How to get better often starts with seeking help

            Many people see me as a rather fun-loving, affable, bear. I’d say that most days this is a pretty spot on description of me. But, this isn’t necessarily true all the time. I have struggled with depression for as long as I can remember. The first time I had suicidal thoughts accompanied my realization that I was a gay male. I hated everything about me and I felt the world did too.

            When I was around seven years old, my father abandoned me. Well, at least that was what it felt like to me. My parents divorced when I was four. My mom brought my older brother and me to Helena to live with her mother. After a while, my mom and dad worked out an arrangement for visitation. I remember my dad dropping me off at JB’s, the hand-off spot my parents agreed on, and telling me, “If you’re a good boy, I will pick you up in a few weeks.”

            Sometimes it is hard being a “good boy” when you are eight. You try hard, but it always seems like there is some sort of hiccup in the plan. But, I figured I’d been pretty good, all things considered. Mom took me to JB’s a little before the scheduled hand-off to make sure I got breakfast. I had a hard time sitting still and I remember watching the cars through the windows waiting to see my dad. The waitress asked how I was. “Excited,” I replied. She asked why. “My dad is coming to get me.” I was beaming. A couple of hours later, I was getting hungry again. It was lunchtime and mom got me some more to eat. I could tell she was getting upset. “He’ll be here,” I said.

            By dinner time, my mom had given up. I begged her to let us stay. “If we leave, he won’t know where to pick me up.” I didn’t think he had our regular address. Mom was adamant. She reminded me that he had our phone number and scooted me out to the car.

            I sat in the back of the car, trying to think of all the things I’d done wrong. As a child, you don’t understand enough of the world. At least I didn’t. The cars passed by and I hung my head against my seat belt, the fabric digging in along my jaw, as I rested my head against the window. The cold from the glass filled every part of my insides. I couldn’t figure out how I had been bad.

            When my mom pulled into the drive way, I didn’t wait for her to turn off the engine before I unfastened my belt and dashed for my room. I could feel the tears boiling up from my gut and I didn’t want her to see me cry. I didn’t want anyone to see it. I ran for the safety of my room and locked the door. I couldn’t stop crying as I sat with my back pressed up against the door. My mom banged and begged for me to open the door and let her in. The truth is, I couldn’t let anyone in. My mom figured it would pass and eventually I’d get hungry and come out. I spent the next twenty-four hours crying, alternating between the floor and my bed. The whole time, I wrestled with all of my flaws. I was certain I was at fault. Not just for him failing to show up, but for my parent’s divorce as well. If I hadn’t come along, everyone would have been happy, I told myself.

            I cried until there were no more tears. The next evening, I came out of my room and went to the bathroom to wash my face. Despite the fact that I opened the door, I never really felt like I left the room.

            I cut myself off from my family at that time. I was certain that eventually my mom, brother, and step-dad would all realize how defective I was and would leave me. My child-brain rationalized that if I cut myself off from them, it wouldn’t hurt so badly when it happened. I took to asking my mom if she really loved me (something I unfortunately still do with my husband). I’d ask if she was going to leave me too. She always told me she wouldn’t, but I didn’t trust her.

            Of course, tied to the belief that they would leave was the paradoxical desire to keep everyone in my life. I was terrified of losing anyone. I spent years trying very hard to be everyone’s friend. I made bad decisions that got me hurt more often than not. But, my personal well-being didn’t matter as long as they still liked me. I let myself get taken for granted. When I was thirteen, I was raped by the person I considered to be my best friend. I didn’t tell anyone because I was afraid he wouldn’t like me if I did. I also never said no to him again after that night.

            Somewhere along the line, my understanding that I was defective grew into thoughts of death. They’d been there in that room. The thought of how much better everyone’s life would be if I wasn’t around. A voice sprung up from those thoughts that told me no one would even notice if I died. I would sometimes spend the day silently conversing with this voice about how to do it. The voice grew louder and I felt smaller.

