Election Reaction

My therapy is my writing. Please understand that I am raw, emotionally and mentally. If reading this helps, then I have done my job. If you want to contradict and argue with these emotions, do it somewhere else. I had to take a mental health day to try to come to terms with this election and what it may mean for my family and community. Today, I have watched and read many reactions to this election. I have seen friends posting suicide notes, while other friends crack a beer and laugh.


November 9th, 2016

I have never had to use my protected time off work on the day after an election. At the same time, I have never been so terrified to leave my house. A few weeks ago, I dreamt of a Trump win and last night proved eerily accurate to that dream. The only part that did not happen was the eventual reveal that Russia had ensured his win and that Trump’s cries of a rigged election were silent pleas for help. But now we are on the precipice of a Trumpian era.

Anger. Frustration. Fear. These are feelings I am dealing with this morning, as I watch my social media feeds blow up. I am afraid of my fellow Americans in a way I never really have been before. I have never felt the need to own a gun and I am beginning to regret that decision. I feel like my husband and I have no real method of protecting ourselves and I do not know if we will need to or not. I do not know what the Trumpian era will do for our marriage and our rights. Will we have any kind of protection from anti-LGBT+ bullying tactics?

I am frustrated with folks who, in their absolute revulsion against Hillary and the establishment, opted to elect Trump. I get it, voting third party allowed folks options to vote their conscience and hope that their candidate earned enough of the vote to help with third party funding. The reality is, voting third party was also a way to say, “I don’t care of Trump wins.” And, for those folks who point out that if they had not voted for third party they were likely to not vote at all, an abstained vote would have also been a vote for Trump. Pretty much the only vote that were not for Trump were for Hillary, as she was the only one available that could have prevented his election. I will agree that this election certainly proved the power of the popular vote.

Anger was my companion after the DNC this summer. Polling data showed that Hillary Clinton could not win against Donald Trump. It also showed that the only Democratic win would come if Bernie Sanders was the candidate put forth by the party. Armed with this data, the DNC still opted to put forth Hillary Clinton. I definitely want a woman in President, but Clinton was not my candidate of choice. She may have won me over with a powerful woman running mate, but she opted to go with a white guy who seems incredibly lack luster. I liked her message about a strong, working, middle class. And I understand concerns about her credibility and her competency, not on the basis of her gender, but because she has made some questionable decisions. Those decisions do, in fact, make her a more qualified candidate, because at least she has political experience. Unfortunately, the Democrat spin doctors could not rally more support behind her. I think we failed when we were relying on “At least a vote for Hillary isn’t a vote for Trump.” It was an accurate statement, but the Democratic party and our allies needed to focus on action statements, we needed to focus on how a Democratic vote would benefit America. I voted for Hillary, but only because I could not vote for Trump and that is not a position we should ever be in. I wanted a democratic nominee that I could be proud to support, not because the alternative was terrible, but because they were an amazing candidate whose platform matched up nearly perfectly with my beliefs.

Numb.

What does the next four years look like? Posted on one friend’s wall was an anecdote from a colleague of theirs. In it, was shared that a friend of theirs had to go to their child’s school today after another student told them that they better pack their bags for their move back to Africa. This was from a child in elementary school. Admittedly, it is a comment much removed from me, but I believe the accuracy of it. This decision is not about adults. Our children are impacted by this decision in ways we cannot fully appreciate in this moment. We may chastise Millennials, but their entire worldview was changed by 9/11. This election and the hate before and after will echo in our young people for a generation or more. However, we must acknowledge that it is not just this election that will affect them, but how we as a nation choose to react to it.

Disbelief. I see friends posting about the hilarity of people’s reaction to this election. Or people asking for “Hillary supporters” to lose graciously. A brief check shows these messages as coming from heterosexual, white, men. None of them are in a position that is hated right now. They do not seem to understand the fear generated by this vote and my hope is that if they begin to see their friends and loved ones impacted negatively as a result of this election, they might wake up and understand that this is not a laughing matter. However, I will not hold my breath waiting for it.

How do we begin to heal from this? How do we come together as decent people and support one another against the possible backlash of this election? I do not know. For me, I must temper my anger. If I attack people, how will I be any better than Trump? If I let hate and anger and fear guide me, how do I act as a pillar of support for the people I love? Right now, I want to cry. I want to believe it was a horrible dream. That the election is still a few weeks away and that we can make a difference. I want to believe that we are all better than this and that we find a way to embrace one another and change. I want to believe that some good can come from this. Some terrible catharsis that we need in order to grow and become a progressive force for good.

