the last day of the month and that we’d start having more time together in the evenings. It was one of those things where I was confused by her casual attitude about graduating. In all of the movies I’d seen about someone graduating there was always a big celebration with cake.

I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to pull together a large celebration but I knew I could get a cake. I saved a little bit of my allowance for a few weeks and the second mom closed the front door, saying, “wish me luck, this is it” I ran upstairs, grabbed the few bucks I had squandered and told my little brother to go get his bike, that we were going to the store.

We pedaled the 7 or 8 blocks to the local grocery store, went in, found what we needed, paid and raced home. At this point in my life I had never tried to bake anything, let alone follow a recipe by myself but saw that all I needed to do was add some oil, a few eggs and some milk. Easy.

I poured the mix into a bowl, cracked in two eggs, two tablespoons of oil and grabbed a measuring cup for the milk. The box said to add 1 3/4cups of milk. But the way it was written, or should I say, the way I read it, it looked like it said 13/4’s. I did think it was odd to ask for 13/4’s of something but it just so happened that I had just learned how to convert fractions in math a week earlier. Confident of my ability to keep going, I rationalized this strange measurement request with the fact that these recipes were written by adults-for adults, because adults would easily know how to convert fractions. So, even though it did cause for a brief pause, it wasn’t that weird, it was just a grown-up thing, and it wasn’t going to stop me.

I did the math and added 3 ¼ cups of milk, mixed it all together, greased a cake pan, poured the mix in the pan and put it in the oven at 350. The package said to stick a toothpick in it in 20 minutes.

20 minutes later I opened the oven, stuck a toothpick in the watery pan of chocolate goo and reread the box to see if I had missed something. I saw this addendum at the bottom of the box that said, “oven temperatures and times may vary due to elevation” or something like that. And although that made no sense to me, I was sure it did to adults and decided to give it ten more minutes.

10 minutes later it was just as gooey. I decided to turn up the oven.

10 more minutes later it was still gooey but now, at 450 degrees it was also bubbling and spitting like chocolate hot lava. Clearly something wasn’t right, it was just too watery. So, I grabbed a handful of Bisquick, tossed it in and stirred a little bit.

5 minutes later I opened the oven door to find a huge chocolate balloon that had swollen so high it had hit the top of the oven. It was much bigger than I had intended but it would do.

I grabbed the toothpick to see if it was done and when I poked it the whole thing collapsed quite dramatically. I pulled it out of the oven and was now holding a smoking black mass of petrified bubbles in a very, very burnt cake pan.

A second later the smoke alarm went off which freaked the dog out enough to hop the fence and run like hell down the street while my brother was screaming and threatening to call the fire department.

I caught my brother and got the phone away from him right before he had dialed that last 1, sprinted three blocks down to catch the dog, opened up all of the windows and doors in the house and went back to the kitchen to see what I could salvage. As defeated as I felt, the idea of my mom graduating from college without a cake made my stomach ache. I chiseled the cake-brick out of the pan and proceeded to frost the different rock-hard chunks with lemon frosting, my mom’s favorite. Once the oven had cooled I did my best to clean it out. I was actually a little worried my mom would be mad at me at this point and so decided to clean the whole kitchen.

By the time my mom got home my brother and I had cleared off the dining room table and decorated it with three plates, three forks, three glasses of milk, a handmade card that my brother made, a fresh bouquet of dandelions and daisies in a small cup that my brother had picked and one awful, inedible cake with a tub of vanilla ice cream sitting next to it.

She walked in the door and said, “I’m home! I’m done with school!… What’s that smell? Is something burning? What is this? Did you do this for…” and as it all started to make sense to her rather quickly, I burst with watering eyes and said, “I totally ruined the cake, mom! I don’t think we can eat it” She grinned, sat down by a plate and said, “Oh my gosh, is that lemon frosting?! My favorite!” She grabbed a fork to take a bite. And as it crunched in her mouth like a piece of gravel she said, “I think it might have needed a bit more milk, honey” and we all started to laugh for our own reasons.

My brother gave her the handmade card that read “Congratulations of your Graduation from your Degree” which included some serious spelling issues, but the sentiment was clear. My mom’s voice started to wobble and crack as she said, “You two sure know how to make a graduate feel special. Now, who wants some of this amazing food?”

We didn’t eat the cake, we couldn’t. But all three of us ate lemon frosted ice cream with some of the proudest faces you have ever seen.

Lately, at some point in a discussion of gay rights (and the lack there of) someone will inevitably tell me to be patient, and I’m sick of it. Um, no. I am at zero patience in attaining equality as a human. Not at this point. Not with all of the information we have in our hands. Not in 2008. No way.

