Good Lighting

Our cottage in Maine is not so much appointed with furniture as it is with light.  The sunrise paints great blocks of yellow rectangles and sunset’s final kiss leaves a rosy blush at the end of the day, which is generally when I ask Paul to take my picture.  The light is gentler then and as the years progress, I have begun to appreciate good lighting.

If there is anyone else who appreciates good lighting, it is our utility company.  Paul has completed no end of “lighting projects”.  Seems there isn’t a spot that could not benefit from a little more illumination; the space above and below the kitchen cabinets, the area behind the TV, the wall above the sofa and even the margin below our bed.  Dark corners don’t stand a chance in our home. When I say that Paul lights up my life, I mean it quite literally.

On a recent cool September evening as we sat by the communal fire pit, our neighbor Michelle leaned back in her Adirondack chair, warmed from the fire as much as from a glass of wine and mused out loud, “We just love looking up at your cottage; it always has such a nice glow with all of those open windows.”  She paused and smiled while gazing into the fire and then added, “By the way, where did you get that dresser in your bedroom?”

The heat in my face was less from the fire and more from the blood rushing to it as I mentally rewound the tape from past nights’ bedroom activities, damn Paul and all of his lighting. But I understood what she was saying.  There is a comfort in a lamp’s glow or a flickering television when viewed from the outside on a dark night.

It says that there is life here.  Someone you love has left a light on for you.

As the fire danced and the children screamed and squealed while chasing an unfortunate frog, I began to think of this past summer, of the shortening days and lengthening nights.  Soon enough the long days of summer would be memories and I was not so keen to let them go.

So I catalogued them in my mind: the marsh bisected by a river of silver in the early morning fog, the walk along the sandy trail while the crickets chirp in the beach roses under the fierce midday sun, the splintered sunlight, like millions of diamonds sparkling on a blue velvet ocean, the slanted light on Paul’s face when I meet him at the train station on a Friday evening. 

These are the little lights that I leave on for myself, to illuminate the dark corners of a cold winter’s night. 

This is good lighting.
 

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Would You Die for Love?

“I would go ape shit on anyone who ever tried to hurt you.”  Paul says this with an aggressive conviction that shocks me.  It doesn’t surprise me that he would protect me, or that his love for me runs so deep. The shock comes from a silent understanding that passes like a current between us.  The very reason someone might hurt me is because of our love for each other.

He said this to me the night before I testified in front of New Hampshire’s Judiciary Committee to oppose the repeal of marriage equality.  I was doing something that most Americans will never have to do.   I was fighting to keep my marriage legal.

To speak about something as personal as love and family in front of an impersonal governmental body is daunting.  To speak in front of elected officials that called me diseased, sick and a pedophile was almost unbearable.  Several times I voiced my disapproval for being called these things, only to be told that I should remain quiet and respectful of those speaking.  But how do you remain quiet when someone calls your husband sick and immoral?

I didn’t.  I started this blog.  Since then I have received many e-mails from others who wanted to tell me their story.  Recently, I received an e-mail from a film maker, Wajahat Ali Abbasi who is filming a movie about the true story of two Iranian boys executed by public hanging in 2005 for the crime of loving each other.

My first thought after receiving this e-mail was “This is another part of the world, it couldn’t happen here.”  But then I thought about our politicians who spew lies and hate about me; about the pastor from my home state of North Carolina who called for gays to be executed; about one of my own family members who called me sick and will not speak to me; about the former class member who hurled a homophobic epithet at us during our high school reunion.

De-humanizing a population makes it possible to extinguish them.  In eight countries, including Iran, being gay is punishable by death.

When I asked Wajahat what the motivation was for making this film, he told me of his friend, a twenty year old bright boy with a promising career.  This boy came out to his friends and family and experienced daily relentless bullying.  He became afraid of leaving his home.  One day while returning from college he disappeared.  Two days later, his body was found.  His murder was declared a suicide.

The film, Sin, is Wajahat’s attempt to tell the personal story, to put a human face on the two boys who were blindfolded and hung in July of 2005.  You can view his Kickstarter funding page here.  The trailer is at the bottom of this post.

I learned some sobering facts while researching this post.  One of them is that because I am gay, I am forty one times more likely to become a victim of a hate crime.  The question is not would I die for love, but will I?

 

Linking up at yeah-write and speak-easy

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How to Dance

When I was in the eighth grade, my mother registered me for a dance class.  She was certain it would give me the confidence that I lacked.  Perhaps secretly, she also hoped that it would make me like girls.  What she didn’t understand was that the confidence I needed would not be gained by learning how to count steps, but more so by simply taking them.