I want to believe.

Embodied Identities and Social Othering

I would never consider myself an attractive person, in general. Certainly there are people that find me to be, my husband being one of them, and I am thankful for that. But, I just don't see it. Our appearance is the first thing people judge when they see us. Even if we consider ourselves fairly open minded, our brain is studying the body as we come into contact. The body language we emote is being mirrored in the observer's brain and attempting to relate. We also spend a good deal of time looking at each other's faces and especially the eyes of another person. Whether we are conscious of it or not, our brain is attempting to classify, identify, and understand each other by looking at one another's bodies.

I saw a meme recently that really got me thinking about appearance:

This image bothers me because I identify more with the image on the left. Attractive, non-geek/nerds, have said similar things to me as I was growing up. But, at that time geek wasn't chic, so I am sure even if I was attractive I'd have caught hell-- probably more so because I was break attractive protocol and operating outside of my designated areas. Yet, now that we are in a world that has embraced the geek and is profitting from people's geekiness, here we find a terrible othering that is happening. 

I will not say that I am an absolute expert on cultures, but it is one of my areas of study. Biologically, we are more apt to be attracted to attractive partners as they are often more fit and our offspring will benefit from the coupling with such a person. Additionally, related animals (even humans) are more likely to be altruistic towards members who have high fitness. I suppose it is important to clarify that fitness in this sense isn't necessarily your ability to run a three-minute mile and then immediately go for a swim and then bike. But, rather fitness in this sense is actually our ability to produce offspring that will survive to breed and ensure genetic material is passed to subsequent generation. Altruism in this case, especially among related folks, helps ensure familial genetic information moves forward. But, what is beautiful and attractive cane be quite different from culture to culture and region to region. 

What is frustration, is that when something is not identified as beautiful culturally, we (at least as Americans) tend to reduce them, othering them and separating those who are not from those who are. These physical characteristics which we may or may not be able to change become part of our embodied identities. I was recently talking with a co-worker. She and her daughter had gastric bypass surgery done a year and a half ago and her daughter has had some startling changes happen for her. Since the surgery, this young lady has lost over 190 pounds and looks great. But, she still has her big girl attitude and has made the comment that she just could never be a "skinny bitch." For this young lady, her size had become part of her identity, yet now without the size, she retained the identity and attitude that had been forged from it. 

Being a person of size, people have often asked me if I had considered weight loss surgery as a way to get healthy. My immediate reactions are: just because you have lost weight doesn't make you healthy and currently, other than my testosterone serum, all of my numbers are fine. This includes my heart rate, blood pressure, and my body chemistry. I have thought about surgery and each time I remember I have spent 36 years in this body, it is part of who I am and how I see myself. Drastically changing it may not be the best for my mental health. 

In addition to my size, I also have noticeable psoriasis on my face, scalp, and ears. Each time I go to the doctor, usually the clinic on campus, I get the questions, "do you want something to help with that rash?" I explain that it isn't a rash and identify what it actually is. I previously was on medication for my psoriasis that made it less apparent, but with changes to my prescription coverage, this medicine is too expensive and I ceased treatment. We usually end up talking about alternatives and I explain that I am ok with the way it looks. I have dealt with people thinking that these red areas are sun burns or, worse, something that is contagious and treated like I am infectious, even after explaining what it is. But our preoccupation with the external causes many folks to question why I don't "do something about it." They feel that it is gross and, by extension, I am gross for just letting it be. 

Returning to the picture, we see two young women. Both with glasses and both with longer hair. The acceptable one is depicted as blonde and slim, even athletic. The othered is shown with red hair, which currently seems to be an "in" hair color even if gingers are socially discussed as soulless. The one characteristic that seems to make the young lady on the left "unattractive" is that she is a bigger girl. Admittedly, having her hair pulled back also conveys a look that suggest her hair is oily because of its sheen. We can't see enough of the left's clothing style, but it can be difficult to find "trendy" clothes when you are plus sized. Without being able to talk to the girl on the right, we don't know if she is poser-geek or geek for chic, but if we approach from the idea that these two are equally nerdy/geeky, with similar tastes in TV shows, video games, table top gaming, etc, then the only things that really differentiates them is a few pounds and the ability to find "attractive" clothes that flatter their body. Yet, these incredibly superficial things create a privileged identity for the young lady on the right and the other is a marked other, who is diminished verbally and socially othered and shamed. 

