words, words, words
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If I begin to detail myself here, will you understand?
P. I am me
Q. I don't always know exactly who that is
R. I am Quaker
S. I like words and playing with them
T. I like genmaicha tea
U. I like the word napkin more than most others
V. I spend time walking my neighborhood
W. I cook rice often
X. I sleep well most every night
Y. I eat large amounts of fruit and vegetables
Z. I munch, sleep, write, create, cook, bike, watch, walk, listen, hope, learn, drink, live, breathe, touch, know, question, taste, copy, read, stare, carry, talk, dance, finger, try.
raisin@gmail.com
albums:
Magnetic Fields: 69 Love Songs
Erasure: I Say, I Say, I Say
Depeche Mode: Black Celebration
The Beach Boys: Pet Sounds
Marvin Gaye: What's Going On?
David Bowie: Hunky Dory
George Michael: Listen without Prejudice
George Gershwin: Porgy and Bess
Yo La Tengo: And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out
songs:
Wild is the Wind: Nina Simone
Come Undone: Duran Duran
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini: Rachmaninov
My Funny Valentine: Chet Baker
Feeling Yourself Disintegrate: The Flaming Lips
This Must Be the Place: The Talking Heads
Hyperballad: Bjork
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Wednesday, November 03, 2004
My candidate won - he'll be going to the U.S. House of Representatives. I'm proud of the work we've done to give him the chance to represent this district. My parting gift to St Louis. I'm not overly enthused because of the presidential election, but I'm trying to focus on personal accopmplishments and my upcoming move. I'll be in the District of Columbia next week, looking for a job, buliding a new home, dating a new man. I've sold my car, reserved a truck, and am anticipating biking through the streets again!
I'm also closing this weblog. I haven't been keeping it updated enough for the past six months. I don't write enough here, and am enjoying keeping my thoughts to my own personal writing. But what a time it's been. I started this blog to have somewhere to write about my feelings while sitting bored at work in the Air Force. It became a large part of me, a source of pride, of writing examples. I've exchanged good words with a goodly amount of people. Mostly, though, I've opened myself more than I ever thought possible. i feel powerful, strong enough to state my opinions, strong enough to understand my feelings. I'm anxious to move, to make choices I was denied while in the military. I still have parts to open, parts i won't reveal here or now. But I'm working on those, too, growing and expanding all the time. my eyes, my arms, my head, my heart, open to possibility, to the great perhaps.
It's misty in the central west end district of St Louis tonight. I love the way the trees and the houses drip at night in the fuzzy street light. I love the way my mind drifts after having too much to do for too long. This last weekend though, I gained more than I could have expected, walking in poor, mostly African-American neighborhoods, encouraging people to vote. I felt accepted, surprisingly enough. They were excited to vote, many of them had already voted when i talked to them on Tuesday. We felt powerful together, and maybe that's what being an American is all about (African or European). i never think of myself as an American; i'd much rather wear a flag upside down or half burnt in recognition of the suffering we've caused. But I can't discount the marvels we have here. I learned more about our greatness this past month than I have in my whole life.
I left the Air Force Academy in 1998 with a string of quotes in my head and printed underneath my picture in the yearbook. Only a few words were of my own making, thankful for help in finding my napkin. The string of words that follow me now are mine, and i am thankful for the help in finding my voice. And I have so many more napkins.
11:06 PM
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Thanks Philo and Nancy! Who knew I'd wake up to open Queerday and find a farewell greeting from them. I just stopped working for them about two weeks ago because the job I've taken is all-consuming. I'll miss all the news and being involved in a great effort. and um, that picture, well, someone said it looks somewhat like me. who knows who it really is. well, i'm sure someone knows.
8:13 AM
Saturday, September 25, 2004
all politics all the time. that's me. I'm working for the Russ Carnahan campaign now, and it looks like i'll be doing that most every second until the election. not like i've got a whole lot going on elsewhere. here's some good news, too: The New York Times > Both Parties See a Big Increase in New Voters. yes, both parties are pushing non-voters to register, but it's clear from the article that the Democrats are winning that game. hopefully it will turn out the same way in the election.
Time to quit the library - can't help the kiddoes with their homework anymore, gotta help a good man get into the U.S. House of Representatives. I'll miss the kids. strangely, after only two weeks, i think a few might miss me, too. especially the girl who got me to help her with the pre-calc work - i've been having dreams of quadratic equations! gasp.
i was looking for direction right? i may have bit off more than i can chew. but i've always had strong jaws.
1:00 PM
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
I haven't written because i'm overwhelmed with what to write. There's so much news out there that seems important to me, but if the regular american public doesn't see it, does it matter? I'm increasingly frustrated with reading more and more news that makes me powerfully agitated but won't get mainstream play.
And then I've been traveling a lot this month, and planning to move to Washington DC. I'm looking hard for a job out there, while still applying for a job with the Russ Carnahan campaign (hopefully he will take over Gephardt's seat in Congress). I've got plenty to say, and I'm having trouble deciding what I should say, how much i should tell. I used to concentrate on my own opinions of the world, but i'm realizing that doesn't matter as much any more. You have to spend time developing your thoughts and opinions, but once they're developed, you have to do something with them, or they're pointless. I don't want to continue shouting without being heard. So i'm trying to figure out how to be heard, what I want to speak about, what I'm qualified to have a voice over.
How much can I say? what are the opportunities and consequences of my actions? If i tell you secrets, will it just be one more part of me that's open, or will it help me get to a next step?
1:06 PM
Sunday, September 12, 2004
i can't understand politics. I can hardly read the news any longer - it's full of implications i don't understand. Full of facts that should be detrimental to the Bush campaign but somehow aren't. it's full of intelligence nobody wants to act upon. maybe nobody's reading it anymore. it's not as if I've ever had a grasp on how other people behave. I've always watched my peers with surprise at how they act, with motivations completely different from mine. At least it seems that way, even if it can't be that way. i can't be all that different, even if it makes me happy to think I am. even if it makes me lonely to think I am. Who knows though. maybe there's something entirely different going on. something I can't see.
10:52 AM
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Talking to a friend of mine last week, we discussed the length of my hair, which often comes up because it's so different from who i was and so different from most other people around me. I know a decent number of guys who have long hair, so I didn't think it would be a big deal. I've been surprised at how alarming it is to most people. Since there are plenty of other guys out there, i figured it couldn't be a big deal. It is. Comments from strangers about how they prefer my hair when it was shorter, people telling me I haven't found a job because of my hair, my Mother, of course. My friend said I was brave to grow my hair out, to wear it in pigtails, to be me in general. i don't think much about me being brave but about other people being cruel. I figure I'm just being myself, which always surprises people. I've always tried to be that way, to some extent or another. What's dawning on me lately is how much grief i've taken over it.
The one legacy I carry from the Air Force is the constant mockery of who I am. I hoped desperately that would end when I left. It hasn't. It has lessened though, even if it's tough for me to see it. I'm more sensitive now to the taunts than I've been possibly ever. Maybe because i expected them to disappear, maybe because I've just reached a point that I can't take it any longer. not even the light-hearted teasing. Some people would say the years of ridicule should have made me tougher, that i can take it easier now. Strangely, they've made me weaker. I used to be able to handle it. people teased me in high school, but i didn't care then. I had lots of friends who liked me regardless, I had parents who backed me up, and I had a physique that nobody would mess with. I flaunted my strangeness because it bothered people. I used it as a weapon against them instead of letting it hurt me. The Air Force changed that. My friends were fewer, and I was constantly surround by the animosity. Of course, i would occasionally receive incredibly nice comments, this guy Sven called my room a haven once and I swooned. But the bad outweighed the good. Learning i was gay gave me fresh reasons to stop flaunting my weirdness - eventually, i figured, someone would connect the two, and i would suffer real consequences.
Becoming a C.O. challenged people further. I hid that from almost everyone I knew at the time, scared of what they would think. unfortunately, when i did tell them, they proved to me that I was right to hide it from them. My brother told me for the first time during his recent visit that he was proud of me for being a C.O. The impression I had when I told him about what was going on was that I was being stupid, should have just waited to get out. He couldn't figure out why i was doing it. I guess he missed the part where I was about to be deployed and wasn't likely to get out on time. Other friends I might have expected to support me have hardly said a word about it, have never even bothered to have a conversation with me about it. One friend did try to take up the slack and helped me out so much. But he and I found some friendship troubles when I began dating someone who, in retrospect, was the worst possible choice I could have made. That cost me a lot.
i was gonna have a big pity party, but I just realized how badly I dissed a friend of mine for an ungrateful lover. i was leading up so nicely to this great quote about guys who manage to hold onto their selves but end up scarred in the process. maybe it would be more apt to say that they end up scarring other people in their inability to handle the pain. ugh.
quick soap-opera story: a guy who has a partner starts visiting me from out of town regularly, doing work projects over the computer from my place. I needed someone to take care of me because i was desperately lonely - he, well, i don't know, maybe he loved me, maybe he was unhappy with his partner, maybe he was just wonderful enough to take care of me. as soon as someone i saw as better looking came along, I started dating him (I'll call him M) and told the first guy (I'll call him A) all about it, expecting him to be happy for me, since he after all, has a partner. Thngs get too serious with M, A starts distancing himself from me. I get upset about it, feeling wronged. A doesn't bother to call me back for two weeks after I finally get out of the Air Force, and I feel cheated. It takes me a year and a half to realize M was basically a gorgeous loser and A an incredible friend.
hmmph. the joy of seeing through your own dirty secrets.