            “No one really likes you,” it’d tell me when I was playing. I’d try harder to make them like me. I’d lie if I thought it made me sound cooler.

            “You’re too fat,” it’d tell me when I ate. I’d starve myself for a few days. Then I’d lose the weight.

            “You’ll never amount to anything,” it’d tell me when I dreamt about my future. I’d get good grades and then someone might notice me. But I felt like no one did.

            “No one likes a faggot,” it’d tell me when I saw a boy I liked. I’d date a girl and maybe she’d make me right.

            No matter what I did, the voice would always find a way to make it all seem so meaningless. I felt dead inside. Occasionally, I’d cut myself to feel something. I used to lie about it. It started with my hands. First the left one, by my thumb, but I didn’t cut deep enough. Then the one on my right, that scar is still visible. But no one noticed. Then I took to cutting across the bridge of my nose. When I cut, the voice was quiet. But when my parents would ask, I’d lie. I didn’t know how to tell them.

Eventually the voice won out. In my early twenties I let it beat me and I tried to take my own life. Thankfully, I passed out before I could finish. When I woke up, instead of slit wrists, I’d cut some Norse runes in my arm. I still can’t figure out how I did it. They meant “Strength,” “Honor,” “Victory,” and “Intuition.” I took it as a sign. Some part of me realized that the voice was wrong, but I didn’t know how to beat it. A few years later, I had those same runes tattooed on my arm. My pledge to myself not to let the voice win again.

I realize by this point, someone is thinking to themselves is this his way of saying goodbye. Not at all. All of this is to explain the hurdles I have had to clear to get where I am today. As most of my friends know, I started seeing a counselor this semester to work through some of this. While I may have a very conscious understanding that my suicidal thoughts and depressed feelings are simply a chemical imbalance in my head, the constant tugging of that voice has shaped how I interact with people. In my professional life, I have had a few experiences that added strength to the voice. It made me feel like I was broken and that everyone is constantly looking at me, judging every action and word. I didn’t matter what my intent was; only what they perceived as my intent. It made me second guess myself and intensified all of my social anxieties. There have been days where the only place I feel safe is in my home, away from the view of people.

Over the last several weeks, with help from the counselor, I have had an opportunity to work through many of these things. Where I used to view that room as the place when I realized I was broken, I know now that I wasn’t at fault. My dad made a decision to leave and that is on him, not me. Even when I did go visit him when I was fourteen and he told me I’d never be as good as Jimmy, my older brother and his first son, I know that is his opinion and doesn’t mean I am defective. Every day I have had to stop and remember that I can’t control other people, I can only work to be the best me for me and my family.

It has helped me start walking around campus. I used to be afraid to because I am quite slow and have to stop because of the pain in my joints. I realize now that no one is timing me. No one is watching me. And I have lost weight because of it. Thursday, I found myself bounding up the steps of the Liberal Arts Building, a feat I never thought I’d be able to do.

I have recognized when I am negatively self-talking. When I have drank the voice’s Kool-Aid and joined in to tear myself down. When that happens, I find myself going to my safe space and breathing and looking for constructive or positive comments. I also recognize when others are negative self-talking and the impact it has on me. I have found myself reaching out to help redirect them, for their sake and mine.

Friday I shared these things with my counselor. She was beaming. I also shared with her that I’d talked about my experience with the technique she used to help me get past the issue with my dad. She pointed out that it wasn’t magic. It was a very long and emotionally draining experience, but that I had been doing quite a bit of leg work between sessions to make it successful without realizing it. She wanted to make sure I understood what I was doing to affect my own mental health.

That’s when it hit me. We talk about eating right to feel right. We talk about the power of exercise. Or dressing for the job you want. We rarely talk about mental health. I knew it was ok to get help, but I was always too stubborn to ask for help. It took the prompting, prodding, and little jabs from friends to finally get me to ask for help. Mental health is just as important as eating well and exercising. Just like we might need a dietitian to help us understand how to eat better, or a personal trainer to teach us how to use the equipment and what exercises are right for us, we occasionally need trained professionals to help us change how we think about ourselves and the world around us. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. It can literally save your life.