This doesn't just happen for women either. There is another co-worker who is animatedly into anime. During his breaks, he can be found pacing from the cafeteria to the cozy nooks near the books, cellphone to ear, talking about some aspect of his geeky interests. I remember one day, he was having a particularly loud discussion about Dragon Ball Z. The gentleman has dark hair that often looks greasy, glasses, usually some kind of unkempt stubble, nasalated voice, a shifting/shuffling gait that just adds to the perceived oddness of him. His clothing style is suggestive of thrift shop, but not in the Macklemore sense, but rather colors and styles that have fallen from popular and hispters haven't re-trended them. This particular day I became conscious of the ways I was internally othering him. The nasalated voice and his gait particularly affected the way I thought of him and I caught myself thinking this is what the world sees when they think of geeks. In that moment of awareness, I realized that I was doing the same thing that I wished others wouldn't do about me. And I wondered, if he looked different, would I think differently of him than I did in that moment?

We can't always control our thoughts, but I would challenge you -- just as I am challenging myself -- to try to be more aware of your thought process. How are you othering people in your thought and how would that be changed if they looked different? What do you normalize and what do you other? What modes of internal or external identity are privileged to you and which are marked and are cast out or aside? I know a few in my circle that will socially say that they see everything as equal, but you might be surprised when you take a step back. I have found that the people that are most interested in free thinking spend most of their time trying to get others to think like themselves, because they have privileged their own thoughts and others anyone who doesn't agree with them. 

'Tis the Season

Christmas is probably one of my favorite holidays and has been since I was a little kid. I guess most kids that celebrate Christmas enjoy it. The big dinner, all the cookies and candies, plus the gifts. But for me, it wasn't just about that. It was quite a magical time, as clichéd as that seems now. Anything was possible. And it was the one time each year where I felt important, loved and connected with my family.

Most Christmases started out the same. My parents would ask me what I wanted for Christmas. "An Easy Bake Oven," was my usual response. I really wanted Santa to bring me one, because I knew they were a little bit more than my family could afford, but I really wanted one. Mainly so I could make treats for people.

After the usual question, came getting the tree. At our house, we always had a fresh tree. Dad would go out and find it. I thought he was going out into the forest to track down the perfect one and I wasn't actually disappointed when I found out that he was really just going to one of the little tree sellers that are ubiquitous during this time of year. We would dig out the ornaments from storage and I would take time to pull out all of my favorites and make sure that we had hangers for them. There were various ones that I made during school: a pine cone swirled in glitter to make it look like a little tree, various ones made of inedible dough in various shapes and painted or colored, school pictures. There were also the old ones that my mom still had from when she was a little girl. Every year there were fewer of those, as they were often made of glass and I wasn't as dainty as I should have been with them. We would also get a new ornament each year and usually get a few generic colored ones just to round out the tree. Steven or Mom would get the lights on the tree and then it was my job to decorate as high as I could, with my Mom and brother getting the top areas. And then we would tinsel it. And to finish it off, a bit of water and some ammonia to keep the cats way from the tree and the skirt to cover the stand up.

Buying presents came next and happened around the twentieth. Either my parents or grandparents would give me some money, somewhere between twenty and forty dollar to Christmas is probably one of my favorite holidays and has been since I was a little kid. I guess most kids that celebrate Christmas enjoy it. The big dinner, all the cookies and candies, plus the gifts. But for me, it wasn't just about that. It was quite a magical time, as clichéd as that seems now. Anything was possible. And it was the one time each year where I felt important, loved and connected with my family.

Most Christmases started out the same. My parents would ask me what I wanted for Christmas. "An Easy Bake Oven," was my usual response. I really wanted Santa to bring me one, because I knew they were a little bit more than my family could afford, but I really wanted one. Mainly so I could make treats for people.

After the usual question, came getting the tree. At our house, we always had a fresh tree. Dad would go out and find it. I thought he was going out into the forest to track down the perfect one and I wasn't actually disappointed when I found out that he was really just going to one of the little tree sellers that are ubiquitous during this time of year. We would dig out the ornaments from storage and I would take time to pull out all of my favorites and make sure that we had hangers for them. There were various ones that I made during school: a pine cone swirled in glitter to make it look like a little tree, various ones made of inedible dough in various shapes and painted or colored, school pictures. There were also the old ones that my mom still had from when she was a little girl. Every year there were fewer of those, as they were often made of glass and I wasn't as dainty as I should have been with them. We would also get a new ornament each year and usually get a few generic colored ones just to round out the tree. Steven or Mom would get the lights on the tree and then it was my job to decorate as high as I could, with my Mom and brother getting the top areas. And then we would tinsel it. And to finish it off, a bit of water and some ammonia to keep the cats way from the tree and the skirt to cover the stand up.

