The night of August 11th...

The second shower only gives way to more heat leaving my body. Only in stillness, does comfort wash over me.

I wish for regeneration.
New limitations.
New perimeters.
Different problems.
An escape from the ordinary, really.

Like when we were kids in grade school, at recess time.
For 15 minutes, we weren't students but astronauts from the Planet of the Apes, or Kung Fu masters.

But then, that damn bell would ring telling us recess was over and we'd have to go back to being students again.

But now recess is our dream state and the alarm clock tells us when recess is over.
The headphones are on.
The alarm is set.
It's time for recess.

...just a wren in a shrub, right?...

The wren, once trapped on St. Stephen's Day, flies to a nearby shrub.

Everyone wonders why the wren didn't fly farther?

The wren went from shrub to shrub to small tree...why not farther away fast?

Maybe the wren needed to know its readiness to fly first?

Once the wren knows it's ready to fly and where it wants to fly to, everywhere is possible.

Until then, the wren travels to the next shrub collecting courage and dreaming possibilities...

...speaking words of wisdom, let it be...

Others talk of their ride on the roller coaster, while others perform the trapeze. They like their thrill for the moment. The undeniable risk they take motivates from inside out, pushing the perimeter, rise or fall, catch or slip, twist or turn.

When will I take the next leap, they ask if I'm in their orbit even momentarily.
When the earth energy guides me away, letting me know where when and how to proceed. Energy needs cultivation, storage and protection for potential...all before kinetic flows out and away.

Grounding is healing. Sandalwood, green tea, deep diaphragmic breaths, singing bowls, chimes, universal love...let me feel the sun on my chakras, the cool air travel east to west around me, the absolute stillness from within and around...let me connect with Earth's vibrations...let me find purpose and inner meaning again...let me enjoy your kinetic energy...let me be...

All it took was a single moment...

All it took was a single moment.
While other performers chose overwrought theatrics, she took a different approach. The stage was set with a white baby grand piano and she entered the stage in her true fashion. Wavy long blond hair and light blue off the shoulder cocktail dress with pumps that make her 5' 7" frame appear more statuesque. She played the opening chords of her multi-nominated song to the hush of the audience. Her trademark white soul voice this time was softer, as to not overpower the delicate piano arrangement she played. The camera focused on her intricate fingering or on her face singing in the microphone. She appeared transfixed on a point in the distance which appeared she was lost in the song's world. At this moment, all the audience, of her peers no less, could do is listen and watch in awe. They knew this moment would be one of the Grammy's most memorable performances.
The last note was sung. The last note was played. She sat at the piano, completely vulnerable, as the audience stood up and applauded. The night's telecast's finest moment certainly eclipsed the previous awards she won that night. What mattered to her at that given moment was her husband and stepson in the audience, beaming with joy and pride. Everything else was icing on the cake...and the Record of the Year Grammy she won soon after, was really nothing more than a flower decoration.

what doesn't kill you...

...makes you stronger.
Does it?
Doesn't it paralyze you for a short period of time?
Make time travel slowly so all your thoughts happen at warp speed so you don't know what to think at any given point?
Doesn't it make you remember all the times you were happy coincide with all the times you wonder how you got into the situation in the first place?
Doesn't panic kick in, and hyperventialtion follow?
Aren't you reminded of places and times you'd wish you could have all over again, if for only the opportunity to be with all those people again...not necessarily the place?  
Will the poison that didn't kill you ever wear off?
And how the *#$#%Y does it make you stronger?
Does the strength come from "Don't touch that poison"?
Piss on all of it for now...I need Earl Grey and cello music...

a small wish...

Notice me.
Understand me.
Appreciate me.
Involve me.

Share with me.
Talk with me.
Taste me.

Touch me gently on the cheek.
Put your arm around me.
Kiss me softly on the forehead.

Make me lose all sense of time.
Promise me no one else matters
Invite me on the journey where we spend the rest of our lives together...

And I'll do the same for you and then some.

What makes sense at this moment...

 Moments like these are when the strong feel weak. Order becomes chaos. Overcome with emptiness, loneliness, disquieting numbness.

