Category Archives: Memories

Memories, Politics

Remembering my own “letter writing” days

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In my previous post, I encouraged people who supported the Breast Cancer Patient Protection Act to contact their Congressmen directly. That got me to thinking about my own experiences of contacting my Congressman. To be honest, I can’t say as I blame people who choose not to do that, given my experiences.

Back in 2001, I subscribed to the ACLU’s political action mailing list. Every so often (not quite once a week), I’d receive a note from them talking about some legislation that had come up and encouraged me to contact my representatives to voice my opinion. They even offered a service on their website where I could put in where I lived, and they would prepare a boilerplate message that I could edit (I usually didn’t) and then submit to them. Their site would then email or fax it to the appropriate representatives based on my home address. It was all quite handy, and allowed me to do something without putting a lot of effort into it. (What can I say? I’m lazy.)

For the most part, I’d never hear another thing about it. Well, at least that was the case with my one Senator and the House member that represented my district. However, my other senator (or more likely, someone in his office) always made a point of sending me back a reply letter. That particular senator was none other than the recently ousted Rick Santorum.

Anyone who knows anything about Rick Santorum (and if you don’t know anything about him, you must live even further under the rock than I do) shouldn’t be surprised that the letter was invariably a nicely phrased missive to say, “Thanks for writing, but I’m going to do the exact opposite of what you want.” This isn’t entirely surprising, as it’s a hazard of being a liberally minded individual who has the misfortune of being “represented” by a conservative — and insane, as more recent events have shown — senator. However, the experience was rather demoralizing for me. After receiving the third or fourth such letter, I began to wonder why I bothered even writing my senator. After all, it was clear that my little letters weren’t going to change his mind. So I eventually gave up. And I haven’t written a letter to any representative since.

Today, I sit here thinking about that. I find myself wondering if it’s time to give it another try. After all, I’m now in a different state, and I could stand to get a little more involved in such things. Though if I do decide to do it again, I think I may actually try writing my letters for myself. One of the things I struggled with over my experiences with Senator Santorum was that I didn’t feel I could complain too much about his obvious boilerplate response that practically ignored my concerns when I didn’t even take the time to express those concerns in my own word. So that’s something I feel I must address if I ever give the letter-writing process another try.

Family, Friends, Gender and Sexuality, Humor, Memories

The mark Darcy left

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I think everyone has those people who came into their lives for the briefest of moments, yet touched them in a profound way despite how temporary their presense may have been. Darcy was one such person for me. I spoke with her a total of three times in my entire life, and I doubt I’ll ever see her again. And yet, the first night we met, she left an impression I doubt I will ever forget.

That night took place several years ago. It was the night that I agreed to go out to a movie with my older brother — the first and only time I ever went someplace with him since I became an adult. Terry wanted to go see a movie, but didn’t have his license due to legal issues at the time. As such, he needed someone to go with him. Being the generous, if foolish, person I am, I agreed to go with him when he asked me. Both before and after the movie, we decided to hang out at the bar in Ruby Tuesday’s, which was located in the same mall as the cinema complex we went to.

When we returned to the bar after the movie, I was seething. The entire outting had been a real eye opener to just what kind of person — and let me just say that I’m being polite in using that word — my brother was. At one point, I was sure he was going to get himself thrown out of the theater during the movie. (I had decided I was going to sit there pretending I didn’t know him if that happened.) But I allowed him to convince me to return to the bar with him. By that time, Darcy was working behind the bar alone. Things had slowed down enough that Darcy had a lot of idle time, and she and Terry got talking.

Darcy was a sweet girl, a few years older than me at most. She was on the short side with long, blonde hair, but a real spitfire. She was the type of person that could say some incredibly cutting things, yet smile the entire time. I suspect that many of her customers were too drunk to realize she had actually said something biting until after the fact. Her personality struck me as admirable, and entirely conducive to the line of work she was in. And I have to admit that I was enjoying the process of watching her spar with my brother, who was too dumb to recognize all the jabs she got in despite the fact that he was perfectly sober at the time.

