'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.    

The Season's Upon Us ... It is THAT time of year

Admittedly, the title is stolen from one of my favorite Dropkick Murphy's songs and is about Christmas, but Con season is sort of like Christmas for the socially awkward. It is a time to gather together with your Con family and share far too little time with them. But the frantic-ness of the weekend seems to push you to create memories that last a life time with people who know you, love you, and accept you for all of your nerdy idiosyncrasies. I talked about the importance of the family we choose and their validity in an earlier post. And I can attest, my Con family are definitely part of my tribe. 

Before I get into the post itself, I want to invite any of you reading to come join the festivities. MisCon takes place this weekend (May 24 - 27) at Ruby's Inn. I know it is short notice if you weren't already planning to attend. Even if you are only able to attend for a single day, it is well worth the time and money to do so. 

I was inspired to write as I saw a post of the MisCon Facebook page. The poster was quite excited as this will be his first MisCon and several folk, myself included, talked about their first experience at this amazing convention.. It wasn't really the best format for me to talk about my own experiences, not only at my first convention but how much it has affected me. I suppose a sort of tribute to my Con home and the people that make it possible. These people are not only my friends and family, they are hardworking and dedicated to making MisCon an experience for everyone. 

It has been so long, I don't completely remember how old I was when I went to my first convention. I know I was over 18, as I was living on my own, and I was under 21 and unable to drink at the room parties. Honestly, that was ok for me, I was never much of a drinker. There was a group of us that had been playing a great card game called Highlander. I was the City Representative for the game and, by reaching out to some other nearby Reps, arranged for a Tri-Cities tournament at MisCon. We had agreed on the location as Missoula was the easiest spot to get to for the folks coming from Idaho and was mentioned by folks in Billings and Moscow, ID. 

A very good friend figured out the logistics and put together a hotel room for the group of us. We weren't able to secure a room at the convention, but it would work just fine. We figured out what it would cost for everyone (gas, hotel room, convention entrance, food) and split it up between the group of us that would be going. We all arranged our time off for the weekend and set about putting together our decks and playtesting them to be ready for the competition. 

Back then, I didn't realize just how shy I was. I knew I was socially awkward, but I never really felt shy. I had sort of developed a cover for it and had convinced myself that I was this very outgoing gent that was friendly and enjoyed the company of others. MisCon sort of destroyed the veil I had created. After getting our room situated at the other hotel, we went over to the DoubleTree and got registered for the convention. As I recall, the registration area was very close to the gaming room and my first feelings of anxiety hit when I walked into that room. It seemed gigantic to me, filled with tables. Around the tables sat gamers of every age and size, mostly males, enthralled by the game they were playing. Board games, card games, RPGs of all sorts and kinds were all around. The noise of excited chattering, intense scene descriptions, incoherent babbling, and frantic laughing made the air in there thick and I felt like I couldn't breathe. Someone, thankfully, gave my coat a tug and we busied ourselves with finding a little corner of our own.

Throughout that weekend, I just sat at our table. I had volunteered to stay put and watch the cards and bags while the others ran off to check out other games, various panels, and, most importantly, to get food for our little cadre of gamers. I busied myself with fiddling with my various decks and thinking of new strategies for the decks I saw in action by my competitors.

The very last night, around midnight, I finally was able to break away from the table. We had packed all of the cards away and would be leaving in the morning. I didn't have my tether to the table and I wasn't ready to go back to the hotel. I took my first pensive steps away from the table and farther into the gaming room. By this time, the wall of sound was a mere murmur and there were only a couple of tables with games going. I saw a group of people sitting down at a larger table and recognized one of them as Andy Mocko. He was a fellow DeMolay and was someone, beyond my own group, that I knew. He invited me to take a seat and told me they were just going to start a game. It was a card game called Vampire: the Eternal Struggle. I don’t remember actually playing the game, just eating the Pez that we used as blood points and laughing. I was actually having fun. I had so much fun in those few hours around that table that when we stopped by to wrap things up the next morning that I registered to come the following year.

I wasn't able to make it the next year, but the seed was planted.