Shock still hasn't worn off. I'm more afraid of feeling. That's when everything will collide, then collapse...when the shock wares off.

Until then, you're strong, brave, and in control. It's my turn to hold them tight and tell them they're okay. Nothing will harm you, you're safe.

And suddenly, their need reminds you of all you feared is never really lost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Temporarily Inadequate

We're supposed to be happy with who we are. 

You know, not look to others for how we see and feel about ourselves. 

Which we all do, right?

We go non-chalantly about our lives without giving a flying fuck about how anyone sees us. As long as we don't smell bad or scare children, no one minds, right?

So, why did seeing you seem so unnerving? We're chatting, smiling, reconnecting...and what is running through my head is "Is my breath bad?", "Did I have to wear this shirt?" and "Please, dear gods, don't let a zit appear on my face!"

You haven't changed. You're still sweet. You're still kind. You're still beautiful. 

Will you think I'm good enough?

Food Blog - New Year's Eve

One reason why I don’t like the Catholic Church

There are so many people I know who all have their reasons why they don’t like the Catholic church or any of the Christian denominations. Most of those reasons are political, noting the sexism or the racism or the homophobia that prevails within them or at least the congregations that their families were a part of while they were growing up. That is a valid point to a certain degree, we all have experienced those aspects at some certain point and time. But that statement is also a non-answer. You know, one of those polite statements people can say in place of the real reason(s) they don’t like their former church. We are all guilty of making these polite non-answers when we don’t want to get deep with personal reasons why. And that’s completely understandable, after all – why get deeper with information than we really have to?

This is one of those times I’m going deeper. I don’t want to say I don’t like the Catholic church because it’s a racist, sexist, homophobic institution. There is a reason or two more. This is a more personal reason.  It started back when I was in kindergarten. This was when Father Turner was the priest residing over Saint Joseph’s Catholic church in Edgerton. My memories of Father Turner are few and far between. I mostly remember him on Friday nights at the bar in Tibbie’s, a supper club that was a block away from my house in beautiful downtown Indianford. He was an older priest, in his 50’s I believe and rather dysfunctional from what I remember. His homilies rambled and he always looked and talked like he just woke up. Nice enough guy, though.

Now all good Catholics take their children to catechism, and Father Turner had set up a catechism plan for all the children of the congregation. If you want to call it that. What was called catechism in the Father Turner era was splitting the kids up by grades, pairing them with volunteer teachers – who just happened to be the old women members of the church – and let whatever happen,  as long as it was justified by Father Turner. Translated, this meant a room of fifteen children with an old woman rambling on about whatever she felt like talking about. We might have learned how to pray, we might have colored, we more often than anything sat in a chair, listened to the old woman talk about how she lost her rosary, prayed to St. Michael, then found it.

So, as a kindergartener, Mom signed me up to attend catechism. Every Tuesday afternoon for Lent or for that first week of August when the Assumption was on, I went in the first grade class. Yes, you heard me, in with the first graders. It was bad enough that I spent the first part of my kindergarten day with the first graders in their reading class. The other kids hated having me in their class and always called me the punk. I tried to make the best of the reading class, but I understood why I was in there. That whole Tam the Ram thing where I read the story, wrote what I read and all the teachers looked at each other in horror. But this was catechism. This was something completely different from school.

But that didn’t stop the other kids from hating me. They picked on me for being in kindergarten and wanted me to leave. I didn’t blame them. I didn’t want to be there either. I asked Mom why I was in catechism and she said I was supposed to be in there. I told her I didn’t belong there, because all the other kids were in the first grade and I’m not. She said those other kids didn’t need to know that. You just say you belong there and that’s that. That didn’t help matters. There were other kids from my school there and they told the other kids who weren’t in my school and everything was worse. No one would let me sit where I wanted to sit, so they would push me and my chair so I had to sit next to this girl, Tamie Uglum, who always smelled and always had her thumb in her mouth. I would tell Mom week after week how bad catechism was, and what the other kids were doing but she turned a deaf ear to the whole thing.