Buying presents came next and happened around the twentieth. Either my parents or grandparents would give me some money, somewhere between twenty and forty dollar to get five gifts. When I was very small, I would go with my Mom and brother to get gifts. I'd buy Steven's gift while I was with Mom and then he and I would dash off to find something for her. Books were almost always the perfect things to get both of them. Mom would either get a Shannara book (if there was a new one out), one by Danielle Steele, or some trashy romance novel (I had no idea what was in them, but I would find ones that looked like the ones she usually read). Steven would get a horror novel or some book he had pointed out a week or two before. Dad was easy to shop for, usually soap on a rope and some socks. Grandma and Grandpa were tough. I never really knew what to get them and I would tirelessly try to find the right thing. Eventually, my Mom would suggest something like slippers or a set of different flavored jams and I'd agree that would be good.
As I got older, Christmas shopping became the one time every year where I was free to wander off alone in the store. I insisted on it, because I didn't want to spoil the surprise of the gift. Although I love the idea of presents being a surprise, I still struggle with keeping them that way. Steven and I started out own tradition of telling each other what we got for the other and then seeing who could act the most surprised. It couldn't be over the top campy surprised either. We had to be believable because we were afraid that Mom and Dad would figure it out and make us stop doing it.

Once all of the presents were wrapped we put the ones for each other under our wonderful tree and keep the ones for Grandma and Grandpa separate. It was usually a good idea. The cats seemed to take out their dissatisfaction with the ammonia and not being able to play with the tree out on the gifts. If they got a big enough piece off of one of mine, I would try to figure out what it was. My parents got wise to this and started doing the Russian doll trick with the presents for both Steven and I.

On Christmas Eve, we would go up to Unionville, where my grandparents lived with our gifts in the trunk and Steven and I pressed together in the back seat of the family Chevy Citation. One year, as we drove up and I stared out the window, I swore I saw a sleigh and some stuff in it. By the time I tried to get Steven's attention, it was a blur behind us and no one believed me that I saw it. I still don't know what it was, because it was gone when we went back to town. Every time I drive up that road, even as an adult, I try to figure out where it could have been, because there just doesn't seem like there would have been a place for it.
 I loved the way my Grandparents decorated for Christmas. Grandma would take the Christmas Cards she received and use them to decorate their small artificial tree. Instead of lights, they had a spinning lighted color wheel that was aimed at the tree. It was just beautiful. We would have some dinner and I would tell myself I was going to try a green olive, but I never did. Once we ate our fill, it was time to pass out the Christmas presents. We started the tradition of naming one family member to be Santa. This person was responsible to grab each present and hand it directly to the person who it was addressed to. The role of Santa alternated for a while, but eventually fell to me. By the time I was twelve, this was literally the best part. The thing I looked forward to the most. I loved grabbing a present and giving it to the person and watching their face light up. When I came to one for me, I would get a little awkward and open it, or I would try to just put it aside and find another one I could give to someone else.

My favorite gift that I gave to someone was after I was grown and moved out of the house. By then, Grandma had passed and my parents were living with Grandpa up in Unionville. Growing up, my mother had very few picture of me from when I was a baby. My Father kept them after the divorce and wouldn't part with them. Once he and I started speaking with one another in my adulthood, I asked him for the pictures or at least the negatives or something. I really didn't know what I looked like as a baby. And he was nice enough to send them to me. I had a set of them developed and got nice wooden frames for them. I wrapped them and brought them up on my yearly trip to Unionville. When I gave them to her, I just stopped and watched as she ripped the paper off. One tear and she saw the face and she started crying and shaking and needed a moment to get through the rest of it. There were four pictures that she had thought were lost. It was wonderful knowing that she had them again.