                                        

The Problems with Masks.

I posted on Facebook earlier that I feel that All Lives Matter. This isn't to say that I feel that we all end up getting treated the same, but I wish that we would. I believe in a future where we can all be treated with dignity and respect without regards to genetic permutations that we have. I believe that in order to make that future happen we need to make changes today. Our lives matter because we are all human. It disgusts me that there are those that think that a few differences in our genes make some less human than others.

When I was a small child, I was blessed with darker skin. I'd say that I still looked pretty white compared to full-blooded Natives, but I was darker than I am now. My grandmother, who taught English on the Crow Reservation, felt it was important for me to know about my Native heritage. This was especially true given that my biological father had been raised by people that taught him to never admit that he was a quarter Native. My grandparents took me to many Pow Wows when I was a kid. Every trip to the Flathead area always included a stop in Browning. I was surrounded by Native images in my room. I saw myself as Native. I was proud of it and I looked forward to spending time with "my people."

Then something weird happened. The summer after I turned fourteen, I participated in a car wash with DeMolay. Up to that point, I had never really needed sun screen. The summer months were easy on me and my skin always bronzed up pretty nice. As such, I never even thought to put any sun screen on. I spent about twelve hours in the sun and I got burnt. Despite wearing a t-shirt, I was bright red pretty much from head to toe. I was miserable waiting for it to heal. When I peeled, my skin wasn't brown. It was white. More peeling. More white skin. I still had my freckles, but I just wasn't as dark as I had always been.

After that, when I'd go to Pow Wows, I got weird looks. Those same looks followed me when I'd go to Browning. I was made to feel unwelcome in these places. I was made to feel that they weren't my people. I was too white now. It got to the point where I stopped going. I took down all of my Native images from my room. I was told I was an outsider. And I hated that feeling.

When I was much younger, before my mother moved us to Helena, my one close friend was a girl. We'd play with dolls together. If we played with her Barbies, I was always some variation of Barbie and she was always some variation of Ken. I didn't really mind. My mother moved us to Helena when I was around three and the first toy I remember was a Strawberry Shortcake doll my Grandma Riley had. I can still smell the manufactured strawberry scent from the doll's plastic skin. I remember there being a Raggedy Ann and a Raggedy Andy doll at my Grandma Riley's house. I preferred the Raggedy Ann one. But, when I started asking for an Easy Bake Oven from Santa, my mother told me, "Santa doesn't bring girl toys to boys." I switched the kind of dolls I played with, preferring to get the boy action figures like G.I. Joe or He-Man. My favorite of these two genre were a Jinx action figure (a female ninja G.I. Joe) and the She-Ra one of my female friends bought me. But, I kept these two a secret, because my guy friends would laugh at me for playing with them. They were for girls, after all. Like my Native things, I kept them hidden and locked away.

My friends started talking about girls and I was flummoxed. I didn't understand their interest. They'd ask me to comment on one or another and my heart would race. Not because I was flushed with young love, but because I was anxious. I didn't know what to say. I'd either lie and try to sound like them or I'd make an excuse to go home. I didn't like girls the ways my friends were beginning to like girls. But, I liked them that way.  I ever acted feminine, my mother would tell me I was, "too butch to be gay." I didn't know what gay was, but apparently I wasn't it. I didn't know what I was, because I didn't know anyone who as gay. I didn't know that what I was feeling was normal for someone like me. I was made to feel abnormal because I didn't feel like everyone else. I hid it away as much as I could. I dated girls because I was supposed to.

Once I came out, I started to meet other gay people. I hoped that by being out, I'd find some sort of acceptance. Instead, I was told I wasn't gay enough. "You should dress better if you're gay," I was told. I have been a big guy all my life and there is slim pickings when you are husky. I wore what we could afford. By that point, I was too gay to fit in with some of my straight friends and too straight to fit in with my new gay friends. Gays were starting to be shown with more regularity, but none of them were fat. Again, I felt alone because I didn't fit someone else's definition of who I was.