When I was in the first grade, the classes lined up and we went to our classrooms. After roll call, I raised my hand and told the teacher I’m in the wrong grade. She took me to the class where the first grade class, I was added to the roll call and all was good. I liked being with the kids in my grade. I belonged somewhere…even if the class was boring and no one liked it. I was where I was supposed to be.

I was very proud of myself. I corrected a problem.  Part of the catechism was a Mass. So after sitting in the classroom with the other kids doing who knows what for an hour, we sat in Church for another hour doing nothing but acquiring boredom. Mom was sitting in her usual pew, the back pew in the middle section on the right hand side. She drove my sister and I home where she had dinner ready but to heat it up. At the dinner table I told her how I’m no longer in the wrong grade and how proud I was to solve the problem. She wasn’t. She yelled at me at the dinner table. I said plain as day, “But Mom, I’m in the first grade. I don’t belong with the second graders.” All she could say was, “Well, now I have to go to church and talk to your teacher and make sure you’re put in the right grade. What made you think you could do something like that? That is SO AWFUL!” I didn’t eat supper that night. I barely spoke to anyone for the rest of the week. I didn’t understand why I had to be a grade ahead of everyone else.

The following Monday it happened. I was with my class, and this session, we all had to meet in the church before we go into our classrooms. My mom was in her pew, and she walked over to Mrs. Geary, my teacher. She gave her a hard tap on the right shoulder then covered her mouth. I turned away from them, looked down in fear of what would happen, and wanted to disappear. Next thing I knew, I felt a pull on my right arm and I was taken over to Mrs. Ogle’s 2^nd grade class. When the church was let out and all the classes went to their rooms, it started all over again. And I hated it. The other kids hated me. And even the teachers knew I wasn’t supposed to be in there. It wasn’t my fault.

That night at home, Mom said, once again, I belonged in there. I knew she was wrong. The other kids knew she was wrong. The other teachers even knew she was wrong. But it didn’t matter. She demanded I be a grade ahead in catechism.

The summer before 4^th grade, there was an announcement the church was to receive a new priest. Catechism was to coincide with the school year and we’d have actual books and lessons. We received the list of classes and teachers. Sure enough, I was at the top of the list of the 5^th grade class with Mr. Vogl and all the boys. From that moment on, I begged and pleaded with Mom to fix the mistake. She kept demanding no for the longest time. But on the Monday when we were there, she came into church with me. We entered the hall, she looked at me – mad as hell – and walked over to the women in charge who organized the new catechism classes. After a few minutes, I was escorted over Mrs. Fox’s 4^th grade catechism class. When my friends asked me what I was doing there, I said “I was on the wrong grade.” Mom left the church hall, head down looking embarrassed. From that day until I graduated high school, I was in the correct grade.

Years later, Mom and I got into a heated argument, mostly about how controlling she was. During this argument I brought up catechism and why I was a year ahead when I was in grade school. I point blank asked her, “Did you not know how much that messed me up?” and “What were you thinking doing that? Did you not care about my feelings?” She looked at me completely upset and told me how one summer, when Julie was in catechism and we all went to the Mass for the blessed assumption, I was so upset when I noticed she was gone and she was in the parade that all the kids in catechism were in. I bolted out the door to find her and joined her in the parade. She thought maybe catechism would be good for me. I looked at her and said, “But you’re a Mom. You’re supposed to scold me and tell me sit down and that Julie would come right back.” The fight was over. There were no winners or losers that time. Both sides went their separate ways.

I never brought up the topic again, nor did Mom. That whole incident has remained unmentionable and unsolvable. I’ve thought back on that period of time and wondered on my own why she did put me a grade a head in catechism. From an adult’s perspective, many things make sense. Like her needing an afternoon to get housework done without the kid around. Like her son needing to be around other kids for socialization skills. Like her feeling one of her kids was an accomplishment – he’s a year ahead in reading, math and catechism. Like her want to teach her children about God and being a good Catholic.