Each week I would join fifteen other gangly teenagers, mostly girls twice my size, in Miss Isaacs’s basement. We mastered such dances as the fox trot and cha-cha; steps in the 1970s that guaranteed we would never be asked to dance more than once. 

On the day of our final class Miss Isaac glided into class with sparkly high heels on her plump little legs and tilted her frosted haired head to one side.  Anticipation climaxed during her pregnant pause.

“Today, we will learn how to boogie!”  She finally said.

She punctuated this statement by placing a hand on her hip and pointing the index finger on her other hand to the sky, à la John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.

With a scratch she placed the needle on the record player and proceeded to tell us that in order to truly master disco it was necessary to move our hips to the beat.  If you were a skinny, pimpled, closeted gay boy in 1970’s North Carolina, I can assure you that moving your hips to the beat was something you most certainly did not want to do, lest you get beat up.   Probably the only thing worse was watching Miss Isaac move her hips to the beat.  My attempt to dance without revealing my true identity was like watching a dog walk backwards, equally awkward and laughable.

I never really learned how to dance until about five years ago when I met Linda.

Linda and I travelled the world together in my last job.  If you are a woman, Linda is the type of woman you want to be.  If you are a male, you want to be near her.  If you are her manager you count yourself lucky to have someone so smart on your team.

We often found ourselves together at software conferences hosted in different cities.  The final night always involved a celebration for the participants who were primed with alcohol and music.  Every time Linda was on the dance floor, dancing the way I wanted to dance; hands above her head, her blond hair swinging to the beat.

It took a trip to Singapore for me to agree to finally dance with her.  On Saint Patrick’s Day in a city as far away as we could possibly travel in an establishment nick-named the “Four Floors of Whores” I danced with Linda for the first time surrounded by Asian prostitutes and “Lady Boys”. It was as far away from Miss Isaac’s basement as I could get.  Even then, I was self-conscious.

But there is a moment when the desire to dance truly hits you.  It can come in the car, or while you are doing the laundry or when you are walking down the street.  Or it can come in the moment of drunken clarity in the flashing lights of a Singaporean nightclub when a friend so happy and giddy with life tells you “My husband is the love of my life and each day I find I love him more.”  At that moment, you have to decide whether you will sit it out or finally learn how to dance.

Tonight, I am sitting in the basement of a bar one hour west of Boston watching Linda dance.  It is her fiftieth birthday party; she recently lost her mother and just decided to quit her job.  But you wouldn’t see any of that if you saw her dance.  She is holding her husband’s hands as the music washes over her. I turn to Paul, raise my hands above my head and ask him if he wants to dance.  Linda taught me something Miss Isaac never did.  In order to learn how to dance, first learn how to love.


 

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City Kitty

There is a rat in the middle of the street.  It is less of a rat and more of a suggestion of the shape of a rat. I don’t know what has happened to the internal structure of bone and guts that used to make it three dimensional, nor do I care.  I cross the street, walk into the deli and pick up my dinner. On the way home, I cross the street and step over the rat shape suggestion while eating a French fry. It is at this point that realization dawns on me. I have become a city person.

When we purchased our city condo, we did not plan on a major renovation of the kitchen.  The plan was to put a few coats of paint on the walls and spruce up the hardware.  In other words we would put some lipstick on it and be done with it.  But then the home inspection took place.

“Yep, you got yourselves some city kitties,”  the inspector said pointing a flashlight in the area under the sink.

“There are cats under the sink?” I asked while stooping down to catch a glimpse of cute little kittens.

“Eh, no, but there are rats, mice, what have you,”  the inspector said unfazed.  I jumped back.  Disgust and terror were etched into my face.  We closed on our condo at 10 am on a Friday morning; by Friday evening we had ripped out most of the kitchen revealing a hole in the wall.  It was not a cute little cartoon mouse hole with a door, but a jagged gaping cavern big enough for a rat caravan to drive through, whooping and hollering with their sharp yellow teeth and beady red eyes.  We sealed every opening meticulously and replaced all cabinetry, countertops, appliances and flooring.  Any surface that might have been a dance floor for nasty little tap-dancing rat feet was dumped.

But the rats still live outside of our condo. It is one of the things you learn to accept as a city person.  You seal off your kitchen and then you seal off yourself.

When I walk down the street I stare into the middle distance effectively eliminating eye contact.  When approached by strangers asking for directions, my first assumption is that they are crazed religious zealots that will try to usher me into a nondescript white van.  My second assumption is that they are crazed religious politicians looking for sex.

I have learned to ignore the soft spoken homeless man who asks me for change every morning. When I enter an elevator alone, I press the “door close” button quickly ten times with the hopes that the door will close before the woman shouting “wait” is able to enter. When a car does not stop as I cross the street I bark like a territorial dog “It’s a crosswalk, you asshole!”