After presents, the family would get into two cars and drive to Saint Peter's Episopal Church. We would try to get there early enough to get a good seat. Midnight Mass there was always so amazing. Often included a large choir, brass and percussion, piano, organ, and there were so many lights. The carols and hymns were my favorites to sing. When I was young, I would often find a way to fall asleep during Mass, which probably worked out for the best. Little boys in suits trying to sit still when they are full of energy are not the easiest things to keep contained. As I learned how to settle down, I was able to stay up through the whole service and loved every minute of it.

Whether I started my slumber at church or not, sleep usually came pretty easy for me. But Christmas morning was even cooler than Saturday mornings and I would be the first one up and waiting for everyone else. Once I was in my pre-teens that meant I was responsible for making the coffee for everyone. I learned not to wake my family before they are good and ready to wake up. Think waking up a den of bears early from hibernation. Coffee only saves you a little bit. So usually I would just sit and watch TV (Christmas parade of course). Once everyone was up, we would pass out gifts. For some reason, it took me longer to get my parents to do the Santa thing at our house. Once I was able to get them to do it, I was designated permanent Santa, which was fine by me.

Christmas also marked the second holiday each year that was celebrated with Turkey dinner. Mom would start cooking usually while we started passing out gifts. It was an all-day process to make the Turkey, stuffing, jello salad, mashed potatoes and all the rest of it. Just like Thanksgiving, we would eat our fill and spend the early evening in a food coma. If anyone got a new board game, we would play that after our senses returned to us.

Since I moved to Missoula, I haven't been able to travel to Helena for Christmas. Typically, I work the day before and or the day after and making the trip in the snow is precarious at best and I am not a good driver. Instead, I have hosted a number of holiday get-togethers with my family here. These have ranged from Secret Santa or White Elephant exchanges to our annual tradition of China Buffet for Christmas dinner. I love being able to spend this holiday with the people I love and sometimes complete strangers. There have been a few instances at China Buffet where Britain and I have welcomed someone that we saw sitting by themselves to our table – just to make sure they weren't alone.

Whether you celebrate Christmas or not, I hope that this year you are able to spend the day with family. Christmas, at least to me, is not just celebrating the birth of Jesus. It is celebrating hope and light in a dark time of year. It is about family and making sure that we do what we can to take care of one another. There is so much hate and intolerance in the world and this is a time of loving. It can be a hard time of year for many people and the rate of suicides are highest this time of year. Remember that your actions have consequence and reaching out to a loved one or a stranger can be the one thing that saves their lives.

Nollaig Shona Daoibh (Happy Christmas to all). 

My Safe Place

            There is a passage in the Bible that haunts me during my dark times: First Corinthians 13:11, “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” When the stresses of adulthood reach their peak and I feel like I am ready to break, I seek shelter in the safest place from my childhood and I simply cannot seem to put it away. There is this empathic resonance that makes me feel safe and secure there, even in my memories.

            It’s a simple enough room I suppose; four walls, two windows, bed, card table, dresser and closet. It was special because it was the first time I had a room to myself. The four years we lived on Elm Street gave me my own space, away from my elder brother. It was in that room that I could get away from the real world and step into my own mind; my own imagination.

            The most important aspect of the room, the one that provided me the security was the lock on the door. If I wanted to be by myself, that lock made sure that no one could come in, unless I wanted them to. It protected me from the frosty grip of reality when my father abandoned me. My father promised if I was a good boy he would be at JB’s restaurant to pick me up for our week together. He never showed up, even though I had been especially good since our last visit. When my mother pulled into the driveway of the little duplex, I ran for my room and locked that door. I had to think it through, with the mind of a child, and puzzle through what I had left undone. With the door locked, nothing else existed.

            The room had this strange smell that was two parts wood smell from the press-board dresser and one part turtle-water. The first summer we stayed in the duplex, I watched a painted turtle that was a class pet from the school where my step-dad worked. I was trying to prove that I could keep an animal, so that I could get a pet of my own. The turtle was neat, but he wasn't really the kind of pet you could take out and play with, but I would take him out and play in the yard. When he wasn't being played with, he lived in a large metal tub that sat atop an old card table. After that summer, I got a kitten of my own, but the turtle lived on and the smell of his water just never cleared the air.

            After the turtle left, the card table became home to my stuffed animals. Not all of them mind you, just the most numerous type: stuffed bears. My favorite was an antique Winnie the Pooh who had lost his red felt shirt a few years before we moved in. This bear originally was given by my Uncle Gary to my older brother, who in turn gave it to me. His yellow fur had become dingy in places; the casualty of being handled by a small boy. Pooh was joined by a cadre of Care Bears and other nameless stuffed bears, each with the power to banish nightmares or go on a rocket adventure.