People that know me may know that I struggle with social anxiety. I have an irrational fear that people are staring at me and judging me. It may seem irrational to someone that has never had it done to them, but so many parts of my life it has been my reality. I try to identify as one thing and I am told that I don't fit in. I try to fit in and I am told, both by my self and others, that I don't fit in. I don't know how to act. I don't know how to fit in. For the better part of thirty-five years, I have been judged by the outside world and told how I should be, what I should like, what I should play with, how I should think, how I should act. And every time I try to be the person that people seem to think I should be, I make some misstep and find myself falling out of the box someone put me in.

Despite my social anxiety, I made a decision a few years ago to try to just be me. To stop trying to fit in other peoples boxes and just act like me. I get reminded constantly that people aren't comfortable with me being me, despite the fact that those closest to me tell me it is ok. They love me for being uniquely me. But, the rest of the world still stands there, in judgement.

Things I have heard in my life:

I am too white to call myself Native.
I am too girly to play with boys.
I am too boyish to play with girls.
I am too straight to be gay.
I am too gay to be straight.
I am too fat to be attractive.

When I said on Facebook that I felt that Human Lives Matter, I wasn't attempting to dismiss the ways that black people are dehumanized. I wasn't trying to say that Trans lives matter less. I was not speaking as a white man and dismissing how unjust the world was. I was trying to stand up for people like me. People that have been told all their lives that they need to fit in a box and are dehumanized when they don't or can't fit.

The fact is, there was a time when I believed my life didn't matter. I felt like an abomination, not simply because I was gay, but for all the things that make me exactly who I am. I was so convinced that my life didn't matter and that I wasn't human I attempted to end my life. Since then, there are who continue to try to make me feel like my experiences don't matter. My life doesn't matter. That I need to "Man Up." I need to accept that "Life is Tough all over." I am told that it is irrational to think that other people are judging me, but at the same time told that I need to act this way or that. People don't even realize that they are judging each other.

I have written this a few times, but it is appropriate here too.

I put on faces to hide from the pain.
I put on faces to keep me sane.
I put on masks
   for anyone who asks
the Truth.

Those words have been in my mind for over twenty years. Despite trying to be myself, I still feel this way. I want to live in a world where there are no boxes. Where we are all human and are all treated as equals. I want to live in a world where I feel like I belong. Where I don't have to wear masks and try to fit in. But that world isn't the one I live in. I live inside this box, right now, right here. If I speak out, I am slapped down. I am told "How Dare You?!" when I try to stand up for people like me. Thankfully, I am too stubborn to give up and say, you win. I stubbornly try to keep just being me. Sometimes my words will come out wrong. My intent muddled by other peoples interpretations. I will fall down. I will get hurt. I will be emotional. Because that is who I am. A human, trying desperately to get rid of his masks. 

The MENtana Calendar Project: Meet William Matross

The MENtana Calendar Project: Meet William Matross:



For some folks, coming out of the closet is a huge hurdle. I came out when I was 16 as more of a way to tell the world who I was. I thought telling the world I was gay meant that I was being honest, but truth be told it was only the first step. Nineteen years later and I am finally starting to really be me. This project was something I never thought I would do, as I never thought people would find me attractive. Please check out the link and keep an eye out for other models.

Tygers in the Damndest Places

--> Literature can encounter us in the damndest places. The preset notion is it  is guaranteed to find us within the confines of a class, a library, maybe the Internet (when we close down Facebook, Reddit, Twitter, etc). My predisposition was that literature is there when I am looking for it. I never thought I would encounter it in the midst of watching cartoons. However, Fox Network proved me very wrong, though I would come to realize it until this week.