11:58 AM
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
DC is really great. i could fall in love with it easily. the beautiful buildings, weird mix of houses, great trees everywhere, and tons of public spaces full of people. i felt like i belonged for the first time in a while - everyone was reading, whether on the metro, in the park, even walking along the street. tons of people, average people like me, were biking around, to get to work, for fun, for exercise, whatever. people dressed interestingly and boringly, there were cool shops and ethnic restaurants everywhere, and mostly a city full of randomness, you didn't know what the next street was going to look like, who would live there, etc. it seems so perfect, so unlike St Louis, Sacramento, Colorado Springs, and Tulsa - my past geography.
i know i'm missing out on a great opportunity to move to Minneapolis, but you have to make choices, and right now, I think DC is the best choice for me. If only for the people who at least seem somewhat like me. St Louis has been great, but I have explored so much of it alone, as if nobody in the city knew of the greatness we have. My favorite neighborhood here doesn't have one park bench, and though I have many times sat on the grass, on a stone fence, on the sidewalk, i've been the only one there, enjoying the air, been stared at by those who don't seem to understand the joy of being in a public space.
so i'm looking for jobs there, maybe a non-profit, some kind of low-level management job, maybe in a hospital. I don't know, but I hope i'm reaching in the right direction and I'll find something soon enough.
3:05 PM
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
i'm flying today to the district of columbia, for a visit, for a look, for a romp, for a possible move later this year. job-hunting has unfortunately taken over my life, but i'm hoping for more prospects outside of st louis. and of course, that sweet man who happens to live in the district is a fine motivator. and oh what a sweet man he is.
11:35 AM
Saturday, August 28, 2004
ABC News reports on a Republican party celebrating the life of Johnny Cash, but understands that there is a question in many people's minds about which party Cash would have stood for. His son says he would never have said and Roseanne Carter Cash says the estate supports the party because it is led by a friend of her father's but not because it supports the Republican agenda.
However, I think the article says it best with this quote,
"With a rough voice, Cash sang about the poor and the imprisoned. He said his black clothing symbolized the world's downtrodden people."
since when do Republicans care about the poor and the imprisoned? the world's downtrodden people? I would suggest Cash was not proud of either party and would hope that anybody who likes his songs would be more aware and more willing to help those Cash sang about.
2:11 PM
Friday, August 27, 2004
If I were only going to live for a few more years, if I didn't have to plan for the rest of my life, I wouldn't continue as I'm doing. I'd throw away most of the junk I've been holding on to, as if it matters to me, as if all this stuff really helps me get along. i wouldn't spend so much time alone, and I probably wouldn't work a bit. I imagine I'd wander around the country visiting friends of mine that i never get to see, that i tell myself are too expensive to visit. i wouldn't consider as many consequences, and i wouldn't dread getting older.
I don't want to imagine myself living forty more years. that's far too long - how could i possibly fill up that time? it's a weight on my head, thinking i have to live my life in such a way as to always have a job and back-up money in order to make it. i don't suppose this is up to me, whether i live two more years or forty, not unless I do something drastic. But, I wonder how much I can change the way I live my life. can i compromise, not waste efforts thinking i have to lay down plans for my life as if i can see the end and work towards it? can't it just do what i want to do now and if i look back and realize i've made a mistake understand that i didn't have full vision of the future?
I know what frightens me, making the same mistakes i've made in the past. i chose to play football for my dad and to reach the goals he said football would lead me towards. that was a bad decision, and i paid for it painfully. I chose to go to the air force academy to 'serve my country,' for the free education and to live in colorado. That was a bad decision, and I paid for that rather painfully as well. I'm not saying i didn't learn a lot from those mistakes, that I didn't gain quite a bit from the experiences. However, the pain greatly outweighs the benefits. I don't want to make such decisions any more. i want to choose things that will make me happy, that will help me help others.
I've put too different opportunities in front of me. I want to do them both, but i have to choose. i don't know where either will lead, I don't know which will make me happier. i really don't know how to make a decision. But i have to make it anyway, and soon. What i'm hoping is that it doesn't really matter. They're both good choices, and i'll be happy whatever I do. Nothing says I can't do one for the next couple of years and then move to the other, in that way, plan my next three years as if nothing's going to happen after that, then go through a rebirth and live a different life. I can't see further than that, so why should i strain my eyes trying?
11:51 AM
Friday, August 20, 2004
There's a new place two men or two women can go get married, The Gay and Lesbian Kingdom. Formerly known as Cato Island, The Isle of Heaven has an emperor, Dale, who is basically making a statement against Australia who may or may not own the island. the site is hilarious, and yet with a good political message.
12:05 PM
Thursday, August 12, 2004
she told me i've been a good son. i said, i'd tried, but she said i did more than just try, i was good to her and helped her and she knew it and was so glad for it. all the effort, all the work i've been doing, going to see her, calling her, putting up with her just to tell her i love with her. even though it frightened me, even though i wanted to accuse her of all sorts of things. it worked. just when i thought nothing in life works, when it seems that every effort fails, something i did worked. worked so well that when my mother needed to cry, she called me to cry in my ear.
please let those words replay in my ear everytime i wake up, let them paint over her past harsh words that hurt me for so many years.
11:40 PM
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
I've been taking some time to think about what I should and shouldn't say here. which means i haven't said anything at all. I have character trait of analyzing problems to the last detail and ending up with inertia because i can't solve the differences.
how much of my personal life do i include here? there are stories i want to tell, about growing up, about my family that frighten me. it doesn't make sense unless you know what i'm talking about, and telling you enough to understand is exactly what frightens me. this may become a moot point soon. but i won't explain that, either.
i'd also like to talk about a picture. of course, talking about a picture isn't half as good as simply showing the picture. but again, i'm afraid. do i give up my anonymity? most bloggers have, are willing to post pictures of themselves. I don't want to use this blog to show off; i'm tired of using my body in the gay world to help me make friends, mainly because it's never worked. my body has made love, jealousy, desire, attention and intimidation, but it's never made me a friend. it's been dangerous and powerful, much more so than i first realized. i began growing my hair and keeping a short beard first because i had never done it before but secondly, to change, and to become a little less attractive. or at least, only attractive to a certain crowd. this new picture has made me attractive to many once again, and it frightens me. i don't want to trap myself again, be a slave to my own lust, to go out just to make people lust after me, to realize just how many men want me. it's unhealthy and surprisingly lonely.
Both of these problems though are a problem understanding my entire self. my family, the way i grew up, is a part of me. an important part of me that i usually avoid because i can't make sense of it, because i'm afraid to tell most people about it. my body is also me, although it's taken more getting used to than i can explain. it has a power of it's own, and i want that control back in my own hands. at some point, perhaps i have to let go, realize that i can't control everything, that i just have to be who i am, no matter how complicating and confusing my self is. but at the moment, i don't have the support i might need to lean on while dealing with such confusion. and i'm afraid to try anything too difficult on my own.
12:05 PM
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
yes, I live in Missouri, and yes, I voted against amendment two which will now put a ban on same-sex marriage in the consitution because yes, it passed overwhelmingly. But I'm not as angry about it as some, though grateful to Jeff (aug 6) who wrote a letter to the Post-Dispatch after they outrageously said Missourians chose values on that tuesday, as if gay people don't have values, they just have lust. i completely expected the law to pass here, and most everywhere. after writing for target="blank"Queerday for almost a year, it's fairly obvious that most people hate us and many work to kill us. writing a ban on marriage, something we don't have anyway, into the constitution is not nearly as bad as keeping a law against us having sex, which was only overturned because of the grace of five people in the high court.
i'm moving anyway. missouri's never felt like much of a place to call home for me. i long for winter, a good solid winter with lots of snow and coats. i was thinking i would get it here, but i was way wrong. we've had three warm winters in a row, and i'm leaving. that, and friends are hard to come by in the anti-outsider city of St Louis. i'm always an outsider, so maybe i'll go somewhere where outsiders are appreciated, like NYC. but who knows about that.
12:37 PM
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
you have to work to find the good stuff. whether it's cheese or music, the best never lies around in wait. it hides in corners of libraries, behind the flour in the cabinet, in the way back of your mind. It's always been this way, as much as we look to the past as having all the things we loved. only some stores had the rare Transformers, only some beaches had warm water washing on them. I don't know if most people don't care about this or if they are just too tired to look anymore. it takes work. and it's easy to call the seekers haughty, because they know what they're looking for, because they're not willing to accept imitation. and of course, we can't be so picky about everything. we have to realize that onions pretty much taste the same no matter where you buy them, and it's just not worth the cost to dig them out of the ground yourself. and yet, we also have to know how to find, when we need it, the good stuff. We have to take the time to read the unabridged version, watch the director's cut, find the elusive deep orange paint. and sometimes it's worthwhile to wait for the right person, to tell all your stories, to show him your favorite haunts, the view from Grand Basin or from the Mississippi St bridge.
Life is pain, we all know that. but if you pay attention, you'll find more good stuff than you expected.
5:39 PM
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
I think I'm finally a man. I just successfully changed the battery in my car. yep, unhooked it, bought a new one, recycled the old one, put the new one in, and the car started. wow, i've fulfilled a gender stereotype. now i just have to learn how to grill something.
2:32 PM
Celebrating the 35th anniversary of the first lunar landing, a website is carrying digital pictures of the astronauts and their antics on the moon (as weel as lots of pre-moon pictures) The Project Apollo Archive
I've always loved this story, the seven missions to the moon. I did my first research project on it for my dad during the one year I homeschooled. The pictures make it more real than anything though. These are good images and contain a lot of memories for me, all the studying and thinking i did that year. It was a lonely year spent mostly at home, but the moon kept me company.
11:15 AM
Monday, July 12, 2004
In light of the alarming idea of the government postponing or delaying the elections
in November, I think we all need to freak out.