The incident that truly earned her my admiration, however, was when the topic turned to that of gay people. I forget what exactly came on the television to spark the conversation, but Terry made some sort of nasty remark on the topic. As I felt my heart sink and my stomach lurch, Darcy turns to Terry and asks him in a friendly, yet pointed manner, “What? Do you have something against gay people?” As soon as she asked the question, she gave me a quick wink. I’m not sure how she had managed to pick me out, but it was clear that like many other people in my life, she had immediately known I was gay. (Fortunately, my brother was clueless, and still is to the best of my knowledge.)

Terry stammered a bit and tried to make excuses. Of course, the first thing he did was played the typical male double standard, pointing out he had no problem with two women being “like that” — and even found it somewhat alluring. However, he pointed out that he just didn’t want any gay guys to hit on him, because that would not be okay.

Darcy’s reaction was incredible in that she didn’t pause, take a breath, or even blink. As soon as Terry said what he did, she just looked at him, smiled, and said in an even if somewhat patronizing voice, “Oh, hon, don’t flatter yourself.” And before either Terry or I had time to register what she said, she was off to serve another customer at the other end of the bar. I just about fell off my bar stool. (And for the record, I was sober, too!) Terry could only respond with a hurt and shocked “Hey!”

I was just totally amazed at how easily, gracefully, and politely Darcy had shot him down. Every time I find myself in a similar situation, I find myself thinking of her response that night. I can only hope I handle things half as well.

I went back two weeks later just to thank Darcy. I also left her a very big tip on my second trip, as an expression of my gratitude. We had a nice conversation, and she was shocked to discover that Terry was my brother. She couldn’t believe we came from the same family.

I only returned one more time after the night I went in to thank Darcy. I’m not the bar type, and even hanging out with such a great gal as Darcy was sufficient reason for me to keep returning. As a result, she disappeared from my life as quickly as she entered it. But that brief encounter is something I still like telling people about several years later. I think I always will.

Emotions, Gender and Sexuality, Memories, Personal Development

The power of memories

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Earlier tonight (before it became tomorrow), I took the time to write about the weekend I decided to come out and the emotional crisis that led up to it. It surprised me how easily much of the emotion I felt that weekend came back to me. In some ways, writing about it meant reliving it, and it was a strange experience.

Of course, this time around, the feelings weren’t nearly as strong. Instead, they were more a ghost of events and feelings long gone. Back then, I was afraid that all of the feelings were going to consume and destroy me. Tonight, the worst they will do is chase a smile from my face until I get some much needed sleep.

And in some way, I find the return of these emotions comforting. Not because I have any desire to return to the constant torment I felt back then, but because it means that I’m still connected to that person I was. I can still identify so completely with my past that I can draw on it for strength, insight, an even wisdom without becoming lost in it or controlled by it. And that is a wonderful feeling.

I’m beginning to realize that this writing project is meant to serve a dual purpose. So far, I’ve been focused on how it might help others who are going through many of the same things — or even just similar things — that I did. But now I also see that it’s also a chance for me to again connect to my past, understand how it led me to the presence, and discover just how I’ve grown from it all. And perhaps that’s something I need right now, too.

Introspection, Memories, Personal Development, Writing

I feel like a writer

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I’ve been keeping a copy of Harald’s Story in a Word document. Tonight, I printed out a copy of it so I could share it with a couple of local friends. I’m amazed at how long it’s getting. It already spilled onto page eighteen, and the hero and his associates haven’t even set sail yet.

Of course, I also have to admit that I’m a bit nervous. I have no only the vaguest idea of how the story is going to proceed once Harald and company set sail. So I currently feel like I’m glibly writing my way off the edge of a cliff, so to speak. But I do take some comfort in the knowledge that when I originally started thinking about the story, I only had the first couple scenes planned and a very basic premise for the rest of the story. And since I’ve started writing, I’ve already developed that kernel into the seven “chapters” I’ve written so far, and I have a good grasp of the contents of at least three more chapters. So hopefully, the rest will come as I progress just like the current material has slowly developed.

But more importantly, I’ve rediscovered my love of writing fiction. I haven’t felt this excited about a story I was working on since I tried to work on the series of stories surrounding my characters Keylar and Amira. That was back just before Zech and I broke up (the break up that influenced my choice to abandon that story). Here I am, eight years later, and I’m feeling quite accomplished. Who knows, maybe I’ll eventually be able to “rediscover” Keylar’s story and return to it. I’ve always felt sad that I could never get myself back to a point where I could continue it. But in the meantime, I’m happy with my current project. Here’s to hoping things continue to go in such a positive direction.