          While watching Batman: the Animated Series back in 1992, I encountered a strangely hypnotic poem that held fast in my mind. I can still hear Kevin Conroy, voice of Bruce Wayne/Batman in the series, saying the opening lines to William Blake’s poem “The Tyger.” I was thirteen at the time and had no idea who William Blake was, but the words: “Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright / in the forest of the night” haunted both my waking and sleeping dreams for years after.

            Twenty-two years later, I can’t tell you much about the episode itself. Those words, however, still give me chills. I have quoted the first couplet countless times over the last two decades and I was pleasantly surprised that the remaining line similarly spellbound me. I read it aloud to my partner several times over the last two days, trying to find the proper way to intone each syllable. I suppose, some part of me hoped that if I did it right, I might encounter a “tyger” of my own, forged wholly by the words set down by Blake 220 years ago (I also can’t help notice the similarities in the years since I first encountered the poem, and when the world first encountered it). Alas, no “tyger” has graced my apartment, or my car, or the hallways and byways I travel during the day. I still haven’t relented in my desire to find the proper method to read this poem. 

            I have to admit, despite my love for the English language and the methods by which it can be used to evoke emotions, images, and experiences that seem to transcend barriers like time and space, I have never held much enthusiasm for poetry. At times, I have found individual poems that will jump out at me and grab on to some part of my mind (or rather my heart or soul) and just resonate with me. And this is one such poem. Not only has it remained firmly engrained in my mind longer than many of my fellow classmates have been alive, it has never ceased to move my and excite my mind, heart and soul.  It reminds me to keep my ear out – whether I am watching a cartoon, surfing the ‘net, or talking with folks, Literature is out there and it will find you in the damndest places.

(Batman: the Animated Series, Episode 42, “Tyger, Tyger.” First aired October 30, 1992)

The Desolation of Smaug's Dynasty

            Two big-ticket items right in time for the holidays. You know, Christmas, where businesses of all shapes and size tries to bilk us for all the money we have earned in the last few months. I love Christmas, and I love giving gifts to others, but what I don’t love is being told that my love needs to be measured in the dollars and cents I spend on a person. The whole holidays season, from Halloween to New Years Eve, seems engineered to reinforce what has ultimately become a big wealth redistribution opportunity here in America.

            So, in the grand tradition that is holiday movies, this year we were treated to The Desolation of Smaug. I was a big fan of the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy. As a sword and sorcery fan, I felt that his vision of Middle-Earth finally brought the romance and vitality of my favorite genre to the screen. Too often, filmmakers can twist the visual aspects of a fantasy movie into a caricature that simply serves as a visual means of making fun of the fans. Unfortunately, that was precisely what Guillermo del Toro’s vision of Middle-Earth was – filled with cartoonish costumes for his dwarves and a world unlike what we saw in Jackson’s films.

            Typically, I am a fan of collaboration. A partner in crime often inspires our creativity, while also providing us a peer editor that keeps things in check. The original movies demonstrated the power of collaboration between Jackson, Fran Walsh, and Philippa Boyens.

 Unfortunately, Smaug wasn’t the powerhouse collaboration it could have been.  Del Toro definately has a look that he wants to present in his movies, it is all about visuals for him. Middle-Earth could have definitely presented del Toro with some meaty places for his visual aesthetic. After seeing Pan’s Labyrinth, I was certain that Smaug would be a treat. But, what can be expected from someone that said: “I was never into heroic fantasy. At all. I don’t like little guys and dragons, hairy feet, hobbits — I’ve never been into that at all. I don’t like sword and sorcery, I hate all that stuff.” (Salon.com 04/2008). First rule of making a fantasy film, you don’t hire someone that hates the genre to make the movie.

           

            Bringing in Jackson and his crew to write and direct came too late to salvage the movie. We are left with dwarves that look wrong (often in the movie I was distracted by poor makeup and thinking to myself that the worst contestants on Face-Off could do a better makeup job than the folks that did the dwarves). Beorn looked equally horrible and unbelievable as the skin-changer. And Tauriel’s ears looked like poorly worn Vulcan ears that are favored at conventions by cosplayers on a budget. I will say that the giant spiders of Mirkwood did squig me out a bit and I did have to look away to fight my arachnophobia, which I couldn’t say of Shelob.