If the Republicans can get this one through, if they convince voters that terrorrists will attack us if we vote, i don't even know, how can democracy survive that?
Says the BBC:
"No US presidential election has ever been postponed.
Abraham Lincoln was urged by some aides to suspend the election of 1864 - during the US Civil War - but despite the expectation that he would lose, he refused.
'The election is a necessity,' Lincoln said. 'We cannot have a free government without elections; and if the rebellion could force us to forgo, or postpone, a national election, it might fairly claim to have already conquered us.'"
2:50 PM
Thursday, July 08, 2004
I'm learning a lot. I'm learning that my football story isn't as incredible as I think it was, and yet, because it does speak to more people than i would have expected, telling it is more powerful than i realized. I'm realizing that my dad may have been more wrong and misguided than mean and cruel. I'm learning that I can remember more than I expected. I'm realizing that we're all somewhat rotten. i knew that though. My attempt to fix that problem in high school was to simply avoid people. They couldn't hurt me and I couldn't hurt them. I'm learning that isn't life, it's closer to death. Even now, my strategy of avoiding my dad isn't working. He's around, and I have to talk to him; in fact, he has to talk to me. and maybe if i thought less about myself and more about others, I might realize that he's intimidated of me as a gay man that might infect him. I'm realizing that being jealous of other people's parents doesn't make me feel any better about my own, whereas trying to make my family better does help.
I'm learning that you can't get what you want. You can work for what you want, and you might get it, but you can't be assured of it. so at some point, you have to begin liking what you have. not to give up what you want, but to learn how to be happy now. maybe you'll learn that what you want isn't so important, not compared to what you have. maybe you'll learn that what you want is incrediby important, and it's worth the effort to work for it. coincidence is a blessing, and finding friends at the coffee shop is as wonderful as planning to meet up with someone there.
So I was naive in high school and my dad took advantage of it. And yet, he took advantage of me in order to help me achieve my goal of getting into the Academy. Unfortunately, I had told him that it wasn't worth playing football just to get in, and he took that side anyway. He still lied to me, still tried to make my life something that he wanted to live. But maybe that's not the worst thing in the world. What he did to my brother and my cousin who lived with us was worse, and so I suspect that he is naturally a villain. But, what if he's not? what if he's just a self-serving idiot?
Can I forgive him? How much blame do i take on myself for trusting him for so long, for not realizing how much he was lying to me? I blame him for upsetting the balance in my faith, and yet, that would have fallen apart eventually. of course, I hate that argument, that someone is blameless because the other person was too naive. Is naivete a willing blindness or a blissful angelic existence? Dante put parents who loved their children too much in Limbo, the circle right above Hell, where they weren't tortured, and yet, they were still being punished. Did my dad love me so much he wanted to make sure I got what I want, or did he act in his own self-interest, his parents having stopped him from playing football, wanting to have a son on the Air Force Academy football team? Was it a bit of both?
Father's Day came and went recently. This is the first year I didn't call my dad to wish him a happy day. Nor did I send a gift, though I had bought something for him. My brother hasn't wished my dad a happy father's day since he left high school.
I don't know. I'm reluctant to blame, reluctant to point my fingers. I grew up in a world that was harshly colored, where something is something, masturbation is sin, marriage is good, parents and leaders are good and ought to be obeyed. I can't agree with that. I don't want to say something is something anymore, that my dad is just a villain, that all leadership is wrong. I'd rather say that everything is everything. My dad is vile and friendly, funny and dastardly, wrong and weak, calloused and gives great neck massages. He used to sing with me on the ski lifts in Colorado, take me to the National History Museum, take us to plays in London. Even when he made me work out and I hated it, he would buy me milk shakes and compliment me before i went to school on how handsome i was. he is my inspiration when I race up a hill on my bike, and nobody beats me on a hill because he taught me to always race up them. he dragged me across Oklahoma on a seven day biking trip, on a tandem with him, and although I only sort of liked it, I love talking about that huge ride we did, how many miles we put in in a week, how good of an athlete I am because of him.
I love him. I hate parts of him, hate some of the things he did to me, the way he still is devious and has been so cruel about coming out. He was wrong to do what he did, and yet I still hope he did it because he sincerely loved me and wanted the best for me. He was short-sighted and self-serving. He's a human being. I don't want to be around him. I don't want to talk with him about this yet. i don't trust him. But I still have a lot of love for him, and I just don't know what to do with it.
2:02 PM
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Miss Kittin is really good. Her first solo album, I Com, is fun and very cool. I'm enjoying it perhaps even more than The Gift of Gab's first solo album, 4th Dimensional Rocketship Going UP, which is awfully good itself. Of course, neither are as good as finishing the football story. I still have to write some kind of a conclusion, roll in some understanding of it. I'm still contemplating how it affected me, how it continues to affect me, and how to get over that affectation. I guess I've been doing that since the story had its last chapter ten years ago this month.
But not right now. Today, since it's past midnight here, is my birthday. And i'm gonna work very hard to have fun. or at least not be sad. I've got two great new cd's, two great new bouncy balls - large size, one pink and one orange and yellow - some turkey burgers to eat for lunch during my long bike ride I've planned along the mississippi river.
so here's to a good birthday, and hopefully a great twenty-eighth year.
12:23 AM
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
As I said, spring of 94 was on of the best times in my life. I was excited about everything, about the track season, about football being over, and about high school coming to an end. My dad though, kept insisting I needed to talk to the football coaches at the Air Force Academy to help my application get through. The Academy receives a lot of applicants, some 14,000 when they only let in 1,300, so they try to medically disqualify everyone they can. I had a skin problem when I was a kid, excema, which had largely evaporated as an adult (as it usually does), but I was originally medically disqualified because of it. My parents and I had to talk to many doctors and ask them to sign releases for me, trying to get a waiver for a skin condition I no longer had. So while I had the nomination to the Academy from my Senator (Don Nickles), I had to work much longer to be accepted. My dad insisted that if I would just talk to the football coaches, they would be able to help me out. You wouldn't have to play, he said, it would just help you get in. That didn't make sense to me. Why would they help me if I wasn't going to play? If I needed their help, it wasn't worth going to the Academy.
After a month or two of my dad pressuring me, he came up with a packet he wanted me to sign. He told me it didn't mean much of anything, it would just be another track, a way of clearing the medical disqualification, but it didn't mean I would have to play football. And yet, it had to do with football. I told him no, that I wasn't playing football, that I wasn't signing it, that it wasn't worth it. He got my Mother in on the pressure, and both of them, for two weeks, daily told me how important it was that I sign the paper. I held out, I said I wouldn't do it, I knew it couldn't be a good thing. I was naive. I was hopeful. I was torn. Once again, my dad had me. I wanted to believe him. I wanted all the things my brother had told me about my dad to be false, all the ways that he had tortured my brother when we were younger, because my brother fought him. I wanted to believe my Mother, too. I wanted them to be so right because how do you honor and obey your parents if they're wrong?
My religion wasn't about reason; it wasn't about questions and answers; it was about faith. Blind faith of this wonderful God way up there who was so big and powerful and yet somehow still loving. I hoped that if I loved my dad enough, if I trusted him enough, he would become the man that I saw in him. I hoped that if I truly believed in him, he would see how much I loved him and would actually change in order to be the person that he projected, and that I wanted to believe he was. He had given me so much; he had treated me so much better than my brother. i thought it was because I behaved better, obeyed him better. I signed it. I put my faith in him again, hoping that he knew better, hoping that he had made a good choice for me, that maybe i just could'nt see what he was getting at.
I forgot about it, continued having my great semester. When football's spring practice came around in April, I laughed at it. The team was starting practice on the field in between the track we warmed up on, and we ran around them. That first day of their practice, I laughed harder than I have ever laughed in my life. I laughed because I couldn't have been happier that finally, here was this sport that had dogged me for so long, and it was over. Over. My track teammates looked at me very strangely, although they were aware that I would crack up laughing over nothing they saw, and weren't too surprised. But I laughed the best laugh I've ever had.
I got accepted to the Air Force Academy eventually. I got a phone call from my parents while lifting weights in the track gym. They told me there was something in the mail that they weren't opening, but I should come home soon and open it. Of course, I knew what it was, and so did they. i rushed off home, so excited, and sure enough, I had been accepted. I had spent the past year and a half filling out forms and sending off applications to reach this. I had wanted it so badly, and it was so good to see it. The next day, i remember talking to my friend Carrie about it, how happy I was. But especially, that I had proven my dad wrong. He had told me I couldn't get an academic scholarship, that I would have to play football. But now there were two colleges, two good colleges, offering me a full-ride to come and study (the Academy is free if you get in), both without me playing football. It really was over.
My dad still had the last laugh. The second week of basic training at the Academy, we had signed up for intramurals. The cadre had told us we wouldn't necessarily get our first pick becuase they had to fill up teams. i signed up for soccer and was surprised but not too upset to see my name on the list for weight traning. That hadn't even been one of the choices, but oh well, I can lift weights. Marching down to the athletic arena, Cadet Edwards asked, "is anyone here not been recruited for hockey or for football?" I raised my hand, but Edwards said, no, you're on the list for football. They had been football recruitment papers, the packet my dad had me sign. I panicked. Would I have to play football? Could they make me now? If I didn't play, would they kick me out? Was this all a sham, was I really not good enough to get into the Academy, was it only because I was recruited for football? Had my dad hid the real acceptance paperwork? If I told them no, what would happen? I'll have to leave, I'll have to give this up, all the work to get in and I'll have to leave. Maybe, maybe I can get my scholarship back for OU, maybe I can live with my brother because i can't see my dad again. How can i ever talk to him again? he must have known I was recruited, he must have talked to the coaches himself. he must have. he must have. My brother will help me, he always has. Maybe I'll get to go to his wedding now, his wedding that I'm skipping because I'm in basic training and can't get out. Maybe i can live with him and never see my parents again. He must have known, and he didn't tell me.