I think about this and weigh the pros and cons of city life in my mind as I walk a block to have my hair cut.  Sophia greets me warmly and says “We do it short?”

“Yes, buzz the sides and scissors on top,”  I answer her.  She is a middle aged Moroccan woman with dark curly hair and deep brown soulful eyes.  I close my eyes, prepared to shut myself off. The phone rings and she apologizes to answer.  The conversation is short, but she seems worried.

“All is well with your family?” I ask.

“My son, he is young and foolish.  He is in hospital in Atlanta, because he do stupid thing.  He jump off fence and break his leg.” She frets and I can see the worry in her eyes.  “So far from home. You are from the south, I know people there are kind like you,”  she phrases this as more of a question.

“Yes, people are very kind there; he will be well taken care of,”  I reply and her eyes lose some of the worry.  We pass the rest of the time as she cuts my hair speaking of her home in Morocco, of her native languages of Arabic and French.

“You and your friend must stay in my home if ever you go to Morocco.  Is very nice, you will like it,” She says.

"And you must stay in our home in Maine,”  I reply.

When I leave, I switch to my rusty French.  “Merci, Madame, bonne soirée.”

 “Et vous aussi,”  she says, surprised by the gesture.

As I walk down the sidewalk, the T screeches around the corner. I know that I will never go to Morocco and Sophia will never visit me in Maine.  But, it doesn’t matter.  I’m back where I need to be.

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Church Bulletin

Dear Parishioners:

As you know, the assault on marriage and the family continues. We must be ever vigilant in our defense of this most holy and unchanging union.  Therefore, next week we will work to thwart the redefinition of marriage by celebrating “Traditional Marriage Sunday” which will take place immediately following Sunday services.  I hope that you will join me for this most important event. 

But who says discrimination has to be boring? Not us! We’ve lined up some fun and educational activities to showcase “Traditional Marriage”. Here are just a few zany highlights:

·         Arrange my marriage!:  Do you have a single daughter?  Are you concerned about her future?  Then join us while our esteemed organist, Miss Rapture plays her own rendition of “Single Ladies” on the Wurlitzer as we pull photos from a boy grab bag and girl grab bag to arrange the perfect marriage!  This one is sure to fill up quickly so please add your progeny’s name to the sign-up list and bring a 5X7 photo with your child’s name written in indelible ink on the back.

·         Count the Wives:  Think you know how many wives each biblical man had?   The rules are simple, we give you a name. You shout out a number.  Easy peasy right? But wait: one is rarely the answer. How many wives did Solomon have? Don’t even get us started, LOL!

·         Take my widow… Please? Have a childless, widowed Sister-In-Law?   Join this discussion group and help a sister out.  Are you confused by Leviticus and Deuteronomy’s conflicting advice on the subject?  Marry her; don’t marry her, what’s a brother to do? We’ll discuss the finer points and bring a conclusion to this interesting and perplexing conundrum.

·         Medieval Marriage Cake Walk: Political intrigue!  Secrets!  War! Royalty!  Are you a pawn, a knight, a king or a queen?  (not that kind…LOL)  This game will be sure to please and enlighten you to the mystery of medieval marriages when women were sold like property to create strategic political alliances.  Sound like chess?  It is!  If you get check-mate then you’re going home with one of Miss Lou Ann’s tasty wedding cakes!

Now all of this tom foolery in the name of good old fashioned values will be sure to leave you famished.  You’ll be pleased to know that Miss Green’s delicious shrimp salad will be for sale and now for the surprise news…. Chick-Fil-A will serve chicken sandwiches dripping in their brand new Antigé sauce!  Sounds French, but you’ll forgive them for that when you try this new devilishly hot sauce that puts the “ate” back in hate!

Now, brothers and sisters some serious news; As you know there were some unfortunate photos that have surfaced of yours truly while I attempted to help some errant sheep get back over their fence.  Miss Brown will be selling her beautiful cotton poly blend smocks to help raise funds for my court battle with PETA.  You will love these dresses, stains don’t stick, they stay miraculously clean.

So come on out! (Unless you’re gay)

Signed,

The most Reverend Whatawaste

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The Plan

Paul has a plan.

He always has a plan. This is one of the things that I love about him. Without provocation, he says “Huh, that’s a cute idea” as if I can hear the conversation taking place in his head, which is another thing I love about him. He thinks that I can read his mind.

“What?” I say, proving that I cannot indeed, read his thoughts.

“The Powerball lottery is now three hundred million dollars. We’ll pass through eight states on our drive home. Let’s stop and buy a ticket in each one,” he says.