Deep Thoughts, Emotions, Introspection, Love, Memories, Paganism, Personal Development, Religion, Witchcraft

Turning Inward

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I’m not sure how many people read this blog any more. I know I’ve been silent for almost a month now. To be honest, I’ve logged in to write something several times since my last entry, but have never been able to get past the blank textbox.

This is one of those cases where many aspects of my life have caused me to turn inward, to work on projects and go through things that I’m not ready to post about yet. There’s just so much going on that still needs to be worked out in the stillness of my own mind before broadcast to the world, and as such, I leave what readers I may have wondering what’s going on.

What I can say is that my spiritual life is getting rather interesting right now. There are certain things that I need to work on and certain changes in my life that I’m making in order to prepare for the “next big step.” At some point, I hope to talk about some of that. But for now, I must leave it at this simple teaser.

I’m also working on a writing project, which I have several guides telling me will eventually coalesce into a publishable book. However, I’m in the very early stages of that process. Currently, I’m at the point where the project involves me spending regular times with a separate journal (as opposed to my “everyday” one) and writing about past experiences, people, and choices that I can remember, and my emotional reactions to them. It’s been both a rewarding and trying process, as not all of the memories or the realizations related to them are entirely comfortable. They’re not exactly painful, either. But they take a bit of processing at times.

One of the interesting things is that as I continue with this project, I find myself remembering little things that I had completely forgotten about, things that I haven’t thought about in a decade or more. That in itself can be a bit shocking. Of course, on the flip side, it’s also nice to suddenly discover that I have more memories of my life before high school than I might’ve thought. They’re just there waiting to be found.

Of course, a side effect of this process is that I find myself growing nostalgiac. I find myself wondering what ever happened to old friends, old school chums, and even an old lover or two. I find myself wondering what kind of people they are today. After all, it’s been at least a decade since I’ve seen some of them.

You can’t go home again. But at least you can visit. Even if only in your mind.

Introspection, Memories, Personal Development

Revelation About Writing

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The following is an excerpt from a special journaling project I’ve started:

It wasn’t until Serenity and Zech came along that I received enough encouragement to truly develop my inner writer. I had written a little at the end of college — mostly to help myself cope with my coming out struggles — and those two eventually got me to share. They both loved it and encouraged me to push myself further. I became more confident and open to showing others my work.

Thinking back, I better understand why I chose to put my pen down for so long after they hurt and abandoned me. They had built up my writing so much, it felt like they took it all back when they turned.

Of course, I know that’s not true now. My writing is something that comes from within me, and is therefore not something they could take from me — nor can anyone else. They could only take away their support. But now, I know I don’t need it (and never did). I only need to connect to the writer within. He’s al I need. I’m all I need. I can be my own encouragement.

Coming to this realization tonight was liberating and empowering in a way that really surprised me. Suddenly, I found myself feeling a whole lot more inspired. In fact, I’m seriously considering starting a fiction project in the near future.

Family, Friends, Grief, Memories

Remembering Juanita

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I don’t think I could rightfully say what my first memory of Juanita was. She was someone that has always been a part of my life. When my parents first started taking me to the small American Baptist Church after I was born, she was there. She played the organ almost every Sunday.

I do remember that when I was older, I’d walk to the front of the sanctuary after many Sunday morning services and sit in the front pew just behind the organ. Juanita and I would talk as she continued to play the organ as people mingled and slowly filed out of the church. I think I was mesmerized by the way her fingers glided across the keys and her feet transitioned from pedal to pedal, making beautiful music.

In my twenties, when I bought a small keyboard (I had neither the money nor the space for a full sized piano), I sought Juanita to help me learn how to play. I’d practice on my keyboard and dutifully go to her house for my lessons. Some weeks, I’d bring my keyboard while other weeks, I took my lessons using her upright. We had a great time, joking, talking, and enjoying both the company and the music. I regretted quitting my lessons, but we both agreed that I was having too much trouble making the time for both practice and lessons.

After quitting my lessons and then leaving the church a year later, I didn’t see Juanita much. On occasion, our paths would cross as I’d go back to the little church to support family members who still attended. And the fact that her son, Tom, married one of my cousins gave rise to a few family occasions where we would see each other. On those occasions, we would greet one another with warm smiles and fond wishes.

