Reflections -- Gazing and Understanding

This last week has found me much in my head. I suppose I spend most of my time; or rather I spend all of my time here. All of the things I see, feel, experience and think all exist within my head. Most days, I feel like I am outside of myself, connecting and interacting with the people I come in contact with every day. Friends, acquaintances, professors, customers, random people I am never likely to see again. As I observe them, in my mind I am thinking about them. I wonder what they are thinking or feeling in that moment. What is going on in their world and in their mind.

Then, rather suddenly, I was pulled out of all of this. A friend, or rather a person I think of as a friend and exists as a friend in my mental framework, pointed out that he and I had only interacted once physically. The rest of our interactions have existed as text, passing back and forth through text and instant messages. We had been having a rather intellectual exchange over the course of a couple of days and then he pointed out that in all reality, he doesn't really know me.

It seemed incredibly odd to me. We have been talking for several years. Sometimes, there would be months where there was little contact, followed by periods of frequent communication. When we are talking, I am quite open about my thoughts and feelings and who I am (or, at least, who I feel I am). These are all of the same things I do with people I have physical contact with as well. Yet, he didn't really feel that we knew each other at all. And that got me thinking about how little I really know about any of the people around me.

Certainly, we know the parts of each other that we present as forms of self and identity. Yet, this is a singular dimension. It was in this moment that I realized that the only person I may be able to claim knowledge of is myself. I know how emotions feel to me, but I struggle often to describe them. For example, when I say I feel depressed, it is short hand for both an emotional feeling as well as physical sensations in various parts of my body, and a series of thoughts that occupy my mind. Yet, if someone else tells me that they are feeling depressed, I don't know what that feels like for them. And, I have learned that it isn't necessarily best to assume that their feeling is much like mine at all.

When we share an experience, such as a social experience together, I know how I feel being surrounded by the other people. Yet, I have no idea how the other people who are sharing the experience are feeling. What types of thoughts are they having? Are we experiencing it in any way that is comparable or really shared?

Feeling rather out of sorts about the whole line of thought, I reached out to another friend. He shared that he has similar ideas and expressed that, for him, it felt more like we are all little islands with a dark sea around us. Each of us has these lights on that show us that there are other little islands out there, but we can never build a boat and go to another island. We have to content ourselves with knowing the other islands are there. I suppose the best we can do is try to float messages in bottles to the other islands in an attempt to communicate.

All of this then made me profoundly aware of my self. I suppose for the bulk of thirty-five years, I have taken for granted that I am just a single mind, peering into the world through two eyes. Of course, I am aware of my body: the girgling tummy, the painful joints, the vibration in my shoulder and chest when I am happy. Despite all of these things feeling like me, they are all being observed by my brain.

People often remark that I am rather preoccupied if there is a mirror nearby. My eyes will dart towards my own reflection and I find myself gazing at my body. Exploring my appearance and trying to reconcile what I perceive with what I feel inside. When I realize that perhaps I have gazed too long, I try to return to looking at those around me, but always the pull of the mirror is felt. There are times when I see that part of myself and I can't make sense of it. Why is it that he looks so foreign and infinitely (and intimately) familiar? There is pleasure felt in gazing at my reflection, much like the pleasure in looking at other people around me. But, the pleasuring in looking at myself is somehow different and also somewhat disturbing. Not that I feel that I am unpleasant to look at, but that the practice of looking at one's self is unpleasant. That we should not look too much at our self. And, unless I am alone, I become quite self-conscious of my own self-gazing.

I don't know how it is for other people, but when I close my eyes and attempt to bring to mind the image of self, I look nothing like the reflection I see in the mirror. My inner gaze depicts me as smaller than I am, both in height and weight. My skin is both whiter and darker. My hair is redder and my beard fuller. I see myself as bigger in the chest, thick with muscles that spread to my shoulders. My legs are also more muscular. My eyes are brighter and my cheeks always seem a bit more red with dimples that appear when I smile. My complexion is clear, free of the scaling of psoriasis and other blemishes. My nose is unscarred.

As much as I try to look at myself in the mirror and introduce what I see to the inner self, nothing really changes. I find myself looking at the differences between what I see and what I feel and try to understand them. Always, I feel compelled to look away, though. That it is unnatural to desire to gaze and to understand. I don't feel this way about other people. In fact, I feel quite comfortable with looking at them. And, I am fine with them gazing back at me until I realize that they are doing so. Then, I become anxious. Which me do they see? Maybe they can see something about me that I can't see or make sense of? I don't know what they are thinking. I don't know how they feel. I only know how I feel and what I am thinking.

Maybe it is safer to not know. I am quite sensitive about things. Small comments made by others become much bigger in my mind. Yet, if there was some way for us to really know what each other are thinking, maybe I wouldn't be hurt by little comments. I'd realize that I am not so very different from those around me. I'd know that we all have these little thoughts about ourselves and about others that just happen. And I'd know it was ok to just be who I am. Maybe the world would be a better place if we didn't just look at things from our own perch -- from our own brain. Maybe we'd all learn to love one another for the beauty we bring to the world instead of being made to feel like we have nothing to offer. Maybe we can build little ships to visit all of the islands and we wouldn't have to be so alone in the dark.

'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). 

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.

My Secret Addiciton

Ok, so it might not be so secret. I am absolutely addicted to hugs. The feeling of another person in such close proximity is amazing and empowering. For me, hugging is not about being sexual (though it can build sexual tension). Instead, it is about reaching out and physically connecting with people.

This last weekend, I received countless number of hugs from friends and new acquaintances. Each one was amazing. I received small little shoulder hugs, or what I refer to as “bro hugs.” These are generally quick embraces where you press shoulder to shoulder. Sometimes they are accompanied by a slap on the back. But I was also graced with mighty bear hugs, that realigned my spine and with it the flow of loving energy that surrounds each of us. And of course there were all sorts of hugs in between.

Now, there are some awkward moments that can be spawned by a simple hug. For example, you and the other person may not know whose arm should be on top, or which side your head should be on. Both of these can cause little bumps that make both people blush. Maybe one or both parties have been fairly active and are a little sweaty. Body odor happens, even thru the toughest deodorants. Embrace these embarrassing moments and don’t make a big deal out of it.

I can’t seem to be around people without feeling the need to hug someone. Perhaps I see someone that is having a rough day. A hug is the ultimate pick me up. It can make a shitty day better. And for some people, it may be the silver lining that they needed. There can also be those hugs that help someone celebrate something great. Those are the ones that can spread their energy and excitement to you or just give you a way to hold on to that moment for a few seconds longer. And sometimes hugs just because it is Tuesday or because you woke up this morning. I am in favor of not needing a reason to hug.

I have also been caught off guard by hugs. A recent addition to my long and growing list of friends managed to completely surprise me. He is an older guy and a little gruff at times. We work together on a volunteer project. Prior to the hug happening, I had never seen him hug anyone else in our project. And then one day, bam, a big ole bear hug. It felt good, but without thinking about it my whole body went rigid. I was shocked. He has teased me about that hug several times, trying to find out why I reacted the way that I did. At first, he thought I was being heterophobic. That was not it. I hug many straight men. He suggested other reasons. And I realized that it had everything to do with his age. Somehow, I had gotten caught off guard by getting an out of the blue hug from someone that is a bit older than me (I am a good kid and have never asked his age).

Of all the things we could be addicted to, I suppose hugs are one of the best. For me it doesn’t matter whether the hug is a little awkward, used to emotionally charge someone or whether the hug serves as a catalyst to coming to terms with things you weren’t comfortable with. Everyone could use a hug.