I wasn't going to play, it didn't matter if I was sent home, if I had to give this up. I wasn't going to play. I knew that in the first five minutes, those minutes I'll never forget walking down to the gym, I can see Edwards asking us, me raising my hand, and then my memory is blank, it's all questions, fears, and more panic than I've ever had. He had pulled the plug of my faith, and all of it, my faith in him, my faith in myself, my faith in God trickled down the drain. I talked to the coach, had to force myself, to tell him I didn't want to play. I was expecting him to be angry, to, I don't know, I was too scared to think about it. He was nice, and said fine, don't play. If you don't want to play, don't play. I didn't play, and they didn't kick me out. It went away. But my transcript still says it, recruited athelete, football.
10:37 AM
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
The doctor confirmed I had broken my leg the day after the game. I was happy. I got to wear a big robo-boot around my leg, and I didn't have to play football. Sure, I still went to the practices and the games, but I just stood on the sidelines, patiently waiting for them to end. My leg didn't hurt but a few times, and mostly, I enjoyed the break. I did heal though, before the end of the season, and had to put on pads again, but i was still weak, and unwilling to push myself to get back into shape. The differing advice I received seemed biased - those who cared more about football urged me to ignore the pain and get back into the game; those who cared about long-term health urged me to be careful and let my leg heal. I was pretty much just concerned with not playing in another game, and being naturally careful, I didn't push it. My coaches yelled at me a few times; I stared at them blankly. I just wasn't going to try hard any more. I was actually disappointed my leg had healed so quickly. i would have loved to have never had to put on the pads again.
The season ended up well. We won state, for the first time in eleven years. A few people asked me if I was upset I didn't get to be in the last game, and i just shrugged. I was known for being quiet, and it always helped me get away with just a shrug. After the state championship game (and a million pre-pre-pre-dinners), I was the first guy back in the locker room, taking off my pads. I couldn't help but have a huge smile on my face, which didn't matter anyway - everyone else was happy, too, though mostly because we had just won state. I actually missed a team picture on the field that's in the yearbook, and I'm still laughing about it. I just couldn't wait to take the pads off. I knew it was over. I promised myself, i would never play again. It didn't matter what I had to do to, not in college, not ever.
After the obnoxious ceremonies and congratulatory dinners, the state championship hats, the championship rings, I had the best semester of my life. I was on the track team in the spring, one of the captains of the team, throwing shotput, even sprinting a bit, to keep myself in shape for the Air Force Academy, hoping I would get in at least. I had to shed some weight - I had gained up to 220 pounds for the football season and wanted to slim back down to 200. Everything was golden. I was a senior, well-respected, still at the top of my class with a few others, and happy. Happy like I hadn't been since eighth grade when I thought i would never play football again. But this time, I knew it was true. I finally had enough spirit in me to say no.
Of course, my dad didn't stop trying. He still wanted me to play at the Air Force Academy. He still insisted that I needed to, that I couldn't get in without it. I told myself if I wasn't good enough on my almost perfect record and high ACT scores, i couldn't get it, and I would take my full ride at Oklahoma Univ. My brother was there, and I could live with him. Nothing would make me play again. Nothing I could see at least.
10:26 AM
Friday, June 25, 2004
I gained increased independence each year of high school, both at school and at home. My parents never put a curfew on me, and once I could drive, I was often responsible for everything I needed. We rarely ate a meal together during the week, my mother being very busy with her law practice, me with sports and school, and my dad, well, I never did know what he was doing. He was often helping out with the law practice, i guess. When my brother left for college, my last two years of high school were pretty free. My parents would often go to our lake house an hour away for the weekends and I would stay home because I didn't want to be up there without any friends. I ate chinese out often at Panda Express near my high school, or made something at home - I did at least half of the grocery shopping for our house it seemed. I loved it.
I enjoyed my Mother's company, but my dad, well, he's never learned the trick of friendship. he's a good entertainer, and my friends often thought he was funny, but he never seemed to be able to have a close conversation. My best memories of him are when i was younger, when there wasn't a need for conversation. Maybe that's just the typical man though, who has loose friends based on sports and tech equipment, can't relate to his children, and mostly seems uninterested in much of the world. i want to paint my dad as a villain, someone who purposely and cruelly hurt me and my brother. But perhaps he's just a normal self-interested person who never cared much beyond his own needs. He wanted me to sit with him and watch sports on tv, but I never cared for that. I tried to interest him in the track meets I loved, but he didn't seem interested. He was often just there, at my football practices and games, on the couch watching tv, in the background. I know he liked me, and I know i was somewhat intimidated by him. I knew he could make me do things i didn't want to do; I felt I had an obligation to obey him, even if I thought he was wrong.
Our team couldn't lose my senior year. We hardly even had a challenge the first couple of games. Nice for me because since I started, part of the third quarter and the fourth quarter were left to the second string, so they could get some practice in once the team was clearly ahead. I just stood around and watched the clock roll down. All I could think of was the end of the season. I had started to make up my mind that I didn't need to play football in college. Regardless of what my dad had told me, I knew I could get a full-ride academic scholarship to Oklahoma University for being a National Merit Scholar. i was also working on getting into the Air Force Academy and was fairly confident it was going to happen, without having to play football. If i could just hold on until December, it would all be over, the five years I had put into football done forever. I had a sense of accomplishment about it, that I had survived something I hated for five years, that I had proved my ability to sacrifice for the greater good. That was my way of dealing with the pain. Did i serve the greater good? no. But i wasn't ready to face that.
But we did lose. To a team that had no business beating us. It was kind of funny, actually. At homecoming the weekend before, I had gotten hurt. I was near the bottom of a pile-up in the middle of the game, and when I tried to get up, my left leg didn't work. i didn't have any idea why, but it just wouldn't do anything. So I sat there - I didn't feel pain, I wasn't worried, I just knew I couldn't stand on my own. The trainer came out on the field; he and another guy helped me to the sidelines. He had me put my weight on my left leg to see for sure if I could walk, and that's when I felt the pain. i about fell there, but they held me up. Then i noticed the clapping. It's a weird part of football that when a player gets hurt, both sides clap them off the field, as a tribute or a reward or a hope that they'll heal quickly. It's a nice feeling, although, you sort of expect people to clap for you when you do something good, not when you simply get hurt. I sat around the rest of the game, with ice on my leg, shivering as the sweat dried on me. I remember my friends all concerned, rushing down to see if I was all right, and I just smiled at them and said I was fine. Of course, what was going through my head was that I wasn't on the field any more, and if my leg was broken, I wouldn't be on the field for some time.
Coach Lancaster, who never thought I did a good job on the field, decided not to replace my position. Instead, he put in a new linebacker, and tried to shift the line over a bit, expecting that since I hadn't been helping out the team anyway, they didn't need to replace me. When we watched the videos after the game, it was obvious what had happened. The fullback ran, almost every play, down the lane I should have been in. And because nobody was there to replace me, he made enough yards to get a first down. They ran that play the whole game, and won. The next game, the coaches put someone in my spot. It was the audacity of the coach who thought I was doing nothing that lost us the game, and lost our top ranking in the nation. It took me a long time to realize that; I was never keen on paying attention to the videos, and frankly, was just happy to not have been in the game. But I've been laughing for years at Lancaster for his bias against me which lost him a 14-0 record. Of course, the whole team suffered because of it, but then, the team generally suffered because of Lancaster.
5:24 PM
Thursday, June 24, 2004
I peaked in my weight lifting early, around when I turned 16. i still lifted with my dad quite a bit, and his weight program was the best i ever used. He and I never really did max lifts though, so I can't completely guage how strong I was. I am fairly sure I did 385 pounds with him, but that would have been after a workout, so I imagine I was stronger than that. I've always told people 365 though because that's the most I ever did while in the football gym while it was documented. A guy one year younger than me did come along and surpass my strength by the time i was a senior. of course, he was 6'5, had twenty to forty pounds on me, and unfortunately had a dense head. During our workouts in the offseason, he (Jerry Wisne), an offensive lineman, Dennis Junker, and myself worked out together. i hated the arrangement because Wisne was so dull and Junker, well, he was one of the stuck-up crowd, rude, cruel, and ugly. Strangely though, Junker and I began to talk. I had wondered if he was actually intelligent but just hid it - his older brother had been an incredible athlete as well as a scholar, and I figured he had to have some brains. He did, carefully hid underneath his bad-boy image. We got along.
Perhaps the greatest thing about treating people with love and respect is the way they respond to it. There are some who mocked me for being so nice, but most softened to me. I've noticed many people who others thought were a jerk, were callous or self-interested, showed themselves to be good people around me. Junker surprised me. I didn't realize just how nice he could be until he defended me while lifting. An annoying guy whose name i don't remember heard me grumble something while doing squats. Because i was the goody-two-shoes of the team, this guy pounced on the grumble, saying I had just cussed, that for the first time, he had finally heard me cuss. I told him I hadn't, that it was just a grunt. He pestered and pestered, and I did my best to ignore him, but Dennis told him to shut up and get away from us, then turned around and said, "you didn't say it." It would have been more like Dennis to laugh with him at me, but he told him off, knowing it was a big deal to me. I've never been more shocked at a change in someone, and that one tiny bit of understanding has let me trust so many more people, hope that i could find the better parts of them.