But as time grew on, what would become are questions without answers but with much contemplation. Those questions became heavy, weary and tiresome. Those questions became rote and repetition, like the Sunday Mass, where everyone shows up to repeat the same prayers in the same places. Or stand, sit or kneel in the same places and times. Time for communion, have your hands out, the body of Christ, Amen. You say all the polite statements that you’re supposed to make at the appropriate times without creating any conflict, just like the non-answers that sound good without any explanation. And move on as if nothing happened.

The baton is being passed...

The baton is being passed...
And I'm unsure if I'm ready to take it and run
Much responsibility comes with carrying it.
Running your life completely on your own,
Carrying the weight of other's welfare
Moving with the knowledge you are your own life support
Sprinting alone on your path...
I'll never completely know until its time for the passing, will I?

Dark Cloud

Sometimes I just want to know I matter.
Not just heard, but listened to.
Not just seen, but happy to be seen.

The comfort of a smile and a positive response.
The lunatic fringe isn't always desirable.
Looking through the window to see what's going on
isn't always desired.
Admiring others grow and prosper, pursuing their passions is great,
but not when it reminds yourself how you haven't.
Privacy and self-replenishment is a just reward
but sometimes shallow in victory.

Heart pumps tight in a restricted vessel.
Lungs squeeze, Thoughts fester.
Voice falters from lack of use.

Looking out from within doesn't provide solace now.
Seeking empathy, understanding, kinship
Unsure of form or fashion.

Need escape, temporary or long term unsure.
Need stimulus, not hurt
Need energy, if only for a fleeting moment.

But there's no place to go, no reason to flee, no desire to pursue.
There only is what is.
The underside view from the dark cloud.

June 6, 2012

At this point and time I feel like me…Mark…on a typical Wednesday after work. The font would be an outline of letters, with the intention of filling in the blanks with whatever color or colors fill the moment. Dark chocolate fills me as the flavor of the moment. Its mystery and its richness fills my soul and calms my emotions, leaving me languid. The aroma swirls up my nostrils with comfort of strong black coffee, not your regular blend, but the pack you keep in the back of the freezer for special occasions.
Yet, within that mystery and richness, the darkness prevails. The impending doom of so many ends approaches, as if a diabolical cabaret singer sits in Goth poses, plays the piano with lumbered key strokes, and sings about the loss of her lover, long dead for 200 years, hoping to return in a vampire state. The finality remains while the hope of ever after lingers like a batik print on the wall.
There probably will be another sun rising in the east, and it will cross the sky and eventually nest in the west, but not before creating a bed of purples, reds and golds…just as the day before, and before that. With its return will be the new inspiration brought to me by a muse who refuses to show themselves until the moment arrives. Until then, pondering what the inspiration will be and the muse who brings it is pointless. It shows up when you are taking a shower, filing a ream of papers into folders, or talking to friend about their dinner plans at the Chinese take out.
At this point and time, hope conjoured images of bigger dreams fulfilled. A lover’s arms that surround me, shoulders to lean on, eyes that twinkle with lashes that flutter, all surrounded by reasons without words and language without voice. Instead, it presents itself in others. The third person always sees what the first person never comes out to say directly. The gaze from one to another. The hug from behind the curtain. The soft kisses that love lips from the intended. And I hold the gaze, but not for too long so imposition is never revealed.
For now, I’ll be happy with the temporary feeling of being needed by others. You know, that feeling of being there when others need you but not returning it back. Like throwing the ball to your dog with the hope he/she will run after it, pick it up and return it…only to find he/she sits there, looking at the ball, then looking at you with that, “Really, you expect me to chase after that?” look on their face. The time will come when there will be a dog to actually chase, pick up, and return the ball back.  Until then, I’ll stand by and put on a happy face or two…for the young couple who find love untainted…for the friends who find happiness in their current situation…for the friends who find the world a little difficult to bear…I’ll stand by with my happy face or two and wonder what colors will fill the blanks between the lines.
That is what Mark feels like right now…

(This was an exercise from the LGBT Narratives group on the forementioned date. The prompt I chose was how does my name feel. I added the idea of points and time as a reference. I was trying to describe a dark mood I was having that day...)