When I moved to Missoula, MisCon became a bigger deal to me. At first, I came because I would get roped in to helping with the Registration table. For some reason, many people really don’t like working that area. It can be loud and the people can be a bit cranky. But I liked it. It gave me a table to be tethered too and a focus to my activity there. Add to this my uncanny ability to get people to laugh even when they are upset and it turned out that having me there worked out for all involved. When I wasn’t working the table, I would often run game demonstrations, with my husband, for Amanda at Muse Comics. Volunteering in one capacity or another has become the thing that I do at the conventions.

As MisCon has grown, it has evolved. I remember, when I first started to attend, feeling very alone at the convention. Being the only gay geek that I knew, I hoped there might be others like me at the convention. I didn’t find any the first couple years that I went. I did find quite a few people that seemed very homophobic but that doesn’t really stop me too much. If anything, people acting that way only makes me act gayer. I suppose it is an infantile response, but it is how I challenge people like that. And it worked. As time went on, the people that gave me problems stopped and started inviting me to hang out. Some of the folks that were the biggest haters have since become my best friends. In time, I did find other geeks like myself and have been happy to watch MisCon become a place where geeks of every orientation and persuasion are embraced and made to feel welcome. MisCon now hosts its own Drag Show as part of the festivities and it warms my heart to see this kind of acceptance in the community that I love.

I have had a chance to visit other conventions like RadCon in Tri-Cities, WA; SpoCon in Spokane, WA, and NorWestCon in Seattle, WA. Each of them are great conventions in their own right, but none of them are quite like MisCon. Even though my social anxiety still triggers when I am at MisCon, it usually only lasts for the first day or comes and goes throughout. It is not quite as debilitating as it was in those first few years I started to attend. The greatest part is that I have so many friends and family members at the Con that can help me work through it that I can generally have a very enjoyable weekend.

          Having a chance to volunteer year after year for MisCon has allowed me to also meet the Inner Circle; those crazy and dedicated folks that make this all work. I had no idea how much work goes into making a given convention a success. It really does take all year to put a successful convention together. Add to that, it may take a couple years to court a guest and get the logistics for getting them there. Throughout the weekend, many of them sacrifice time gaming or attending panels to make sure that everyone has an enjoyable time. For all of their hard work, I would like to thank the ConCom and the Security Team. These folks are truly amazing. 

The Family We Choose

I was writing in my memory journal and it brought up some very real and important ideas to me. Things I hadn't really thought about, but define me as a person and how I interact with other people. The funny part is, as I continue to study my heritage, my kin has been doing this for a while. I didn't even really know that. I just felt so natural.

I do think that a little introduction is important so that people can understand the back story and how I got to where I am today. When I was young, around 3 or 4, my mother and I sat in JB's waiting for my father to pick me up for my weekend with him. He normally picked me up in the late morning/early afternoon. We went down early to get breakfast and waited. Mid afternoon came and went, and my father was nowhere to be found. I kept telling my mom that he would be there. He never came.

My mom took me home. I was silent during the whole car ride. My eyes burned. I dashes from the car to my room, too afraid to let anyone see me cry. I slammed to door and sat against it and just sobbed. My chest hurt and I felt I couldn't catch my breath. My mom tried to come in; to soothe me and tell me everything was ok. But I wouldn't let her in the room. There was nothing that could soothe that ache. I felt unwanted and unloved.

Eventually, my breathing got under control. But my heart was broken. My eyes were still flooded with tears. I wouldn't leave my room. It is the only time in my life that I cried in my sleep. My mom told me, years later, that she did come in while I slept and held my hand. When I woke up, I was different. I was convinced that my father would not be the only blood relative that would leave me.

Weird thoughts for a kid, but since that time, I have had two families. The family I was born into and the family that I choose. Don't get me wrong, I love my blood kin. My mother is probably the most important person in my world. Yes, that makes me a bit of a Mama's boy. For all the fighting we get into, she gave me my life and I hold her very dear. However, I don't necessarily see eye to eye with my parents. It is a bit ironic, I became the person they raised me to be: independent, forward-thinking, and opinionated. Yet, these same characteristics mean that I am not much interested in the things that they are passionate about.