            The bears certainly weren't the only stuffed animals. I had a veritable menagerie of stuffed animals: lions, and tigers, and bears, as well as rabbits, penguins, and raccoons. Each had a place within the room. The stuffed cats occupied the top of my dresser, the penguin in the corner between my closet and the window opposite of my door, and the raccoon in the opposite corner, beside my bed, while the rabbit sat between the door and my bed. Each had their place and I would often pretend it was a zoo and I was the zookeeper, though in reality they were taming the animals in my own mind.

            My room not only served as a place to sleep; it was also the contents of my imagination. The walls were decorated with wide-ruled lined paper, drawn up to resemble computer screen and ship controls. The animals, stuffed and alive, were my crew and I often found myself light years away from the loneliness I felt outside of those four walls. I would draw the blinds, shutting out the neighbor kids, lock my door, and push the make-belief comm-control and announce to my crew that we were leaving. A quick series of taps on another set of control and I would jump onto my bed, which served as my means of navigating the interstellar vastness inside my imagination.

            After a few years of freedom inside my room, we had to move. My step-dad was going back to College and my mother couldn't provide a three bedroom place for us any longer. My brother and I were forced to share a room. While I no longer physically had those four walls to keep me safe, I still carry it inside me. Sometimes, when the strain of a job, school, relationship, and depression become too much to bare, I close my eyes and I am in my room. The door locked, surrounded by my stuffed animals, tapping away at the controls and rocketing through space. These precious moments are often the only respite I can enjoy in my hectic life, and while I have grown into a man, I just can’t put away those childish things.    

Oh, is this your Wife?

I saw a great picture recently saw this picture come across my Facebook feed. Being in a gay relationship, I have had people ask this question a number of times. And it gets more frustrating each time it's asked.

The hardest one was from my mother. I called her to share with her that my partner and I had exchanged rings. It was private, just something between us. I meant the world to us. We sobbed and held each other and promised to be with one another for the remaining days of our life. The first person we called after was my mother. We were still in the car. Britain was holding my hand as I dialed. We were still teared up, and my eyes were blurry from the tears as I dialed the number. She picked up and a smile spread from ear to ear.

"I have something to tell you," I knew I was going to be a smart ass. "We're pregnant."
"Oh my... wait, what?" She was very confused.
"Nah, Britain and I wanted you to be the first to know," I took a deep breath. "We exchanged rings."
There was a moment of silence and then she finally spoke up. "That's great. Are you the wife?"

My heart sank when she asked the question.

Growing up, I would occasionally act effeminate. When I would do it, it wasn't because I thought I was a girl or even that I was gay. It just felt natural. My mother had the same response each time: "You are too butch to be gay." It was her mantra. Any time I would act "girly" or "gay it up" she would tell me that. It was her way of telling me to man up and act like a boy.

Toys were another place she would try to "butch" me up. For years, I asked for an Easy-Bake Oven for Christmas or my birthday. When Santa failed to bring it, I would ask why he didn't bring me the one thing I really wanted. My mother's response was,"Santa doesn't bring girl toys to boys." I should have figured the whole Santa thing out sooner. Maybe if I asked my Grandma for it, I would have found it under the tree. My Grandma was the one that would get me all my Care Bears and other "softer" toys.

These memories flashed through my mind when my mother asked me if I was the wife. I was hurt and offended. I suppose I had associated a number of negative feelings with being feminine in any way. I felt like I was a man. I dress like a man. I was raised to be a man and I am a man. Why the hell would I be the wife?

After a moment, I answered, "No." I know I sounded a bit indignant.

"Is Britain the wife," she sounded extremely confused.

"No." I wanted to yell. I am a man. He is a man. There is no wife. Relationships do not need a perfect binary experience of male/female or husband/wife to be validated.

"Well then how do you..." I cut her off. I finally realized what was prompting her questions. I have never had THAT talk with my mother. And, while we do have a pretty open relationship, I don't imagine I will ever have that talk with her.

I have had similiar experiences when some of my wonderful heterosexual friends have asked these types of questions. I have come to realize that in many cases, they are not asking because they want to define our relationship through heteronormative roles. It is more like when you are trying to learn a new language. If you have a native tongue, you are often going to filter other languages through it. And I do appreciate when my friends have even reached out to learn the lingo or idioms, like tops and bottoms or pitchers and catchers. It is still frustrating that they want to define relationship roles through something as private as what we do in the bedroom. However, for me, I have realized that I define myself by what I do in the bedroom. After all, I proudly announce to the world on a regular basis that I am a homosexual man.

