Man Harem Inductee #6; 9th Annual Equality Utah Allies Dinner

Dustin Lance Black

This one has been on the docket for a while.  Most of the crushes I’ve shared have been fairly superficial.  This one—at the risk of sounding creepy—goes deeper. 

Since I am a writer (or rather an aspiring one) it’s very easy to get emotionally involved with great writers from a distance—particularly the handsome, strong, activist-types. It’s also important to acknowledge the idea of hero worship here.  His writing is as constructive and powerful as I hope mine will be someday. 

Considering he’s nine years older, I think that' is a genuine possibility.  His work on Big Love and Milk have pushed my writing in some directions I wasn’t really willing to consider years ago with regards to scale and subject matter, so I’ll give him some credit there.  (These projects include some work on the lives of two of the greatest MoHos of all time).

It’s not all about the writing, though.  I’ve overcome a lot in my life with regards to being shy and putting up barriers—barriers that have kept me from being as open (or “out”) as I’d genuinely like to be.  Last night I found another piece of encouragement along those lines.  It’s not often a man harem pick gives a call to action, and let me tell you something: a cute guy encouraging you to be a happier, healthier person making a difference in the life of others is hot.

I did get a chance to introduce myself—knees shaking—and say to him last night at the Equality Utah Allies Dinner, “I’m a real fan of your writing.” He joked that my hair made him feel short and we took a picture.  (Expect to see that soon, FB friends). 

***

To end, though, I’ll share some highlights from the meeting (some very inspirational topics which Dustin Lance Black and so many other great women stand for):

The night was a collision of sorts for me.  So many worlds, groups, and experiences comingling to form a night of  motivation.  Everyone I spoke to left with the drive to make a difference and prove ourselves as the good and loving people we are.  People will think what they will, but actions speak louder than any words including those of supposed biblical condemnation.

Not long ago, I had the pleasure of meeting and sitting down to dinner with Gary & Millie Watts, proponents of Family Fellowship.  That experience was wonderful in its simplicity and the significance of breaking bread with one’s neighbors and family. 

Last night they shared some kind words and family experiences that provide the hope so many of us need.  Probably the most touching moment of the night was hearing the words of their son in a letter from 1997.  Recently excommunicated, he said to his parents, “Thank you for not leaving me out” as he reflected on the tears of his mother—not tears of disappointment over some construct of worthiness but tears of frustration for her son being turned away.

They have come a long way from thinking their son was the only homosexual to making their son’s life and the lives of thousands of other LGBT individuals “a path of love, honesty, and friends—a family path.”  

The theme of family permeated the night as the next pair of award recipients, Jane & Tami Marquardt, pointed out a very interesting and incredibly loving aspect of their lives (one I think should be shared by all).  “We have two families: our family of origin and our family of choice.”

I left very thankful for those words in particular.  So much is given to us at our birth, but regardless of our circumstances, we bring the best people close to us to preserve each other and to commune with them. 

This is what so many organizations concerned with protecting families have wrong.  While we many times accuse them of espousing hate, their real and true crime is destroying love—destroying love that inspires us to leave messages daily for our same-sex partner like “Hey gorgeous.  How’s your day going?”, love that inspires us to serve our communities, and love that transcends labels like “sinner,” love inspiring us to do more than tolerate or accept difference.

Dustin Lance Black’s keynote speech was particularly inspiring.  So often, activism comes off as in-your-face or counter-revolutionary.  In many ways it’s made several people I know cautious of being visible—the ones who’d rather not be associated with shouting matches and shutting down traffic.  Activism has also taken on forms of violence and passive resistance, but none of these images have really fit my vision of who I am. 

After sharing his story (realizing his homosexuality early on in a conservative religion and state later saving himself from self-hate and powerlessness through the redemptive words of Harvey Milk), Black presented a different vision of activism placing emphasis on visibility.

“It is time for every single on e of you to come out,” he declared.  “Think outreach.  Go out there and do good.  Put on your rainbow flags and buttons and make sure people know who you are,” he said.  That, more than anything else, will change the hearts and minds of the people. 

“Visibility is the challenge of this movement.  People fear what is unknown and different,” he said, offering his solution.  “This is why it is imperative we pass all-inclusive anti-discrimination protections in housing and employment.  There are more progressive places that don’t have these protections, but things are happening here in Utah.