I said before, the head coach, Lancaster, and I didn't get along. You could hear it in his voice when he yelled at me. I felt he could see through me, that I hated football and everything about it, that I couldn't want to hit guys like the rest of my team. I avoided him as much as possible, except for once, when I tried to change the situation. My dad and I had been talking about football, and in one of his rare understanding moments, he seemed to catch on that i didn't like it. He suggested that maybe I try another position, that defensive lineman was really all about hitting, that maybe as a linebacker, i could use my head more, and perhaps enjoy the game. Both of us should have realized it was too late in high school for me to be changing positions, that i would have to actually learn how the game worked instead of just the simple lineman plays. I don't know how I would have responded to that position - it was a leader's job, encouraging the team, making sure things went well. I may have taken on the leader's mantle, like I've done in other situations where someone put me there. I never wanted to be a leader, but when I was, I often did well. I spoke to Lancaster alone in his office, petrified. He had become my enemy, some physical embodiment of the distaste I had for the sport. Going to him felt like begging, letting him know that I was utterly miserable. But i did, asked him to change. he said no, he needed me on the line. I was one of the strongest and certainly the fastest on the line. He may have meant it as a compliment, i don't know. But he quashed the hope i had of making the situation better for myself.
Senior year, we were gonna win the state championship. Over half of our starting team in 92 became seniors in 93. Our team was ranked in the top 5 nationally. Towards the middle of the season, we moved up to a number one ranking, based on our record, our coach, our team. Every speech from the coach, every dinner the night before a game - the booster club held a dinner the night before every game at different local churches - held up the state championship for us to grab. I still didn't see this as a good thing. The more games we won, the longer the season would drag out. Football basically took over my life that fall; I barely had time for much else. "All it takes is all you got" was our slogan; the gramatically incorrect statement was everywhere, on the many t-shirts the booster club provided us, on banners around the school, and of course, in every speech. I was on the starting team and just relegated myself to the fact that we were gonna be playing into December, no matter what.
11:19 AM
Monday, June 21, 2004
I don't want to pretend high school was miserable. In fact, most of it was wonderful - i had a great time, especially my last two years. Because I was so much bigger than those around me, guys never messed with me. I gained enough confidence from the weight room and my own parents to feel comfortable about myself. As much as my parents pushed me, they also tried to make me feel good about myself, telling me how handsome I was and how proud of my grades they were. Perhaps it was to balance how disappointed they were in my brother. At the time, I blamed how they treated him on his bad behavior. He was the unruly one, who didn't believe in their ideals, who saw through them. I was quick to defend them either to my brother or to myself. At the time, I thought my dad was truthful, or at least hoped he was. i was willing to not examine things closely, to accept him and hope it was best, like my mother always has in her life. My parents were awfully permissive with me about staying out late and hanging with friends. They trusted me as well, and I never considered taking advantage of them. So long as we didn't talk about football, we had a good relationship. But of course, it was even better when my dad started working more often with my mother in her law office. I was often the only one home my junior and senior years, and i loved the solitude as well as the freedom to go whereever i pleased without asking for permission. I had similar freedom at school because my teachers liked me, and those who didn't know me assumed I was a teacher because I looked so much older. i would skip through the hallways and sing strange songs, and never had a second thought about it.
I separated myself. I never talked about football, and if any of my friends asked about it, i would shy away from the questions, shrug, simply avoid it. it worked powerfully, but of course, it cost me. I turned much of myself off in order to separate parts I enjoyed and parts I hated. When you block some parts of life out of your brain, you inadvertently block other parts out. Blocking out the emotion I had over football blocked out emotions altogether, and I never had feelings for a single person, not one crush, during high school or for years afterwards. But I was happy. Nobody could have looked at me and seen differently. I was a good athlete, at the top of my class, I had many friends and was generally well-liked. My life was incredibly easy so long as I could ignore football, and my mother told me i would eventually find girls interesting.
I had simply delayed much of my adolescence. Most teenagers start to question who they are and why their parents have control over them. i refused to; it wasn't necessary. i didn't understand why people would ever be sullen; I couldn't understand the rebellion in my brother or anyone else. I was strong, or at least the walls around me were. This was my family's version of strength, carrying on no matter what, putting a happy face to it. Strength was not introspection, it was staying the course. I recognized my family in Tennessee Williams' The Glass Menagerie. My mother, a strong southern woman who could ignore everything around her that might get in the way of her purpose. She knew how things were supposed to be, and that was the way they were going to be, that's the way they were, if you listened to her often enough. That's the way it would be for me as well, as I grabbed hold of the old time religion.
1:47 PM
Thursday, June 17, 2004
My defensive line coach, KJ, took me aside during a water break once, to try and find out what was going on. He was probably the coach I liked the best, and the one i spent the most time with. He knew I was reluctant to play hard and wanted to know why. I told him it had to do with me being Christian. I couldn't fully explain, but it was kind of him to want to find out why. i always felt he genuinely cared. he said i should talk to others on the team who were also Christian, to see how they dealt with it. He said it shouldn't be a problem. After that many years of football, I figured he was right. i figured that all my attempts at being loving were foolish, that it was me who had the problem. But I still couldn't do it. I couldn't hit like i was supposed to, i couldn't get myself angry and want to beat on other guys.
My mother, too, tried to get me to play harder. She wanted me to get tough and angry, she wanted me to pretend the other team were attacking her. The metaphor was lost on me - they weren't attacking her, so why worry? I'm not sure I would have fought them anyway. I had so eradicated my anger, that I didn't know how to be angry. The temper I had against my brother had practically died, and I was happy for that. I had taught myself on a deep level that violence wasn't an option. Except now, I was trying to teach myself that controlled violence was ok. Most of me didn't buy it, and I never had the commitment to that work like I did to control my temper. But the alternate sides of me yelled at each other often, mocked, derided, implored, questioned, and shot arrows at each other. every day.
Some of these memories remind me of other guys talking about realizing they were gay, trying to be like the other guys, and not being able to, etc. I of course, had ideas that I was gay in high school, but I hardly wrestled with it. I suppose I could only handle one huge struggle at a time and could dismiss the lesser one. Perhaps if I had been surrounded by guys I was attracted to, I would have felt differently. I never saw high school guys as attractive, still don't - as i said, i was much bigger than most guys, and they weren't interesting. The football guys were either very heavy or skinny, short, underdeveloped. I rarely noticed them. Had I been attracted to them, too, I'm not sure if I could have handled the combination.
The best parts of fall though, were the two hours after the Friday night game. I would meet up with friends of mine and go hang out at a pizza place or something. just sit around, talk, laugh, realizing that I didn't have to deal with football until Sunday afternoon. i always had a few sore spots, but i didn't much care. it was never the pain that bothered me. We would never talk about the game, and I could just relax.
1:21 PM
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
I had already learned to hide my feelings, growing up in a family that didn't express much. But football made me better at it. The fear of people knowing why i was actually playing, the fear of them knowing that I actually hated it, kept me quiet. Once in high school, I never told anyone. How could I tell them what i was doing? Who would believe that I was doing so much just to please my dad? I think this may have been my biggest mistake. Had I trusted someone enough to tell them what was going on, they might have talked me out of it, but more importantly, they would have helped me deal with it. I wouldn't have felt like such an alien. But, like my mother, I just tried to ignore the pain I had. I dealt with football when it came around, and tried to ignore the anxiety in my stomach during the school day. I usually hoped we lost towards the end of the season, so we wouldn't have to play any extra games. But it never really worked.
I got better at football, just by doing it. I really did try to be good, but I had a fundamental block. I tortured myself over that, too. I wanted to like it, like the other guys did. I wanted to do well at it, like i knew I should have. I wanted to do my best, and I knew that for some reason, I wasn't able to. I tried so hard to get over my dislike, but I never could. But since I was so strong, my coaches had extra incentive to try and make me good. During spring practice (only lasts two weeks without pads), I was often put against the upcoming seniors, because nobody else was as strong as they were. I hated that feeling, losing all ability to hide, knowing i was going to have to accept a major role for the next three years.
A new coach came in after my freshman year. Ron Lancaster. i can hardly even look at the name, I detested him so much. Lancaster was good. The administration brought him in because our football team wasn't good, and we should have been. My high school was consistently the best in the state, winning around 10 state championships every year. But we hadn't won football since 1986 or something. Lancaster came in and changed everything, created an incredible system of money and support for the football players. The money spent on us, the locker rooms, the giant tvs and filming equipment to watch the games we had played, to watch games of our opponents to see how they played. All the coaches had radio communications on the field and at least one in the box office to better see the game. Lancaster was a fanatic, and he had money to spend. He overtook our lives with practice, with game-viewing, with booster-club dinners. Sunday afternoon, for at least three hours, we would watch the game from Friday night. Every game I played from them on, I watched repeatedly, to obsession, watching every play, going over the strengths and the weaknesses of our technique.
Before my junior year, and right after I got my driver's license, my dad made another deal with me. If I started on the varsity team that season, i would have his Chevy 454S truck. It was a black truck, and almost frighteningly fast for a truck. I did want it, but I mostly just wanted a car. I started on the team, and got the truck, a mixed blessing. Having a great car, having to play through most every game. Fortunately, after about four or five games, my coach gave my spot to a senior, and I still got to keep the truck. My dad attended every game of course, and many of the practices I had, those last two years. He was the homemaker while my mother worked, and with my brother off to college, he stopped cooking much and, well, i'm not sure what he did when he wasn't at my practices. I played shotput those last two years, too, and loved the sport. i would always come home and tell my dad about how it had gone, and was very excited about it. I never did as well as I probably should have, considering my strength- i'm just not coordinated or quick enough. but i loved shotput. My dad didn't care much. Although he found time to be at so much of my football life, he attended maybe two of my meets during my junior and senior years.