I Wish I Was 7 Years Old Again

I wish I was 7 years old again.

But only at Christmas time.

Because believing in Santa Claus still was real.

Mom and Dad would load up the Jeep with all the presents, and the cookies. There was never a shortage of both growing up. Mom used to make the cookies while my sister and I were in school. We developed a bad cookie dough snitching habit. My sister still loves raw chocolate chip cookie dough, while I love old-fashioned soft sugar cookie dough. Grandma Frances would be sitting in between us, so we kids wouldn’t fight. Mom and Dad always took forever getting ready…

Eventually, we all buckled up and headed to my uncle’s house in Rockford. 45 minutes seemed to take forever getting down there. But when we got there, it took the same amount of time to unload the Jeep.

All the presents would go to the living room, where my uncle’s tree stood. It was 8 feet tall, artificial white with over 200 blue lights and an equal number of bird ornaments on the branches. The room was always dimly lit, so the tree would glow.

My aunt’s Italian and Polish heritage has the custom of the seven fishes on Christmas Eve. At seven, it was a strange custom, since we only had fried fish at Tibbie’s restaurant, so all the different fishes and preparations were not what we were used to. But at seven, is when we had scalloped clams for the first time. They were served on clam shells with seafood forks, lemon wedges and hot sauce. I wanted a second clam, but they were the first course…

After dinner and desert, when the cookies are left out well after the coffee pot is empty, we’d all migrate back to the living room. My sister, my cousins and I would stake out our places. Garth, my younger cousin, handed out the presents. My place was by the carpeted stairs, where my cousins and I use to race each other by sliding down them…not to mention get yelled at.

That Christmas, after all the presents were opened, we heard a knock on the window. It was Santa! My cousin Garth bolted from the living room to his bed. My sister bolted to the kitchen and I bolted upstairs until Santa left. My other cousin had no idea what happened…she was in the bathroom the whole time.

 We did make it home, albeit around 11:30p. Our presents from Santa were waiting for us. All were merry and bright…

My grandma Frances died over 20 years ago. I still miss her sitting on the red velvet chair in the living room with her lap afghan around her legs. My uncle died 6 years ago September, of a sudden heart attack. Christmas hasn’t been the same without them. My aunt continues the Christmas Eve traditions, but she didn’t have my uncle’s entertaining flair. The Christmas tree still stands, but it’s not as majestic as it once was. All the cousins aren’t as close as we once were, now that we’ve all gone our separate ways and they all have spouses and kids of their own, while I’m the family eccentric because I’m without both. I figured out who Santa was when the note was left with my presents the next Christmas. It was the same type used on my Mom’s typewriter. She was bummed to realize I figured it out, but she saved money buying extra presents.

As for me, I’m secretly hoping I never get to the point where I’m given the infamous soap-on-a-rope gift sets for all sorts of god awful cheap men’s cologne. I’d rather smell Tim McGraw than smell like his cologne. I’ve watched my nephews and niece, then my cousin’s kids all carry on the same excitement we cousins had when we were their age. The gifts become less materialistic and more carrying on the traditions and dreams of wonder and excitement. But every once in a while…

Santa,

This year for Christmas, could I relive what being 7 years old was like all over again? Could I be with my grandma and my uncle one more time? Could I look forward to your visit on Christmas Eve with the hopes of getting presents from you for being good…or at least trying hard to be good? If I can’t actually relive it, could you make incredibly real when I imagine it?

I’ve been very good this year. I haven’t touched a cigarette in 15 years. Thanks to citalopram, I don’t drink. And I hardly drop the F-bomb anymore.

Thanks, and Merry Christmas!

Mark

The First Time...

The first time I felt different from other kids happened in kindergarten. Mrs. Bue, the kindergarten teacher, and Miss Kroeger, the 1^st grade teacher, pulled me aside before recess. They sat me down at a table, placed a piece of lined paper and a pencil in front of me, opened a tan and white SLA book in front of me, then asked me to read each line, then write what I read. “I am Tam the Ram,” then “Tam the Ram I Am,” then I read and wrote the next two lines on the page. When I finished reading and writing, I gave them the paper when they looked at each other with horror. Mrs. Bue thanked me, and then told me I could put on my jacket and go out for recess. The next day, I was told I would spend the first part of kindergarten with the first graders’ reading class. I was a grade ahead in reading class until 5^th grade.