“Some people say ‘As California goes, so goes the nation,’ but if we in Utah can show our country where Utah is going (citing the non-discrimination legislation now protecting 650,000 individuals in Utah) we will show them all,especially those who have dismissed us, and as Utah goes, so will this nation.”

I left proud to be a part of the fight in Utah and ready to commit more to the causes of love, equality, and family.  May we all share such a vision of our present and our future and do the good this world needs to truly embody these principles.

 

Other highlights that didn’t quite make it into this summary:

Jane & Tami Marquardt:
“Love deserves respect”
“Behind every great powerdyke there is often a loving and supportive Barbiedyke.”

Dustin Lance Black:
“It’s interesting coming to Utah sometimes.  Look at all of these clean cut young men growing up with appreciation for musicals and ballroom dancing.  How do you know anybody’s gay?!”
Bouncing off of a narrative line about not having the courage to bear testimony as a kid he bore testimony last night:
“I love who I am, cannot change and wouldn’t change.”
”We are blessed with an outsider’s perspective.” 
“We are an important people.” 

Embarrassing Things That Make Me Cry #5

Juno

I suppose this is partly inspired by the Mexican Supreme Court decision (not a phrase I utter everyday), but I’ve been thinking a lot about kids lately. More and more, I’m of the mindset that adoption should be in the mind of the guy I end up with.

Since I was adopted and I see it as a part of my future, I just thought I’d share some emotionality this week. When I first saw it, I honestly couldn’t stop crying 15 minutes after the movie (something that’s never happened before or since). Here’s an un-spoilery clip, though the ending’s very good:

On Utah LGBT Families

I’m back from a brief hiatus. Being busy with a few projects for Utah Pride and other commitments has left me with a severe time deficiency. That said, it seems there is some good news on the horizon and I’ll let you know when it’s all “official,” though I’ll leave out many details if and when that comes to pass.

Today, I’m back for a very special reason and that is a blogging holiday. Today is Blogging for LGBT Families Day and I’d just like to share my thoughts on the subject. In my mind, LGBT Families evolved from an impossibility years ago to an invisible reality.

A professor, unaware of my sexuality, expressed her concern for some friends she met over a decade ago: “Our oldest, Harry, was in the hospital again. The cancer had come back for the second time and he was losing. In the next room was a little girl 5 years younger fighting the same disease. I found an instant friend in Melody. We were going through this together, and although this was the 3^rd time for me, we were instantly bound together emotionally. Our third day there, my husband stopped by with lunch for both of us. Innocently inquiring about her family, she revealed that she was a lesbian and that her partner, Telly, wasn’t allowed to visit.”

“The pain that I felt in that moment shot into every part of my heart—not only those chambers reserved for personal pain, but also for social injustice and pure empathy. My love for my husband and son was no different to hers for her partner and daughter and I had no idea how to express that other than wailing an angry, impassioned plea to the director of the hospital. Through the veil of tears over my eyes, I only recall the stonewall demeanor of the director looking across from me at his desk, elbows on the sides of his chair, hands held together as his wrists rubbed against one another and he said in positively unemotional tone, ‘There’s nothing I can do for Miss Grant and Miss Siporin.’

“The next week was spent in the agony of my life. I sat attentively—as composed as possible—in the hospital as I cared for my son’s every need only to return home every night in total agony of the world I lived in. Their Rose and our Harry both passed away that week. I was powerless in every sense of the word.

“Our friendship with Melody and Telly continued and we see each other about once a year around the anniversary of Harry’s death. The only way for me to continue was to love my other children and accept Melody and Telly as the sisters and mothers they are.”

I wasn’t expecting that at all. I’d grown up Mormon and attended LDS Seminary with her daughter. Her husband was running for state office and I realized that what she wanted for her friends and sisters was what I wanted for myself. A few months later, I met someone who’d show me first hand that it was possible.

Conference Memory

For those of you who don’t know. Every first weekend of April and October, a worldwide conference takes place for the members of the LDS Church. It’s broadcast from the Conference Center in downtown Salt Lake City to church buildings around the world in dozens of languages.