1:01 PM
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
I told my dad I would play football on the way to church, an evening about three weeks before high school started. I convinced myself I would play through high school and college, that i would get an athletic scholarship, that this was the best choice. I felt sheepish telling him, giving in to him after such a long time - I didn't even get the $300 he had tried to bribe me with the year before. I told him from the back seat, where I couldn't see his face. He took care of the rest, and I started practice soon afterwards. Kirk, a guy I had known from seventh grade football, asked me why I was there. I had confided to him during the last year that I hated football and never wanted to play again. I looked at him and shrugged, too ashamed to tell him why I was there, too convinced by my dad to stand up for myself.
August in Oklahoma is hot. Sweat from the heat inside my helmet would roll down into my eyes, burn my contacts. Practice was bad enough; i still did my best to hide, stay in the back of the line, get out of the scrimages, just stand around and watch if I could. I would dread it all day though. From the time I woke up, I knew that practice was coming. Around 5th period, I would start to get nervous and quiet. Quiet. I was quiet about why I played to friends who looked at me and said you're a nice guy, you're not a football player. I tried to be hollow, so they couldn't see what was inside me. i just kept my mouth shut. i didn't have many friends anyway - i didn't trust anyone and mostly kept to myself. I never talked to the football guys, not really on the field or off the field. The first year was the hardest.
I can't tell the stories on the football field. full of hitting drills, and more hitting drills, hitting other guys, hitting the pads, hitting other guys. i don't want to relive the memories. I don't want to feel ashamed - I hated being the biggest, strongest guy out there (by the time I was 14, a freshman, I was the size I am today, 6'2" and 200 pounds) and not knowing what to do with it. i couldn't hit hard, I couldn't get myself to move past my fear and my reluctance. I knew that I should have been the best. And so did my coaches. But I could sprint. I loved it. I was faster than most of the guys on the team. As a defensive lineman, only a few guys on the team were faster at a 40 yard dash than I was. I loved to push myself in sprinting. It hurt my quads with that I'm so fast feeling. And sprints were at the end of the practice, so I knew no more hitting would follow.
I threw the shot-put on the track team in the off-season and lifted weights with my dad at Bally's. I hated the music they played there, songs like Can you Take me High Enough, etc. but I gained even more strength. At the end of my freshman year, I was back in the football lockerroom, moving our lockers, and had an encounter with a senior guy. He was insulting and pushing around a friend of mine, one of the only guys I liked on the football team. I'd like to say i beat the guy up or somehow caused some dramatic scene where I finally figured out what to do with my strength. But, i think I actually did something better. I told the senior to stop it and got in the way, offering myself up instead. the guy picked me up from behind and held me, like he wanted to crush me or something. Then he let go and walked away. Probably the only 'fight' I've ever been in. but i won, and nobody threw a punch.
2:21 PM
Monday, June 14, 2004
i learned to like lifting weights, after a couple of years. The response to my body became more and more positive around me. During the summer after my eighth grade year, as i turned 14, i benched 285 lbs, and word traveled fast. At a weeklong summer camp, random guys would come up to me and try to verify my bench pressing - they even convinced me to do a bit of showing off in the gym, although i refused to go very high because i didn't trust any of them to spot me. I've always been a cautious person. i did one-armed push-ups for show, did push-ups while people sat on my back, and largely enjoyed the attention. Except, it was still hurtful, still something that I had no control over, something that I was only learning how to be proud of. It's like having a famous grandfather of dubious reputation, people always want to make sure that the rumors are true, that you really are someone's grandson, blame you. and as much as the attention was flattering, it felt hollow and embarrassing.
During my eighth grade year though, my dad worked on me. He would watch a football game and make me sit with him, talk to me about it, explain to me better how it worked. It was a friendly gesture, but I couldn't talk to him about football, couldn't get over the anxiety I felt in my stomach every time I saw a football game, every time i heard a whistle, or a coach. I was scared of football, and scared that he would find out, would broadcast that fear to my Mother, that they would make me growl in front of them again, make me pretend to be tough. i would say it was all about my morals of not hurting others around me, but it was of course also my shame about them ridiculing my very nature. i listened to my dad's speeches about football, how it was my only way to college. They don't give full academic scholarships, and we don't have enough money to put you through college, my dad told me. You have to play football in order to get to college, you need to play during high school and during college, or you'll never get an education. He told me there was no other way. You want to go to college, right? You'll never make it otherwise. i would just look down at the floor. Fine, don't listen to me, what do i know? He would lecture me about God and country, about how a young man has to give back to his school, how he is expected to sacrifice for God. My parents loved the phrase "to whom much is given, much is required." My dad used it against me, arguing that since I was the strongest guy in my class - almost in my high school before i even entered - I had a responsibility to play football. There was no other way.
i wanted so badly to not listen to him, to be sure he was wrong. He twisted every belief in me that year. I wanted to be a good son, to do what he wanted me to. I wanted to be a good Christian, to do what God wanted me to. I wanted to be good in school, to be a good citizen. He painted it as a sacrifice, and I fell for it. I tried not to, I tried to remember how bad it was, how useless I was on the football field. I wanted to believe him though, he was my father, and I wanted him to be always right, even if it bothered me that he cheated in card games, even if he never did seem fair, I wanted him to be fair. I wasn't an easy target that year. He worked on me almost every weekend, not letting me escape the conversation, forcing me to listen to the speech repeteadly, that it was my duty to play football, that other kids weren't blessed with a strong body, that they wouldn't be as good as I would be, that because I had such potential, I had to use it. And i wanted to please him. I had few motivating factors in my life. Loving God, obeying and honoring my parents, learning as much as I could . . . I wanted to please him. i wanted to do what was right, and he had used the right word, sacrifice. Once he convinced me it was a sacrifice for God and for the other students, i felt I had to do it. I trusted him and assumed that I was wrong.
5:32 PM
Sunday, June 13, 2004
I've got bug bites all over my body.
That just means it's summer.
I've got hair coming out the wazoo,
that means i'm a civilian.
I've got eyes for all the men around me.
That means I'm alive.
I've got tons of food in my fridge.
That just means I'm not poor.
I've got a nose for all the smells around me
That just means I'm high.
I've got air in all my bicycle tires.
That just means I'm lucky.
1:37 PM
Thursday, June 10, 2004
When the season was over, I told myself I wouldn't play again, but before I really got a chance to think much about it, my dad started me on a workout program. He bought a weight set for upper body work and we went to the gym for lower body work. My dad worked with a lot of trainers, used a lot of pills and weight-gaining drinks to remake my body. for the next two years, i spent two and a half hours, five days a week, exercising, working out with him. At 12, I was just starting puberty, and my body expanded extraordinarily. i still have stretch marks from gaining 30 pounds of muscle in three months. I still remember teh wonderful black pair of jeans my dad bought me before I gained the weight that I only wore for two months.
Lifting weights was far easier than football, but I still detested my dad for it. I would hide when I got home from school, open the back door very slowly and quietly, hoping he wouldn't be in the living room and wouldn't hear me sneak into my room. He'd find me soon enough, knowing what time i got home from school, and we'd start the weights. oh we did weights, we played basketball, my dad had me wear these wonderful shoes that had a big heel on the front of the foot, so i guess it's not a heel, but it essentially was meant to work your calves, because you're forced to be on your toes. so i played basketall in the torture shoes, and felt like an idiot. here i am in a college gym, running lay-ups in ridiculous shoes. My only consolation came from the strength of my legs, which, thanks to the years of skiing and biking, after only a few months of doing squats, could handle more weight than most of the guys in the gym.
Of course, my dad tried to get me to play football again for eigth grade. He said I was stronger now and wouldn't get pushed around as much. I never minded being pushed around, it was having to fight back that i couldn't bring myself to do. He went as far as to offer me $300 to play that season, but i refused. I wouldn't have known what to do with the money anyway. What surprised me that year was my classmates somehow knowing that I was strong. i don't remember telling anyone before people started asking me about it. maybe I mentioned it to someone without realizing it, maybe my dad talked to people about it (he was always good with gossip), but suddenly, people began asking me how much I could bench press. i can't pretend that was a bad thing - they liked me for it, and everyone enjoys being liked. but at the same time, they liked me for something that clearly wasn't me. i wasn't the one dedicated to lifting weights so much or so hard. i was only resposible for obeying my dad when he told me to lift the weight, when he told me i wasn't working hard enough. The kids liked the part of me that I considered to be alien. The muscles I had were my enemy, the embodiment of forced labor, of submission to my dad's will. i was a stinking bookworm, a nerd whose closest friend was my english teacher. putting up with other guys' admiration stung because they liked nothing of what i was and only what my dad had forced me to become.
My dad and I didn't talk much while we worked out; I was mostlly sullen about what was going on. We argued over the word focus though - he would tell me to focus and concentrate on the weight i was lifting, and I didn't want to understand. Was I supposed to stare at the bar, think hard about the amount of weight i was lifting? The trick of obedience is to do the task but put your mind elsewhere. I had learned in class as any kid does, the freedom of daydreaming, of wandering off to somewhere else because you don't want to be where you are. You can't do that lifting weights, not if you expect to improve. My dad must have known i was somewhere else, wanted to be somewhere else, and so he began to work on my mind. Not only did he expect me to be there physically, but he wanted all of my attention.