Tomorrow, I’ll see Juanita one more time. This time, I will be paying my final respects. You see, Juanita lost her fight with cancer and passed away this past week. And a good number of us will miss her greatly. We’ll miss the music, love, and kindness she brought into this world on a regular basis.

But we will also remember her for these things. And we will remember that we are all better people for having known her. And hopefully, those memories will inspire us to emulate those traits we so admired in her. So in our sadness, we will also find warmth and joy.

After all, that’s how Juanita would’ve wanted it.

Introspection, Love, Memories

Revisiting an old letter.

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A couple weeks ago, I was looking through my old diary entries. I ran across an “unsent letter” I wrote to my ex, Zech. In it, I talked about my relationship with Mike. I decided I wanted to go back and comment on what I said there, considering how things with Mike finally ended up. Excerpts from the original letter are in italics, while my new thoughts will be in normal text.

I’m dating a wonderful guy now. His name is Mike.

Ah yes. These were “the good old days” when I actually thought Mike was a catch. (Actually, I wrote the original letter almost a full year before I broke up with Mike.) My opinion has changed since then. Funny thing is, I probably am having more fond thoughts of Zech right now than of Mike. That’s a scary thought, in some ways. Mike and I had our issues, but the “relationship” with Zech was just one huge mess. So you’d almost think that I’d have less fondness for Zech.

I suppose the fact that it’s been over seven years since Zech and I broke up, time has healed those wounds. Compare that to the fact that it’s only been six months since I told Mike I didn’t want him in my life any more, and I suppose that’s understandable. But I think there’s more to it than that. Zech and I had real issues back then, both individually and as a couple. And in Zech’s case, I can cut him some slack due to the fact that he was a lot younger — not even twenty yet. In comparison, Mike’s turning thirty in January. Being that old and still thinking it’s perfectly reasonable to tell someone, “You mean the world to me, but I’m not going to do anything to meet your emotional needs because it’ll require me to accept some personal discomfort” is unthinkable. So in that sense, I think he deserves my contempt.

But I’m slowly learning something. There’s a huge difference between you and Mike.

Unfortunately, I’m also learning there were a lot of similarities between them, too. It’s ironic that I spent so much time teaching myself to not react to Mike out of my issues with Zech, only to find out there really were some things they had in common. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad I went through that process anyway. I did need to learn that not everyone was exactly like Zech.

But in the end, both of my exes were wrapped up in their own little worlds. They were too busy trying to keep their worlds so perfectly balanced, that they were willing to sacrifice my needs and feelings if it came to it. Perhaps Mike wasn’t as dastardly about it, but does that make it any better? And besides, he also should’ve known better.

In retrospect, I think I’ve decided to re-make my rule against not dating guys who are still “in the closet” — at least to their family. I made that rule after Zech and broke it when dating Mike. When Mike and I started going together, I told him about my reservations. But I went ahead on the grounds that he was otherwise wonderful and he promised me that he’d make sure that the fact that his friends and family didn’t know about his sexual orientation wouldn’t get in the way. He broke that promise. And I’m now convinced that when push comes to shove, most guys in the closet will break that promise. So if they’re not ready to be honest with their family, they deserve a pass in the realm of relationships. They’re just not ready.

Memories

When I wore a rainbow colored wig

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Craig left me a comment about my experience as a clown. Particularly, he asked me if I told bad puns while I clown. The short answer to his question is no. But since he asked and stirred up the memories, I thought it might be fun to stroll down memory lane a bit.

I joined Acts 29 (my campus’s travelling ministry project that involved puppeteering, clowning, and similar activities) when I was in my sophomore year at Susquehanna. Though I didn’t really get all that involved with the group until my junior year. That’s when the project moved into a house on University Avenue. I shared the one downstairs bedroom with my roommate, Gerry. I immediately got involved in puppeteering and clowning. I enjoyed both, but in some ways, I enjoyed clowning the most.