This makes me very happy. We are going to drive seven hundred miles; eleven hours in the car and this plan makes me happy. Perhaps I cannot read his mind, but surely he can read mine.

We have come to Virginia to move my oldest daughter into her off campus apartment. I am such a fool. I thought that because I had already experienced the pain of separation when my ex-wife left with my daughters the first time that this would not be difficult. But last night’s parting loops through my mind like a broken record.

Walking through her apartment, I search for things left undone. The trash needs to be taken out. The nightlights need to be plugged in. “Make sure you keep that window in your bedroom locked.” I tell her. But it is of no use, if I look hard enough I will always find things left undone.

“I will Dad. I don’t want you guys to leave.” She says holding her arms out, signaling that it is time for us to leave. I pull her to me and hold on, inhaling the scent of her. Not the soap she uses, or the shampoo, but the scent that parents love when they smell the top of a baby’s head; because it is a part of themselves.

When I let go and look up, I see Paul’s face. He wears an upside down smile and his eyes answer my question.

“OK, I’m leaving now, goodbye.” I say looking away.

As I walk to the car, a part of me reflexively expects Katherine to follow shouting “Daddy, wait” because this is what would occur when as a child she tarried. I would say the exact words “OK, I’m leaving now, goodbye” and make an exaggerated exit like a vaudevillian actor.

This time, she does not follow.

We wake up early the next morning and begin our trip home. We stop to fill up the car with gas and purchase our first lottery ticket in Virginia. The day is wrapped in promise as the slanted early morning sun shines through the car windows.

“Will we change anything when we win?” I ask as I turn to face Paul in the driver’s seat.

“You know I don’t think that way.” He says looking straight ahead.

But as our cache of lottery tickets grows we begin to discuss what we will do with the winnings. We would most certainly keep working, but just until we get pissed off by some transgression at work, which is estimated to take fifteen minutes, tops. Paul would purchase a Bentley automobile and I would become a full time writer. We begin to mentally cancel upcoming social engagements because we’ll be busy meeting with our financial advisors and accountants.

The evening light is golden as we make our final stop thirty minutes west of Boston to buy our last lottery ticket. In no time at all we are home.

Of course you know that we did not win the lottery. But that was not the plan. Turns out that Paul can read my mind. He knew that eight tickets, a mere sixteen dollars, would be enough to keep my mind occupied during the eleven hour car ride home; to keep me from thinking about things left undone.

Paul had a plan.


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The F-Bomb

“Don't use the F-word in your writing.”  My mother said peering over her glasses.

I recognized the all too familiar look on her face.  It was the one she used for things such as, oh, the discovery of “nasty” magazines stuffed between my mattress and box spring.   But I was an adult man in my forties now and if I wanted to use the F-bomb, then fuck it, I would use it.

“I agree with your mother.” Paul blurted out.  I shot him a look that said we’d deal with this act of treason later.

“Well, if you do use it, it should be reserved for punctuation.”  He said smiling nervously, his index finger making an imaginary exclamation point. His eyes were darting between me and my mother, trying to move us somewhere into the middle.  But I wouldn’t budge.

“This is the way people talk.  I’m just trying to keep it real.”   I said doing my best what-what? thug body pose.

“You don’t talk that way. I taught you better.”  My mother said, and she was right.  I don’t talk that way.  But that was not the point.  The point was that I was being told by my seventy three year old mother that I should not do something.  She should have learned by now that if she told me not to do something I would pursue it with fucking gusto.

But every time I started to write, I found that I could not use the word.

“There are a plethora of substitutes: ‘Darn it’, ‘Gosh’ and if you want to give it a British flare, how about ‘Bloody’?”  Paul said trying to be helpful.

“Right. That is just bloody brill!”  I replied sarcastically.  I had not forgiven him for siding with my mother and added “Why should I listen to someone who uses the fucking word plethora anyway?”

As a writer, I wanted to feel free to express my thoughts, emotions and experiences without feeling that a censor was looking over my shoulder.  But my mother’s “tsk-tsk” echoed in my brain.  Using the f-bomb made me feel less literary and more trailer-trash, looking for a cheap laugh with a fart joke.

And then I picked up The New Yorker magazine.  Right there in the middle of the magazine was an essay that had not one, but three F-bombs in it, four if you included wtf.   It also included the term dick-slapped, but I thought that might be pushing things a bit.  And besides, I wasn’t sure if being dick-slapped was a good thing or a bad thing.  I mean, I could see both sides.

This was irrefutable proof that using the F-bomb was not only acceptable, but might actually help to get me published more widely.   So, by my count I’ve used the word three times in this post, four if you include wtf....which I have just used again.

The New Yorker should be calling me any minute, but my mother is going to be so fucking pissed.

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