2:22 PM
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
So I played football. practice was at 6pm, well after school, and i dreaded it all day long. I remember strange parts of it, the shape of the practice field, the smell of fall and freshly-cut grass (both of which I still hate today), putting on a jock strap for the first time underneath the white football pants and my brother mercifully telling me that I needed to wear underwear underneath the jock strap so the other players wouldn't make fun of my naked butt. I remember how the fat head coach (they always seem to be heavy) yelled my last name, yelled it - i had never been yelled at before, and now my name became the invisible hook that brought me into the spotlight away from my safe invisibility, trying to hide behind the other players. I was always too tall to hide anyway, but i guess i didn't realize it. I would look forward to hearing my dad drive up by the field in his Volkswagen Thing- you could always hear that car coming. if he was there, practice was sure to be over soon, except for those times he came to watch. To watch me in my humiliation, the one that forced me to be there, to watch me in my utter confusion, not knowing how to play, not knowing how to hit, trying to hide how much i hated it because i was embarrassed, utterly embarrassed at every part of me. I think shame may be the most difficult part of life for kids to deal with, the fear they don't measure up to the other kids, to their parents, to themselves. that first season of football was shame, laughing at me every day.
I didn't have any friends going into seventh grade. I was beginning a new school and had lost all my other friends from my last school, had lost my best friend because she had become too good for me, one year older, a teenager when I wasn't. Because of her, I had sworn off friends in general, had told myself I would never need another friend again. Some people told me football would help me make friends, but it only increased my alienation, being around boys i saw as cruel and horrible, knowing they saw me humiliated every day, not wanting to admit that I was playing because my dad made me, that i secretly hated it. i didn't enjoy seventh grade.
I suppose other boys might have disobeyed their dads, might have refused to play. I was a trusting, obedient boy, always hopeful that my dad was better than he was, that what we said was truth, that he only wanted the best for me. I played because he told me to, and never thought a second about disobeying him. To obey is better than sacrifice, I Samuel 15:22, as my Mother constantly reminded me. She meant to obey is better than to have to come back, apologize, and make amends (to sacrifice an animal to God), but of course, obedience is sacrifice, giving up your own desires for the love of someone else. So I played for him but would never admit it. But I only played the first year because he told me to, and although it was a dirty trick how he got me to play, i didn't realize until later the length he would go to convince me to play in high school.
12:35 AM
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
This is the first time i've talked about football, trying to tell the story from start to finish at least. the idea frightens me, though it's been over ten years since I last wore shoulder pads. these memories are buried deep, and most of them, i have never told to anyone. no, not my brother or my friends or even myself. I have never spoken of most of them, except for the one time i babbled to two people i trusted very much - i didn't get much out because i was sobbing. I hoped the memories would disappear, but they haven't. They still taunt me, in my dreams, in the smells of fall and freshly cut grass. so i have to deal with them, just to take the air out of them, to cut them down to the size memory ought to be, small and far away. but it's like opening the door to a very full closet - if i'm not careful, the contents will spill all over me and i'll be lying on my bed crying beyond my ability to stop, like i did the first time.
i sound like an exaggeration, how could anyone be this concerned over football, over being godly, over childhood troubles? i'm wrestling with that too, wondering how these fears are so real, even today. we all have events that shape us, we all have ideas that envelop our heads and fashion the way we see the world. I'm not blaming football here, not even some the coaches i see as bad men. As much as I don't like football, I can't decide whether it encourages violence or allows boys to let their aggressions go in a sanctioned game.
I have so much doubt in me, wondering if I'm crazy, if i'm leaving myself open to become a laughing-stock, the boy who couldn't handle football. I have to tell myself though, that this matters, that I won't ever be able to forgive my dad and move on until I face his actions and the difficulty it caused me. I also have to tell myself that though I think I couldn't handle football, I did have a starting position on a nationally ranked high school football team, a team that won the state championship in Oklahoma (where football is the major sport), in the largest class of schools. for someone who hated what he was doing, i did pretty well at it. but of course, never well enough, for myself, for my coach, or for my dad.
7:45 PM
Monday, June 07, 2004
My dad first mentioned football while we were running. He and I ran around three miles a day when I was 12, about to enter 7th grade at a public school. I had gone to a Christian school for most of my life and then homeschooled for the past year. I was scared of the new school, scared of all the people that weren't Christians, that I expected to make fun of me. But while running, I was more focused on not wanting to run. It wasn't my choice that we ran together, or at all. My dad had always made my brother and i exercise, some to our benefit, some just over the top. But during that summer, my dad mentioned football as an alternative to running. If I played football, I wouldn't have to run three miles with him. I had never played organized sports and didn't want to, but I didn't want to run every day either. I said something like I'll think about it, and before I really had time to think, I was in the store trying on football cleats. 7th grade football wasn't completely funded by the school, so parents had to pay for the equipment. I've never been good at protesting, so I just went along with it, hoping it wouldn't be as bad as I expected. of course, my brother looked at me in shock, saying I would hate it, and asking why I had agreed. Had i agreed?
The first day, I hated it. told my dad i didn't want to play, it wasn't fun or good or anything. What i didn't tell him was how frightening it was. I had never hit or fought much, had never been in any kind of a fight. I had thrown my temper a few times, but that was during fits of rage that I had done my best to control. Tried, so hard to control. I had always been conscientious of my actions - growing up the younger sibling made me feel like i had to apologize for living, because I always seemed in my brother's way. I acquiesced to him in everything, except every once in a while, his teasing got too much and i would fight back. One hit, a bite, even throwing a toaster and chasing him with a hammer.
But I felt horrible for those outbursts, knew that God would want me to control that anger, to not unleash it at my brother but to endure everything he did to me. So after a lot of thought and prayer (i was around eleven at the time, and this kicked off during a Bible camp I went to which consisted of at least 6 hours of worship, sermons, and prayer meetings each day), I decided I had to control my temper. The best way I saw was to take I Corinthians 13, the love chapter, and apply it to my life. If God is love (as it says in I John 4:7), and Paul told us in Corinthians the exact nature of love, wasn't I bound to be like God and therefore like love? I figured on yes, and began to focus my life on those verses. Love suffers long and is kind, love envies not, vaunts not itself, does not behave itself unseemly . .. I read it over and over again, every night before I went to bed, several times, until I burned it in my mind and tried to become love, to be longsuffering and kind, to be as like God as I could be.
I was strong enough to control my temper and change the way i looked at everything in the world. Aggression was wrong, at least from what i could see of it. That first day of football asked me to be aggressive and to hit others. How could I do that? How could I go against what my Bible told me? Isn't this what my parents had taught me? i wouldn't play, I told my dad. unfortunately, I didn't trust him enough to tell him why, to explain to him why I couldn't be aggressive, why it hurt me so much. I knew he would make fun of me, would just laugh at my seriousness, would not attempt to understand what I was trying to do. He told me no, that I had to play, that I wasn't allowed to quit anything once I had started it, that he had payed too much money for the equipment. i wish I would have burst into tears, I wish i would have stood up to him, I wish I would have understand the difference between pacifism and passivity.
11:37 AM
Friday, June 04, 2004
um, losing my job this week, need to spend some time looking for a new one, going crazy while watching the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. since i'm not used to tv, the nasty images stick in my head and give me nightmares. and thoughts about high school football - torturous thoughts, that is. i'll explain later.
10:12 AM
Thursday, May 27, 2004
mmm, eggs sunny-side up over cheese grits. yum yum.
I've been playing around with Instant Cool, a discussion system some friends of mine are on. A new game they made up is a music mix-off, which is right up my alley. Our first competition is a war song collection, which also, is right up my alley. so i've put one together. of course, war songs are never fun to listen to, and althoguh i like the collection, i don't think i'll be listening to it often. what was almost more fun, was writing about the songs a bit, explaining them and their meanings, etc. i would have loved to have been long-winded, giving full explanations of each song, when i first heard them, how they changed my perspectives, etc. but i was more concise. which i guess is why i have a blog, right, to spew all that stuff out. even if nobody bothers to read it, it's still fun for me.
Sunday Bloody Sunday : U2 : War
I Bombed Korea : Cake : Motorcade Of Generosity
Soldiers : ABBA : The Visitors (Remastered)
Waiting At The Border : Beth Watson : Tom's Album
My Vietnam : Pink : Missundaztood
War : Joan Osborne : How Sweet It Is
Mother's Pride : George Michael : Listen Without Prejudice
Business Goes On As Usual : Roberta Flack : Chapter Two
Drink Before The War : Sinéad O'Connor: The Lion And The Cobra
What's Going On : Marvin Gaye : What's Going On
Back In The USSR : The Beatles : The Beatles (White Album) (Disc 1)
Bombers : David Bowie : Hunky Dory
When Johnny Comes Marching Home : Glenn Miller : The Millenium Anthology
We Will Become Silhouettes : The Postal Service : Give Up
Gun Shy : 10,000 Maniacs : In My Tribe
'Tis Of Thee : Ani DiFranco : Up Up Up Up Up Up
Gunpowder : Wyclef Jean : The Carnival
I'm On The Battlefield For My Lord : Rev. D.C. Rice & His Sanctified : Anthology Of American Folk Music (2-B)
I realize that the songs should be able to stand for themselves, but I'll admit that a few of the songs I used are a bit difficult to deconstruct, so I'm throwing in a bit of explanation. Plus, I've always wanted to write a celebrity playlist where I gush about what the songs mean to me! And since I was in the military for nine years, they all certainly affected me.
Most of the songs are obvious, U2's Sunday bloody Sunday, Cake's We Bombed Korea, Joan Osbourne remake of War, etc, but I love the Cold War songs like David Bowie's Bombers and the Beatles' Back in the USSR. The Postal Service song, We Will Become Silhouettes is harder to grab - Chrisafer explained it to me. The song is about the fear of nuclear war, how teachers literally described to us what would happen during and after a nuclear strike, how our cells would implode, and our ashes would literally turn us into silhouettes. Wyclef Jean's Gunpowder and Ani DiFranco's 'Tis of Thee both deal with undeclared war, like war between two gangs, the war on the poor, the war on drugs (and drug-users), etc. Marvin Gaye's What's Going On - i wish i could post the whole album) made a huge impact on my life as it sifted through my head, the face of war, the mothers and fathers, the sons and brothers. George Michael's Mother's Pride was originally presented to me by another cadet as simply a prisoner of war song, but i eventually listened to it enough to realize that it's quite anti-war "all the husbands, all the sons, all the lovers gone, they make no difference, no difference in the end." Glen Miller's When Johnny Comes Marching Home and the folk song, I'm on the Battlefield for my Lord exemplify the eerie ideas I heard when i was younger, the glorification of war, the comparison of fundamentalist Christianity with warfare for God which both recognized the dangers of war, but somehow pushed a positive emotion for those willing to fight, die, and mostly, kill the enemy.