I inherited one of the four or five clown costumes the project had. My friend Merion had actually used it the year before I became an active member, and it fit me quite well. I also went out and got a rainbow-colored wig to go with it and started working on a design for my facepaint. Unfortunately, I don’t remember everything I included, though I do remember I’d always draw a blue star on my one cheek. I always had such hard time with that, too. I was such a perfectionist, and I’d spend a few minutes trying to get the star “just right” before finally giving up and letting it go with however it looked. Don’t get me wrong, it always looked fine, really. At least no one ever complained or asked “what’s that blue splotch supposed to be?”

Acts 29 almost always did silent clowning. (The only time our clowns spoke was when they performed at the home for developmentally challenged individuals in Selinsgrove. We felt it was necessary to bend our rules of silence for the sake of being better able to get our message accross to our audience in those cases.) Our clowning mainly consisted of small skits with some sort of message. For example, we had this one skit called “Return to Sender.” For this skit, one of the clowns would take a big red heart and tape i to their chest, over where their own heart would be. Then the skit would begin. Through a series of events, each of the other clowns would be mean or thoughtless to her (I say “her” because more often than not, Amanda’s clown character, Rosy would play the part of the clown being hurt). For example, we might not let her join in a game we’re playing. Or we might get mad at her for a mistake she made and push her away. And each time one of these things would happen, she would tear another little piece off her heart. Near the end of the skit, her paper heart would be nothing more than small shreds. At this point, she would be very sad until she got an idea. She would then grab an envelope, put the torn heart into it, and seal it up. Then she would write on the front of the envelope “To God” in big black letters so everyone in the audience to see. Then she’d give it to someone (usually one of the non-clown facilitators that was accompanying the group) to send to God. A bit later, the same person would come back with another sealed envelope. The clown would open it up and find a new, untorn paper heart in it. Of course, all the other clowns would see this and get excited and everyone would hug and make up and play together.

I think that my favorite experience as Bobo (my clown name) was when we decided to write our own Christmas skit. It was a particularly interesting skit because we integrated a number of our ministry forms together. In this skit, we involved clowns, puppets, and at least one “normal person” part. (That part was the poor narrator who had to try to keep the whole thing together. In that skit, Bobo ended up playing the part of Joseph (we were re-enacting the nativity scene after all). And things just weren’t going well. The narrator would tell Rosy (playing the part of of Mary) and I to go to Bethlehem. Well, being two clowns, we immediately pulled out our map and started trying to find out how to get to Bethlehem. We would both sit there running our fingers over the map trying to find it (usually not looking in the same place). Usually, we’d end up turning the map as if we had it upside down for good measure. I loved that gag.

Needless to say, the whole experience didn’t get any better. Not only could Rosy and Bobo not find Bethlehem, but our Shepherd (another clown) couldn’t find her sheep (though she was able to find a cow and a duck, to the annoyance of the narrator), one of the wise men was sick and couldn’t make it, and above all else, we ended up forgetting the baby Jesus. This last put the narrator into absolute hysterics until our lovely Shepherd (played by Amy’s clown character, whose name escapes me at the moment) bring out one of her animals. Rosy immediately falls in love with it and decides it can stand in for the baby Jesus, and we ended the skit with a very sweet — if unusual — nativity scene.

I think the other thing I liked about clowning was the playtime. You see, before any service or event began, the clowns were given free reign. While people would be coming in, we had the honor of running around the place with our variou toys (after all, like any good clown troop, we had a suitcase full of them) playing and being silly. We’d be playing kazoos, blowing bubbles (which the children always loved to pop — and so did the clowns), and finding all kinds of make believe games to be playing with a simple length of rope.

Ah, the memories. I haven’t thought about my days as a clown in a long time. I enjoyed the stroll through the past.

Health, Introspection, Love, Memories, Personal Development

Health Stuff and Heart Stuff

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I think I took my last outdoor walk of 2004. I had my light, nylon jacket on, and until I got heated up and sweating, I was pretty darn cold. I suppose I could keep the outdoor walks going if I switched over to my winter coat, but I’m not sure I want to do that, yet. Besides, that’s only a temporary fix, and the way that the weather is feeling, it wouldn’t last long. Soon, it will be my face, hands, and feet getting too cool. And I can’t forget that my jeans are still pretty loose. No, I think it’ll be better to switch to indoor walking. I’ll just have to start going to the Pyramid Mall during lunch so that I can walk there. Though that mall is almost too small for a real walk.