Well, when I was 17 and my little brother Darin was twelve, we went to the Priesthood Session in the Conference Center. It was pretty exciting since the building holds 20,000 people. This was the closest experience I’d had to an airport.

We stood in long lines with our father and then made our way through metal detectors as our tickets were scanned. Entering the building put us all in a state of awe. The interior of white walls and pillars and marbled floors was a lot to take in at that age; however, once we got into the open air portion, I was even more astonished.

I was at an age where the craft behind art and architecture was beginning to make sense. It was a lot to take in, but since we had time (a good half hour before the conference was to start), I told my father I was going to look at the rest of the building. My brother came along and we made our way up to the top floor taking in the view, the art hanging on the walls, and the swarm of men in white shirts and ties to which we matched perfectly. We made our way to the elevator to go down a floor.

“This is pretty cool,” I said, pushing the button to go down a floor.

“It’s just different to be here in person,” Darin marveled.

As the doors opened, we didn’t find the marbled floors or the excellent views we’d expected, but rather a monotone gray parking garage. Had we wanted to see the apostles cars, we were probably in the right place; however, it was almost time for us to make our way back.

We hopped back in the elevator and hit the button for our floor. Once it opened up, we realized we were in somewhat of a pickle. We had to go through security again.

“Have your ticket?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“We’re getting in line, then,” I instructed as we stepped in front of two men who could be our grandfathers.

As we approached the checkpoint, I worried about what might happen as we went through a second time. Would our tickets give us away? Would we be turned away?

I did my best to make a good impression with the elderly guard. “How’s the day been?” “You must meet a lot of interesting people.” Etc.

I made it through just fine and as I started walking a little faster, I heard a buzzing sound behind me. A red light flashed in the corner of my eye. Apparently, my brother’s ticket had tripped some check in the system. I couldn’t come back to my dad brotherless, so I asked the guard, “What’s wrong?”

“This stupid machine says your brother’s ticket was already scanned. It keeps misreading. Run on in before it starts.”

And with that we breathlessly made our way back just in time to take our seats.

Up in the Air

The Wanderings and Delusions of a Gay Mormon Missionary

A perfect combination of anxiety and aspiration fill an airport. Only so many places inspire such a range of emotions and pull together people from so many different walks of life.

Living in Utah my entire life (and having traveled only to half of the bordering states), I wasn’t sure what to expect. Moments earlier, I said the last goodbyes to my parents. They seemed less concerned than I’d expected to see their middle son jetting off to some other continent.

I would soon become the first to leave the country and the first to speak another tongue—only the earliest of many.

The goodbyes were somewhat different from what I’d expected. We stood there for a few moments looking at each other. It had all run though our minds multiple times. Father was supposed to offer his patriarchal words of wisdom. Mother was supposed to be in tears by the time he concluded with a resounding “We love you and we’re so proud of you.” My brothers were supposed to say “We miss you.” and “We look up to you.” I was supposed courageously make my way to the plane and confidently disappear into the crowded terminal.

We were never the cookie-cutter family. Mother and father had gone through this before a decade earlier, and my brothers were visibly ready for lunch at some nice restaurant on the way home from the airport. That said, it was tender in it’s own right.

“Are you ready?” my father asked.

“I’ve had 19 years to prepare, Dad. I’m ready.”

“Okay then. Have you got your ticket? Your passport? Instructions?”

“They’re all right here in the pouch, Mom.”

“Alright,” she said, “give everybody a hug and we’ll let you go.”

They lined up for their hugs.

“It’s not as hard as you think,” Allen assured me.

“You’ll have fun,” Darin, then 14, told me.

“We’ll miss ya,” Father said as doubt started to enter my heart as to whether this was really happening.

It was.

Mother’s direct “We love you” proved to be the seal on the envelope of reality.

“I love you, too”—words I’ve only uttered two other times in my life. Then, I shuffled my way off with a comic amount of luggage over my shoulders. Making my way through the labyrinthine security lines, I paused and thought just how crazy this all was.

Those goodbyes would last me two years. How could I compare that to half of high school or the time I’d spent my friendship with Bronson and Arthur. I thought of it in terms of loss rather than gain: I could have a nephew that talks by the time I get back. Everything will be so different.