I asked Violet the other night how come we haven’t seen a surge in historian suicides in the last 8 years or so. I mean, these people spend their lives researching and documenting the past so that we can learn about and consider, in times before us or in places that we don’t personally exist, how things have happened, what has worked and what didn’t. My guess is that they also have a sneaking hope that this information will be considered in present time.

So, either most of us aren’t considering anything that we have not personally experienced or the current majority of the collective social conscious isn’t taking the time to truly consider what legal, emotional, and social ramifications they are taking the time to empower and impose on their queer co-workers and sisters and aunts and friends and children and dads and neighbors. Maybe taking this time would not leave time to catch the latest episode of Desperate Housewives? Or maybe a part of our humanness is that we are doomed to continue to learn the hard lessons over and over.. and over regardless of what we do or don’t know.

But I just don’t see anywhere else in our recent US history where landmark rights were/are being handed out and then yanked away like they have been with queer rights.

I mean, when we finally decided that women weren’t as dumb as we had previously thought we gave them the right to vote. And to our pleasant surprise the political system didn’t explode and so we never reversed this decision.

Abortion is extremely contentious and is constantly under attack, but thus far the right to make that decision for our own body has held strong enough since the day it passed (not without constant maintenance, but point is it became federal law and still is).

We eventually realized that when people with different skin colors marry each other or share the same drinking fountains or go to the same schools that the sky doesn’t start to collapse on top of us in large deadly chunks and so we legalized it all. And interracial marriage and desegregation have never been legally re-revoked.

Now granted, these examples took a lot of time and diligence and pain staking social activism and created massive social divisions and did not happen easily or overnight. I am not trying to make them look like simple feats. They weren’t and they aren’t. The thing is, measure 8 and the like are just more of the many examples of the legal attempts to take human rights away from a minority that had JUST BEEN GRANTED these rights a few months earlier. AND IT PASSED. And this seems to be the theme with ‘gay rights’ and I am wondering why this is happening and how this is legal?

Ok, getting off of my circular tangent here to make a point: I am concerned about how we are going to try and challenge all of this, in general, in the big picture. I am looking at history and I see that things like waging war work sometimes. I can see that protests and strikes have brought light to and have created a platform for change. I see that unexpected civil disobedience tends to make news and is a good way to get air time.

But looking at this last presidential election, the one where a black man with a funny name, that most people had never heard of before, accused of incompetence and all sorts of suspicious no-no’s, somehow, caught our attention. And one by one we started to listen to him and more of us than not liked what he said above all else. What he had to say trumped the powerful potential detriment of his skin color, because let us not be fooled and dismiss the power of the color of our skin in this country. I am looking at history and I am seeing a new wave of how to create political progress and I just saw some of the previously mentioned tactics getting booed and voted out of Washington.

No more dirty campaigning. No more half witted pretty faces. No more slander. No more wasting time trying to correct outrageous mistruths. No more bullshit distractions. No more yelling back and forth. No more name calling. No more manipulation. No more us versus them.

So, before my last statement, I want to make clear that I am not suggesting or superimposing a right and wrong for anyone else here. I am just talking about me. Plus, I think that variety paves smart progress. So, for those of you who are standing outside with signs and for those of you who are creating social chaos through radical gestures and for those of you who are yelling or not saying anything- I totally respect you and your decisions, so long as your brain and your heart were in on the decision making process.

But, for now, I will come out and say that you will not find me protesting at a Mormon church, nor will you find me publicly pledging my allegiances on myfacespacebook, nor will I go on strike for my rights as a homo. And honestly, I still don’t know what to do about things like measure 8 or the guy who threatened to kill me over eye contact a few days ago. But I am looking at our political history and our political present and I see a trend that I like. Pushing and shoving works sometimes, but it doesn’t last and the backlash seems to be a grand call for something different. Em left a well written and smart comment on my last post that included, “Many people who voted for Barack voted for republicans in other elections, but he explained to them why they needed to vote for him.”

How simple. How reasonable. How peaceful. How authentic. And it worked.

So, my gay agenda of now, as I will openly admit to having one, is to be willing to explain over and over, to anyone, until I am blue in the face, why I think I deserve the opportunity to be treated with the same decency and rights and respects and protections as anyone else. And I’ll just see where that gets me.

Don’t get me wrong, I am totally pissed off and encourage everyone to do what feels right. And I do love a good fight now and then, it just seems to me that it’s time to try something new.

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