The first time I knew I was gay happened when I watched an episode of Soap. I kept wondering why Jodie Dallas was the gay one?…why couldn’t it be his brother, Danny? He’s way cuter…

The first time I had a crush on a male celebrity it was Robert Urich. When his character on Soap, Peter Campbell, was shot, he was wearing swim trunks in the shower. He leaned against the shower stall then slid down all the while water showered on him. “WOW!” and “DAMN!” went through my head. Months later, when he starred in Vegas, there was a scene where he stripped down to cotton boxers and dove into a hot tub. For those 60 seconds, the world stopped and I creamed my jeans.

The first time I fantasized about gay sex it was Starsky and Hutch. Since I didn’t really know what happened in gay sex, it involved a lot of kissing, groping and nudity.

The first time I had gym class in the sixth grade was strange. I had the Robert Urich moment over the summer, so I had something to hide. Between changing into gym clothes and taking showers, I was self-conscious of my body and how it looked. And I couldn’t look at any other guy in class. The separate boy/girl thing was weird, not to mention what we were really learning. Was it sports? Or male camaraderie? OR becoming socially acceptable men?

The first time I was sexually aroused by someone I went to school with happened my freshman year in high school. He was a senior who lifted weights…serious weights. His upper arms were built like someone’s thighs. I kept looking at his arms wondering what he’d look like in a sleeveless shirt.

The first time I didn’t conform to my classmates in high school was my junior year. I didn’t go to prom. When everyone was excited over who was going and with whom, everyone avoided asking me if I was going. I didn’t ask anyone, still feeling like the ugly fat fag I was branded since sixth grade. I stayed home. I went downstairs to the pool room, played pool, watched SNL and Solid Gold with a few bottles of beer my sister left in the fridge. I was more hurt and upset at the time, but I realized the non-conformity and the rebellion years later. I chose not to be some place where I didn’t feel welcome. I chose not to be around people who didn’t make me feel I was a part of the group. That made me feel I had the freedom to define myself and to find what that definition is.

The first time I was sexually aroused by a friend happened the summer between my junior and senior year. I saw Brian naked, noticed his large cock and wished I hadn’t. I was turned on; buy the reaction ended up as weirded out. Since I was in complete denial of whom and what I was, nothing made sense. I started distancing myself from him, and he started telling all our mutual friends how I bugged him. By the end of the school year, most of our mutual friends sided with me. Brian ended up not graduating, because he spent a lot of time drinking and partying.

The first time I said, “I’m gay” was my second year at UW-RF. A friend of mine (at the time) talked with me in his room about Tim, the lighting designer from summer theatre the previous summer, sent him this letter about how he was in love with him. That letter lead to a talk about being gay and I said it during that conversation. Unfortunately, this ‘friend’ was a needy, self-absorbed mind fuck who said or did anything to anyone to get what he wanted at any given point and time. I did eventually join the fledgling LGBT group on campus, who easily replaced the mind fuck I first came out to.

The first time I made real friends they were from that UW-RF LGBT group. We’re still all connected, at least through me on Facebook. It’s hard to believe its 26 years since then and we’ve all been through a lot. I never had real friends until this group, and I still feel lucky we’ve been there for each other.

The first time I fell for a guy, I swear I got a concussion. Grant started at the Gazette a week after I did. For the next year and a half, it was casual passing in the hallway or on the loading dock when he had a smoke. We then met for lunch one Sunday and had a nice time, although I felt like I gave off a bad impression. Apparently, I didn’t, because six weeks later, Grant invited me to his place. We talked about assorted goofy stuff and he kissed me. Maybe that kiss was the concussion? He confessed I was the first guy he was ever with. I told him I’m not the kind of guy who normally does this sort of thing. And our clandestine relationship started. It didn’t last. His need for a heterosexual appearance outweighed his heart’s desire and it was over. I really believe he struggled with it all, but his blaming me for leading him into the temptation of evil wasn’t my doing.