It was done now. There was no turning back. What sense was there in wasting a ticket to Brazil. Intuitively, I knew I was strong enough for what lay ahead of me, but doubt always played in my thought. The best thing for me to do at that time was make my way to the gate and sit down.

Approaching the gate, I realized there was already another missionary there. Perhaps a future companion? Someone I’d spend my days reminiscing with years later? Maybe he’s going somewhere else?

Without hesitation, I introduced myself. He’s got to be feeling the same thing, I thought. “Hi there. I’m Elder GMB.”

“Hi, I’m Nate,” he said. He didn’t seem nearly as afraid as I did. It was as if he wasn’t feeling the pressure at all. He was along for the ride. I puzzled over that Did he seriously just say Nate? as I examined his nametag labeled “Elder Rockefeller.” I neurotically wondered, Is that even allowed?

"Press Forward"

A Gay Mormon Missionary Story: August 2004

To think that in four months, I’d be in another country learning another language was mind boggling. That’s just how those months were spent after receiving a missionary call to spend two years as a Mormon missionary in Brazil.

It wasn’t exactly customary to wait four months to leave for missionary training, but I made the most of that wait. I continued to work full-time as one-by-one I watched my guy friends disappear around me as they went on missions around the world. It was somewhat difficult to watch Cole, Nate, Payton, and Bronson all go off to different corners of the globe and be left behind.

In that time, I spent a bit more time with Emily, Jacqueline, Glenda, and Jeannie. Those days were spent going to the movies, hanging out, playing board games, and living out life as we had in high school. As I look back, it’s apparent we were all bracing ourselves for that leap over that canyon of awkwardness into adult life.

Every interaction with them and with my family was asterisked with the thought I won’t see any of these people for two years. What will time bring to us?

When the day finally came for me to say my goodbyes and address my congregation. Family and friends gathered for this one final and ceremonious pre-mission event. As is customary, I spoke in church about the adventure ahead of me.

“The topic is service,” by Bishop told me over the phone weeks before the big day. “Do you think you’ll have any problem speaking about that?”

“Not at all.” How could you turn down such a benign, agreeable topic?

Looking out from the podium that morning was a survey of my life I’ll never relive. An audience populated with Sunday and elementary school teachers, relatives who have since passed away, and friends who are now thousands of miles away living out their dreams. Whether there out of friendship, love, or familial obligation, their faces all gleamed with support as I went through this rite of passage.

I hesitated for a moment, tapping the microphone and removing my thick glasses smeared and stained by my acned face. In those days (perhaps my shyest and most innocent), it was difficult to look even the people I most cared for in the eyes, so I elected to blur their faces to make the process easier.

“Brothers and Sisters—

“Thank you for your time today. I’ve been asked to speak about service today and I’d like to start with the words of prophet and King Benjamin who offered a sermon to his kingdom in Mosiah Chapter 2:

“ ‘16 Behold, I say unto you that because I said unto you that I had spent my days in your service, I do not desire to boast, for I have only been in the service of God.

“ ‘17 And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.’

“We’ve all heard these words and in some cases memorized them, but really, how do we show love and concern for each other? We must focus on what connects us all. We are all equals—brothers and sisters as I addressed you at the beginning of this talk. Does this not mean that we must treat others as we’d like to be treated?

“For this reason, we must focus on that connection and understand one another as we are all tied together by one creator much as Benjamin bound his people together.

“ ‘18 Behold, ye have called me your king; and if I, whom ye call your king, do labor to serve you, then ought not ye to labor to serve one another?

“ ‘19 And behold also, if I, whom ye call your king, who has spent his days in your service, and yet has been in the service of God, do merit any thanks from you, O how you ought to thank your heavenly King!

“ ‘20 I say unto you, my brethren, that if you should render all the thanks and praise which your whole soul has power to possess, to that God who has created you, and has kept and preserved you, and has caused that ye should rejoice, and has granted that ye should live in peace one with another—’ ”

I weaved in accounts of service from my friends eagle scout projects, the patient guidance of my parents, and the examples of my ancestors before one last scripture and turning to the future in front of me:

“ ‘21 I say unto you that if ye should serve him who has created you from the beginning, and is preserving you from day to day, by lending you breath, that ye may live and move and do according to your own will, and even supporting you from one moment to another—I say, if ye should serve him with all your whole souls yet ye would be unprofitable servants.’