That is where my other family comes in. Most of the people in this family started out as friends. They have grown into brothers, sisters, parents, uncles/aunts, grandparents, or various untitled members. I have a strong sense of familial affection for these folks and I am fierce loyal and protective towards them. While there are many people that consider, like the picture states, that friends are the family we choose for ourselves. However, for me, the group of people that I consider my family are not merely friends.  Once you have become family, I feel obligated to do what I can to take care of you when you need it (and sometimes when you don't).

I am far from the only person in my family that does this. My mother collects kids, adopting many of my friends, as well as adopting grand kids in the absence of her own. She shared with me that her mother was the same way. We sometimes adopt those that are most in need of family, and I certainly do that as well. In researching my Irish heritage, I came across an interesting meaning/history for my mother's maiden name: Riley. Ó Raghallaigh, which means “grandson of Raghallach.” The name Raghallach is thought to come from a compound of ragh, meaning “race” and ceallach, meaning sociable. I have heard that this trait of adopting new members goes back a ways.

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.

Mortality

I stated keeping a journal recently. Not some diary to keep today’s list of items I accomplished. I suppose I always felt weird writing: “Today I got up and logged in to Facebook. After the cat pictures stopped amusing me, I logged off and showered. After that I headed off to work.” This part of my life is not terribly exciting. I sleep, I go to work, and I go to school. Instead, I have been writing about my memories. Thinking about the people that have been part of my life and remembering how they affected me. Each of them has impacted me and shaped my story. And sometimes, it feels like I have no one that will carry these memories beyond this generation.

Accepting this fact has been a trial. My family line stops at this generation. My uncle never had children and neither have my brother and I. Certainly, there are cousins and such. But their story isn't ours. My cousins may well remember me to their children, but after that who will keep my memory alive? What lasting mark do I leave for the world? Who am I to the future? I don’t want to be an insignificant speck. I don’t want to believe that I lived this life simply to enable me to die.

We carry in us the memory of our parents and our grandparents. These people imparted their memories of the generations before that. We keep these memories alive and pass them from one generation to the next. In part, that is why I am so interested in my family history. I want to be able, even if only for a moment, to hold on to those of my line that came before me and to remember them. That their name will echo into this current time. But there will be no one after me to carry my memory into a future world; to know that I existed, for however long I will be here.

I keep trying to wrap my mind around why the fates played out the way that they did. Of the four children conceived between my mother and my father, I am the only one to survive. Prior to my birth, my older brother, James Bryan, lived to be five and passed away in a tragic accident. Two years later, my mom conceived what we believe were twin and miscarried. Yet, a few weeks later the doctors agree that she miscarried and remained pregnant. My twin and o separated. And a few years later, she miscarried again. Four chances to carry on out family line and the sole survivor is incapable of fathering a child.

Thinking about all of this made me think of the final soliloquy in Blade Runner: "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain…" There are things that I have done, places I have seen, and felt that are so personal and so unique that no one else has that exact memory. And I am frustrated that there is no one to carry these for me beyond my death.

Of course, it isn't just about me. I hold the memories of my parents in me as well as the memories of my brother. After I pass, there is no one to hold their memories either. My grandmother and grandfather Matross have my wonderful cousins to carry their memories. But, even those are diluted by time and distance. They didn't get to spend the same amount of time with them as I did. And my father Wayne, who contributed half of the material to make me, he has no one in his family to carry his memory after I am gone.

I know that I have my friends to remember me. But most of them are of a similar age as me. We are likely to pass at a similar age together. And I feel weird about asking them to have their children carry my memory. Who am I to them, aside from some strange friend of their parents’? Without the familial bond, there is no need for these children to pass it on beyond them.

I suppose that is why I write, hoping that something that I put down on paper or float out into the internet will become my legacy. That it will be the seed of my memory that will someday cause a man or woman to say, “Who was William Cody Matross?” And in that question, bring my memory forward from now to exist in that time. That this question will prompt them to research me and find out about my parents and my brother, what my life was like, what were my passions. And I suppose I write to give them bread crumbs to figuring out what I was and that I here. That I lived and loved and I made a difference in people’s lives. And that those before me existed and that they form a long line stretching back to the beginning of time. I suppose I write, not for the people of this age, but for those that will come after us.