1:47 PM
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Salon.com has offered free subscriptions to their news reporting for active duty military members. As much as I'm jealous that I didn't have this opportunity when I was in, I'm proud of them for hoping to combat the one-sided news that most military members hear and read. Of course, i realize fully that not too many members will consider the subscription, if they're even aware of Salon in the first place. However, I wrote this letter of thanks to Salon for the idea:
I was an active duty member of the Air Force from 1998 to 2003, after which I received a conscientious objection discharge. I am pleased to see your latest offering towards active duty military and appreciate the attempt to show an alternative side to politics than what most military members hear. I started reading Salon.com around 2000, when I first started to read online news, and tried to create a perspective on life instead of simply listening to those around me. I can't tell you how much I appreciated the efforts of Salon to write about stories most news sites did not carry, and to do more investigative journalism about important subjects. I read Salon at work predominately, although i constantly feared co-workers or bosses realizing i was reading a left-wing publication. It's amazing how even a perception of being different than those around you leads to trouble. I also dealt with being gay and trying to hide that, but the two seemed to go hand-in-hand. I feared people would think I was gay because I was liberal and vice versa (the stress from my fears of being caught led to minor paranoia). Nevertheless, I knew that I needed to read other voices than those presented to me and still remain dedicated to reading Salon as well as many other sources of journalism.
I of course have complicated feelings over my friends who remain in the military, but i am always glad to see military people open to alternative perspectives and attempts to fully understand America and the consequences of our actions. Thank you for being a part of my life, and for your push to be more available to those who most need to understand the ramifications of our new empire.
7:20 PM
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
I've noticed the furor of negative news about gays and lesbians i read while working for Queerday.com has brought me down a bit. It's utterly amazing the number of vocal people out there ready to spew such condemnation towards us. I'm used to hearing it from my family, but I guess it was nice to be generally ignored in the news. Now, we're everywhere, people looking at us, our families, our decisions, and doing their best to tear us down. Granted, there are positive voices out there, too, and i find plenty of positive comments and news to report on. But wow, I had no idea how strongly people have aligned against us.
I'm hoping this is just the backlash, and soon enough, it will drown itself out. But i don't know. the votes are still close right now. I can't anticipate what's going to happen. I just know that right now, the voices against us are so awfully loud, well-funded, and prepared. Are we as prepared?
11:52 AM
Friday, May 21, 2004
more abuse, more trouble, more revelations of how much damage we've done to the world. it's winter in America and where's our Gil-Scott Heron? Michael Moore seems to be more interested in himself. i don't know.
it's time agan for the Slam poetry competitions. St Louis is actually hosting the national Slam competition this year. i've been asked to judge for the St Louis Grand Slam where we'll pick the competitors at nationals. of course, that's only if i don't want to compete. do i want to compete? not really, but why am i writing something in preparation then? i dunno. it's a good impetus to write, no matter what, so i'm not arguing with it. maybe i'll share it when i finish. regardless, it was nice to be asked to compete and or judge, assuming that he meant i knew what i was doing. i don't really think so, but he must.
6:06 PM
Monday, May 17, 2004
Marriage!
10:23 AM
Thursday, May 13, 2004
be your best friend. i want to, because i've been my own best friend for too long. and although i have done everything with myself, i don't enjoy giving to myself anymore; i'm just not worthy.
but you may be. we all deserve more and less than what we get, but i don't have to subscribe to that. I can give you what i want, what i have, because i have it to give.
i have music and writing, thoughts, smells, and muscles, toys and spirit and books and fresh homemade cooking. i have paper and ink, pillows and sheets, bike rides and walks in the neighborhood.
i have had all these things for so long, but i have been jealous of them, giving them to myself, saying all of you may not appreciate it while simultaneously saying i don't have enough to give.
oh, i'm crazy, you'll have a good time with me. i'll take you dancing and make you sing along; i'll paint your shoes and show you secret trees; i'll introduce you to the world that has so fascinated me.
this is how i will love, not with assurance but confidence that what i have is enough, and what you have is enough. your best friend, wagging my tail because i am with you.
1:03 AM
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
I'm sinking in the quicksand of my thoughts
And I ain't got the power anymore.
I saw david bowie tonight. he reminded of all the amazing ideas of his that have played through my head over the past ten years. the changes, the kooks, the sound and vision, the fashion and space oddity, the pressure I've been under, being so afraid of americans. After hearing his voice so often, singing along with its quirks and strangeness, how even weirder to see him live, singing on the stage in front of me. there are few artists i respect more than him. how does someone as weird as him get to be so popular? that's rare; he's such a gift to the world.
but the above lyrics have all too well represented the last year. I can't say why, but i've certainly been drowning in my thoughts, not because i have so many troubles, but because i can't get my eyes off the troubles in the world, that aren't my problem. because i can't seem to let things go and enjoy myself like i used to. i used to have that power. but i can get it back, right? i don't have to feel so lost? i found answers in the past. there must be more waiting for me, if i just keep looking.
11:42 PM
Saturday, May 08, 2004
Ok, I understand something better now - i was a bit surprised earlier at how Rumsfield and Bush were being blamed for the torture going on in Iraq. After reading up on it, apparently, the Int'l Red Cross has warned the U.S. for almost a year now that the soldiers were committing abuses both in Afghanistan and Iraq. Furthermore, a report was sent to Rumsfield in February about the abuses, upon which he has done nothing. More and more people are saying that the abuses are much more widespread than people think now. Military intelligence actually told some of the soldiers to deprecate the Iraqis.
i would still say that this is the logical effect of war. Every war has its share of abuse, no matter which one you look at. We should know as humans who study history that when we declare war on someone else, some of our soldiers, maybe even a great many, are going to abuse and torture the ones they deem their enemy. As if the bombing weren't itself abuse and torture.
8:54 PM
My mother left today, and I'm glad things went so well. Of course, i avoided saying so many things, and I'm left wondering if that was right. Do I value my friendship with my mother so much that I should keep quiet at every instance? How many times did I hold my tongue when she brought up politics, how much she acts like her own insensitive mother, that I help out with a gay and lesbian news website? With anyone else, i would have been ashamed of myself for keeping so quiet. With my mother, i know it would have made her trip so difficult for the both of us . . . was it worth it?
As i said, last year, i brought up the difficult issues for the first time in my life - yes, seriously, the first time in my life. we don't talk about difficult issues. my mother still has not dealt with the deaths of her sister and brother over twenty years ago. we leave those things behind and pretend we don't have to talk to them. Well, they do. I don't do that so much, but around them, yeah, I do. if i do, my mother stops talking to me. When i told her i had an article in the local newspaper about being gay in the military, she said she wouldn't read it and was quiet for about ten minutes.
if I were braver, would i bring these things up all the time? Or am I being smart and compassionate? Am I sacrificing myself in a good way, for the benefit of our friendship? Or am I just bowing to her power over me?
I don't know. I'm glad she came up here, and I want to keep seeing her, even if it's tough, even if I don't know how to behave. but I just don't know what's right.
8:01 PM
Thursday, May 06, 2004
My mother will be here in about six hours. I'm starting to get nervous. I'm fairly confident it will be a pretty easy visit. We'll see parts of St Louis, maybe see a play, walk around and enjoy each other's company. But there's always so much that's not being said. See, my mother's love is conditional. She loves me, so long as I'm not gay in her face. She loves me, so long as I don't speak out against war and killing.
So she probably loves me even during those times, when she can't agree with me. at least, she says so. But what matters more, her words or her actions? When it's obvious she hasn't stayed in any of my apartments since I've come out - instead gets a hotel - it's a slap in the face. Like i'm diseased. Her inability to see anybody else's side, her decision to look at the world in right versus wrong, makes me scared of her. Should I be scared? no, I wish i could say I don't care what she thinks, or create some distance there where I can care what she thinks but not to the point that I am frightened of her disapproval.
I'll show her the things that I like to do; she'll like some of them in spite of herself. she's the kind who will watch you cook, with a dirty look on your face saying, what are you cooking? you're adding that? ewww! and then, when she tastes it, will like it, and compliment you. so you have to endure the rudeness to get anything good from her. She'll hate my hair but she'll like the rhubarb pie i'll bake for her. I'm running through a list of good and bad things, parts of me she'll like and parts she'll dislike, hoping that in total i'll be in the good category again.
Four years ago, almost to the day, my dad found out I was gay, by looking through my desk drawers and finding bar notes with guy's numbers on them. We didn't talk for a year afterwards, my mother and I, not for a few months, but probably only about four or five times the whole year. She didn't invite me to see her for Christmas that year, for the first time ever. I can't tell you how much all that still hurts.
Last year, I started to talk to her, to finally approach her about leaving the Air Force, about being gay, things we had avoided saying for years. We talked three different times about it. I visited and helped out twice last year when she had surgery. I'm trying so hard.
She'll be here in less than six hours. this time i won't bring up the hard stuff. we'll just try to enjoy spring and each other, as much as we can. can we? How do you soften a Mother's heart?
12:00 PM
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