Most people, once they get to know Britain and I realize that our relationship isn't really about husband and wife or any other role-specific terms. Hell, even in our own relationship, we have a hard time really defining roles. Sometimes, we are partners or lovers; at other times we are best friends; some days we act very much like siblings; and sometimes, we act like the parent of the other.  But in the end, the roles I prefer are just simply Brit and Will.

For those straight folks, friends, families, and allies, my best advise is to not make assumptions based on your own personal experience as to who is what in the relationship. Even within heterosexual relationships, gender roles don't always apply to who or what your function. If your friends are open, they may explain how things work. They might not. Listen for titles they may use to describe one another. I usually refer to Britain as my husband, husbear or partner, depending on the audience. He usually picks the same ones. Ask them if they are ok with you using them to refer to the other. I am always fine with people asking about Britain using any of those terms. And know that we love that you are interested and want to be accepting and loving of who we are. It means alot to us.

Good Grief

Recently, a dear friend of mine passed away. It was so sudden -- jarring. Friday morning, he posted the he was going to be at the hospital having a CT done on his back to see if he had a degenerated disc. Sunday, his wife posted that he was being placed in a medically induced hypothermia and they hoped to know more soon. Somehow, he had spinal meningitis. Monday, they took him out of hypothermia, but he was still in a coma. Wednesday he was pronounced brain dead and Thursday, they took him off of the machines. He passed that day.

I went to work Wednesday night, I was told that the family said that anyone that wanted to come by was welcome to do so before they took him off support. In my heart, I wanted to go. To see him and to say good bye. To tell him that he was a good man, a great friend, a wonderful father to his little girl. I wanted to tell him that he would be missed. But I couldn't, but not because of a lack of desire.

When I was younger, my grandmother had hip replacement surgery and ended up with a staph infection inside where the new ball met the socket. She was on antibiotics for the rest of her life. I would frequently go to the hospital to visit her. I hated seeing her like that. One day, my father went in to see her and I was a couple steps behind. She was crying. She told my father that she was tired of dieing every day just to wake up in the morning. It stirred something inside me. She didn't want to keep up like that and wanted it all to be over. My father stopped me from coming in and we left. After that, I couldn't go to her. It was like the person I wanted to see was already dead; in her place was some half-self.

At her funeral, I couldn't be somber  I understood that was expected. But I just couldn't do it. She had finally passed and she was no longer in pain, wishing to die. She was free of it all. I understand, that God only gives us what we can handle. But we are mortal. Or frames are fragile. And there comes a point when we as the living/feeling part can no longer handle it. I wanted to celebrate, not sullenly hold on to the memory. I felt like she would have wanted it that way. That she would have been frustrated with how we were choosing to remember her.

To this end, I wore a bright colored shirt, shorts and sandals . It was the first time that I offended someone for being me. They were upset that I was not mourning as they mourned. That I was not grieving. They felt that I was childish and immature. But it was at the same time that I realized that there are many ways to grieve. Probably as many ways as there are people. Just because I was celebrating, did not mean that I was not hurting. Bur I felt there was a time to grieve and there was a time to celebrate. And now, in the church, was a time to celebrate. To not look back with regret, but to look back and see a woman who truly lived.

My time to grieve came a few years later. Due to letting my grandfather, who had lost his mind, have the ashes -- they ended up lost as well. But finally came the time for her to be u interred. I wept like I did the day my father left my life. He cried and cried and could not stop. I missed her so terribly and I knew that she would never be early again. That she was gone. It is still raw thinking about it.

My friend's funeral is tomorrow. I have learned that funerals are for the living. Too often, though, they forget what the person's life was like while they were alive. Each of us have something to celebrate  I won't be at my friend's funeral. And for those that will be, I pray that your grief not last long and that your heart remain heavy only for a moment. While he passed away young, with a new wife and child left behind, he had a good life. And for those that live, remember to live life so that when you pass you will be celebrated. Don't hold on to the woulda's, shoulda's and coulda's. They will take up more time than you need to give Them. Live your life so that others can say, "This man/woman truly lived." And remember that everyone grieve's differently. Just because they do not do the same as you, that they loved the person less.