Food blog 2 - Corn tortillas

Does anyone else keep stuff in their fridge or freezer thinking, "I'll think of something to use this in."?
I do. This time, it was 2 dozen corn tortillas in the freezer.
Why did I save them? I probably got them on sale.
For the past few months, they'd be staring at me, wondering what to do with them.
So, this idea popped into my head. 1 batch homemade refried beans, the 1 cup leftover hot salsa, 2 8-ounce packages reduced fat Mexican cheese and a recipe taco meat using Boca crumbles.
One layer of 6 tortillas, half refried beans, half salsa, one layer of 6 tortillas, half taco Boca, one package cheese, one layer of 6 tortillas, rest refried beans, rest salsa, last layer of 6 tortillas, rest taco Boca, other package of cheese.
I baked this in a 9x13 pan at 400 for 25-30 minutes.

Now, what to call it...Mexican lasagna? Tortilla pie? Can't decide.

the so called friends...

I used to hate the person who’d yell the ‘F’ words at me. (you know…fairy, fem, faggot…)


I’d make damn sure they saw me look at them. Who knows what they thought? All they really cared about was that I was singled out as somehow different from them and those ‘F’ words covered all the bases. He/She is not me, and I didn’t belong. That’s all that mattered.

As time went on in middle/high school, I learned to hate the friends who stood around the person who yelled the ‘F’ word. Their condescending stares of disgust…learing at my every reaction to their friend’s call out, then the turn and huddle as they dissect my every move.

These people…excuse me, those condescending eyes passing judgment without jury…were more dishonest, more terrifying, more inflicting. The person who shouts it out, to a certain degree, is honest about their feelings. But the circle of ‘friends’ around him/her…they’re the ones to look out for.

7th Grade English Class...

7th Grade English class – the class was at the end of the day.


Every year, there was a spelling bee. Every year, we all competed. The line was down to 3 students, including me. The teacher, looked at his sheet of words, got an evil smile on his face, looked at me, and said, “Masculine”.

The entire class erupted with laughter, including the teacher. I stood there, glaring at everyone individually. Some tried to cover their face, some looked away, some kept looking right at me – including the teacher.

I said, “What’s so funny?” No one stopped laughing. The teacher looked back at me and I asked, “What’s so funny?!” Some laughter died down, but the teacher just said, “Just spell the word.” I did. It was correct. We moved on.

The next day, we had another contest. He did it again. No one laughed that day. I spelled the word correctly again, but added, “Your little joke wasn’t funny today, huh?”

At High School Graduation...

I looked around at all my classmates on the night of my high school graduation. During one of the speeches, that seemed to go on longer than it really needed to be, I realized something.


I don’t have to see any of these people ever again.

Suddenly, a wave of happiness came over me, with this realization. I never have to walk in the war zone that was middle/high school ever again.

I don’t have to be stared at with their homophobic gaze. I don’t have to be whispered about. I don’t have to objectified and speculated about.

I’m free to be…

I’m Not Sorry…

I’m not sorry you didn’t want to be around me – in public.

You were ashamed of being seen with me.

You didn’t want anyone to see us together.



What were you afraid of?

What people would think?

You didn’t want to be called fairy, faggot, fem to your face?

That was okay for me, but not for you?



How were you different?

Did your other friends make fun of you?

Hanging out with the fairy?...are you one too?

Was that what you were afraid of?



People think what they’re going to think.

People feel what they’re going to feel.

You. Can’t. Change. That.



Oh, so that’s why you bragged about your girlfriend the way you did.

You wanted everyone to think, “You’re a man.”

You’re somebody. You’re just like everyone else.

You’re not me. I bug you…or so you said.



I’m not sorry. It’s not my problem. It was yours.

Have the balls to claim it as yours.

Don’t pin your insecurity on me as if I represent all that you’re not (supposedly).



I’m only sorry for one thing. We WERE friends. Friendship is a gift. I take it away.

Hate yourself for all I care.