           

            Beyond the visual aspects, the story and storytelling in the movie was atrocious. Tolkien provided us with a story that can easily be broken into three acts, each capped with a battle that provided a certain level of emotional resolution, before taking us into another crescendo. Act One provides us with the battle with the Goblins and Bilbo’s test with Gollum, Act Two would conclude with the death of Smaug and Bilbo recovering the Arkenstone, and Act Three would resolve with the Battle of Five Armies and Bilbo returning home. While I find Tolkien a bit long winded at times, one thing I can say is that he is a great storyteller and this goes hand and hand with the timelessness of his stories and the world of Middle-Earth. Instead of following the storytelling blue print laid out by the original, Jackson insists on jumping on the Hollywood bandwagon of movies that know they are the middle film – The Matrix Reloaded, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest, Catching Fire – and provides little to no resolution for the story elements presented in the movie as a ham-handed means to attempt to attract followup vewiership of the third installment.  

            Certainly moviemakers will take some liberties with storytelling. In the case of The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones, the liberties improved the writing and overall storytelling presented in the book. However, most fans of the novel will always prefer the book to the movie. This isn’t necessarily because they are literary purists (though that can often be the case). Often, though, the writer presents his material exactly the way he or she wants it to be – for example Tolkien never presented us with a Dwarf and Elf romance because in his Middle-Earth, they are difference species (not merely different sizes of the same race, they are completely different and biologically incompatible). Yet, to fill the “woman in the middle of a love triangle” trope that is ubiquitous in movies these days, we are given Tauriel who can’t help share doe-eyed looks with Kili and Legolas. Apparently, the only emotional role this character archetype is capable of experiencing is deciding which boy to take to prom, or which supernatural baby she’d like to bear. Of course, Tauriel was created solely for the movie and had the opportunity to provide a view into a race of elves that Tolkien hadn’t provided us much information on and instead, they used her to simply be “a woman in a man’s world” and making her simply a romantic interest, which cheapens the character overall.

            I have mentioned several times since seeing the film that I am ready for this one to also fall into the other recent storytelling atrocity of splitting the last movie in half “because there is just too much to go into one film.” This comes from my fear that they will attempt to front load the drama of There and Back Again as Jackson will need to deal with the climatic death of Smaug at the beginning and lead us into the epic Battle of Five Armies. My prediction is that we will get two movies There will be three hours dealing with Laketown fighting off Smaug while and Back Again will feature a three hour blow for blow slug-fest that will culminate in the Tauriel and Kili’s marriage which will be reminiscent of Arwen and Aragorn’s wedding at the end of Return of the King.

            Overall, Desolation of Smaug left me feeling desolate. Not only was three hours of my life taken from me, but I was also liberated of about twenty dollars. Hollywood cheapened the classic-ness of Tolkien’s films by providing us a film that fails to tell a coherent story and is filled with both visual and literary missteps that changed the theme and tone of the original piece in an attempt to improve their profit margins. This lack of care on the part of the filmmakers leaves me feeling manipulated and ultimately abused by their greed.

            This same manipulation is akin to my feelings about the yo-yo decision-making on the part of A&E. I was once a naive fan of television reality, believing that pro-wrestling was the epitome of reality.  My understanding of reality has been shaped by the crashing understanding that most of what we see and hear is manipulated, orchestrated to manipulate us. Even our American news media aren’t the most accurate, often leaving us to get our big news from foreign sources.