My other option is to wait until after work and go to the Arnot mall so I can walk there. It’s a larger mall and better for walking. But I think I prefer to walk during the middle of the day. I found it’s helping me some with my appetite problems in the middle of the afternoon. If I get a good walk in just before I eat lunch, I find lunch much more satisfying and it seems to keep me satisfied longer. I don’t exactly get that, since walking should increase my metabolism, causing my body to burn through the calories of lunch even quicker. There must be a piece to the equation I’m missing. Probably several, if I think about it.

Well, I guess it’s time to write about the time of year. I’ve been putting it off because I don’t want to, but it’s been on my mind too much to avoid it any longer. I knew I’d have to get it out there sometime, so I might as well get it over with. This week marks the six year anniversary since the nuclear explosion between Z, S, and myself. It’s hard to narrow it down past “this week,” since the whole thing strung out over a period of seven to ten days. I mark the time period from when S sent me the “I’m mad at you and I don’t want to talk to you for at least six months” email on 9 October and she replied to my email telling her off on 17 October with a statement that she didn’t care what “my side of the story” was and made death threats. In between, both she and Z told me that they never wanted to talk to me again and lots of other nasty things. I grant you, some of them were deserved. I was no innocent, and I don’t want to give the impression that I was, or the impression that I think I am.

I don’t know, but part of me wonders if this is why I’ve been a bit morose and on edge lately. I’ve been trying to deny that, as I really don’t want to admit that this might still bother me. But then again, the fact that it’s on my mind suggests that it might. But then I find myself wondering. Am I morose and on edge because the time of year has reminded me of these past events? Or has my mood simply caused my mind to dredge all this back up. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I suppose all that matters is that it’s on my mind and I have to write it out.

Damn, I really didn’t want to write about this. I’m not entirely sure I want to think about it. At least not in this emotional context. It’s been six years. I’ve made new friends. I’ve met a wonderful man and I’m in a relationship I enjoy. I’d rather just let all the past hurts slip gently away. But I guess they have to do that in their own time, don’t they?

The funny thing is, the whole thing with Z himself doesn’t really bother me anymore. It seems to me that I made peace with him, and that’s all water under the bridge. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t feel a tinge of something — sadness maybe? — over how things went with him. But there’s a certain peace there. If not perfect, it’s been resolved. But I don’t have that feeling with S. Isn’t it strange that the person I was theoretically closer to — the one I had a romantic relationship and the first person I ever had sex with — causes less of an emotional reaction than the one I was just friends with?

I suppose part of that is because of the betrayal involved. It’s because I thought she and I were good friends. I let myself be vulnerable to her — possibly in ways I wouldn’t let myself be vulnerable to Z. And she betrayed that. Not only did she betray that, but she practically declared me evil incarnate, and I think that’s what really hurt. I mean sure, I was in the wrong in some ways. But evil incarnate was pushing it a bit far.

I think it also is because I took her crap onto myself. For a while, I believed her accusations. I let myself be crushed by her hurtful words. In effect, the hurt and anger towards her is also partly the hurt and anger towards myself for accepting that kind of wounding. Maybe even for making myself vulnerable in the first place.

But I’m not angry at her anymore. At least not as near as I can tell. Anger takes up too much energy. It has to be constantly kindled, and I’ve quit wasting that energy. Heck, I can’t even say that I hold her in contempt any more. Contrary to what I’ve often thought, I’m finding that just takes too much effort and energy, too.

Do you know what I do feel for her? Pity. And maybe a little sympathy. But mostly pity, I think. She reacted the way she did not just because she didn’t know everything and made assumptions, but because she let her own emotional demons rule her reaction. And unless things have changed for her in the last six years, she’s still living with that, and may have to live with that for the rest of her life. She’s built a cage for herself out of the past and her own bitterness and anger, and she doesn’t even see that she’s trapped in it. I hope I’m wrong. I hope she’s moved on from that point in her life, breaking the bonds she helped strengthen. But I don’t know if that’s happened. All I know is what I saw. And it’s that S of the past that I pity.

I hope I’m not doing the same thing. I want to be free of this past. And I think I’ve done my best to set myself right. I think I’ve broken many thigns that have held me from these betrayals and I hope I have the wisdom to recognize those that remain and the strength to break them as well when I do recognize them.

But I still find myself wondering why this is still coming to my mind.