            I have to admit, when I heard the story of Phil Robertson’s article, I got caught up in the emotional current in the LGBT community. How dare he put me and my husband in the same list as terrorists and drunkards and say that our love for one another is akin to bestiality or promiscuity. After the initial visceral reaction to this level of narrow-mindedness, I took a step back and thought about what the man was saying. And, unlike many members of the LGBT community, I don’t feel that Robertson was really comparing them as being the same activity. Instead, he was grouping sins together and this is very similar to the teaching in most churches. Even the Catholic Church’s position of “love the sinner, not the sin,” still recognizes that the act of homosexuality is a sin. And ultimately sin is sin. They are not for man to judge one another on, and even early in the interview, Phil seemed to be trying to make sense of things. The statements he made about homosexuality aren’t intolerant. He didn’t say that he hates people because they are homosexual or that he hopes they die or anything else. He said that sin is sin and it is rampant in our world. I would agree. All around us, we see people being evil for the sole sake of being evil. Greed, anger, and hate are all sins as well and our American landscape is colored with all of it.

            In the wake of the interview, I saw places like Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr filled with true intolerance. Hating the man for what we said, twisting his words to turn people against one another, and rallies behind anti-Christian and anti-Gay causes. Neither of these things actually demonstrates tolerance. They demonstrate hypocrisy. They show the idea that we will only show tolerance to you if you agree with us. That isn’t tolerance. Tolerance is agreeing that some people have ideas that we don’t agree with, but they have a right to that idea and even voicing the idea – as much as we have a right to disagree with them. Tolerance comes from respecting one another’s differences in opinions.

            Now personally, I feel like the entire fiasco was manipulation of the American people. First, Phil Robertson acts the same way during filming of his show. He certainly doesn’t strike me as the person that censors his ideas while the cameras roll. He even admitted that many of the things that he wanted shown get edited out of the shows. Now, as an employee of A&E, Phil also would have either needed to get permission to give the interview or, more likely, his employer set it up. I doubt that A&E told Phil to act a certain way during the interview and to avoid certain topics. Most likely, they encouraged him to just be himself. And, the writer of the article knew precisely what topics would be most tantalizing to write about. This wasn’t simply a Q&A session that was printer verbatim. It was an article crafted from the interview and the time the writer spent with Robertson. His job is to write a good story that will pull people into the article and ultimately sell magazines and get people onto their website.

            This starts the second part of the debate – Did A&E act within their rights as employer when they announced that Robertson would be placed on an indefinite hiatus? Of course they were. He is their employer and anyone that has a job should know that if you say something that they disagree with the employer has a right to terminate their employment. Example, if a customer service representative tells a customer what they really think about them and uses profanity, chances are that CSR will be looking for new employment. Additionally, the timing was perfect. The week of December 22, Duck the Halls: A Robertson Family Christmas’s sales increased 22% compared to the previous week, according the Nielsen SoundScan numbers. Like it or not, this “just before the holidays” hullabaloo came at the perfect time when people’s wallets are open. And, we have been taught that money is one of the best ways to support a cause. According to Bloomberg, Duck Dynasty has generated $400 million in merchandise since March 2012, when it first came on air.

            As predicted, A&E and Robertson have come to an agreement, and Phil’s indefinite hiatus definitely only lasted nine days, just long enough to capitalize on it. While there are plenty of people that have pledge to never watch another episode, there are others that had never really heard of the show that will now watch it until it eventually goes off the air, all because of the power of social-media, and our ability to drive a sound bite into viral status.

            Just like Desolation of Smaug, I feel abused by the director of this little stunt. Emotionally, I feel that Jackson manipulated me into liking his movie because it is an adaptation of something I love. I feel guilty for disliking the movie and feel cheated that it didn’t live up to expectations. These same emotions are echoed in my reaction to Phil Robertson and A&E. I wanted to dislike Phil Robertson for what I originally heard in his message. I wanted him to pay for what he said and felt validated for agreeing that A&E should terminate his employment. But just as the contrived ending to Smaug left some of my fellow moviegoers chomping at the bit to see the next installment, the Duck Dynasty folks manipulated millions into feeling like they needed to buy in order to show their support and solidarity for Phil Robertson’s right to voice his opinion. In both cases, we are simply the victims of their greed.  

'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.