“Essentially, if we are to serve others, we are to serve God and prepare ourselves,” I said in the most honest and humble, pressing through my insecurities. “I can think of no better way at this point in my life than to serve. There is plenty wrong in the world and I’m certain that I can make a difference in Brazil. That said, I think that I’ll have more to gain and learn from this experience than I could ever comprehend.”

I closed and put my glasses back on to examine those gleaming faces as they offered a reverent, resounding “Amen” in near unison. This was quickly followed by the hymn “Called to Serve”(#249):

Called to serve Him,
Heavenly King of glory,
Chosen e'er to witness for His name.
Far and wide, we tell the Father's story
Far and wide, His love proclaim.

Onward, ever onward, as we glory in His name;
Onward, ever onward, as we glory in His name;
Forward, pressing forward, as a triumph song we sing.
God our strength will be; Press forward ever
Called to serve our King!

Moments later, we gathered at my parents house. Every culture has its feasts and in Mormon culture mission farewells are one of those occasions. Everyone was there—from my grandparents to the newest of my cousins and my dearest female friends—enjoying a picnic in my backyard.

This is how I would leave them and remember them for the next two years—eating, laughing, and reminiscing.

I’m Not That Boy, Part 5

Now back to the series in progress.

Counterpoint

Stuck.

Stuck in this situation with Anderson.

Stuck in a series of go nowhere romances.

Stuck in this parking lot.

“Why won’t you start?!” I shouted at my car. Lights would go on and make a sputtering sound. The stereo would play. But no matter what I did the engine wouldn’t turn over.

There was no getting around it. I had a reception and another date lined up for the night. “Anderson!” I shouted, leaping out of the car and calling for help as he walked away, completely unaware that this would be the uncomfortable end of our final date.

“I can’t get it to start either,” he said.

“Go figure. Gay boys not being able to figure out a car….”

He laughed. I tried to be as light about the situation and moved on to Plan B.

Spotting a mall security guard patrolling the lot, I walked over to her SUV. “What are you doing in this cold?” she asked.

“I’m stuck and I don’t suppose you could give me a jump.”

“That’s actually not a possibility,” she said. “I can only do that if you buy jumper cables at the hardware store in the mall.”

“Seriously?” I asked as Anderson approached.

“Seriously.”

“My mom’s on her way with jumper cables,” Anderson cut in before I could get angry.

He took my arm and we walked back to his car. Before long, his mother was there, asked no questions, and helped me out. I said thank you and went on my way, giving Anderson one final hug and saying my goodbye.

At the reception, I cooled off and de-stressed a bit. It was the first marriage in years and someone younger than me. The natural procession of thought at weddings goes to who’s next. It’s even built into the rights of bouquet-throwing and garter-tossing. A half-dozen times family members asked me about my status, receiving only a discreet “nobody special” or “the right one hasn’t come along” and truthfully he hadn’t.

At one point, the bride’s sister cornered me and asked if I’d be interested in three particular girls who had all asked about my status.

“They’re from here, right?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, long distance has never worked for me, so I don’t think so.”

Finally, as the night winded down, I went on to another date. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Two dates. Two guys. One night. One slight twang of guilt.

“Where are you?” Derek texted as I was leaving.

“I’m on my way. Hopefully, I’ll find it.”

We met just outside his security job.

“Come upstairs when you get here and bring your change of clothes.”

He was in every way Anderson’s opposite although they shared their enduring interest in theatre. Derek was strong, intelligent, experienced, and organized. He always had a plan and direction.

“This is going to be the best birthday ever,” he said from the other side of the door as I changed. “It’s not every day you can turn 24 in the club.”

I wasn’t sure what to think. I liked the adventure and the story. It had been six months since my last club experience and I thought it was time to give it a chance again, especially as he was different from any other guy I’d been out with who had all disappointed me in some way or another (with the exception of Ianto).

After a quick visit to a Mormon friend who seemed to approve of me and my innocence, we went directly to the club. Discussion consisted mostly of how I felt about the night and what I didn’t want to happen.

“I don’t drink or smoke and sex is out of the question.”

“And kissing? Is kissing out of the question? It is a first date, after all.”

I blushed a little. “ That’s not out of the question.”

Upon arrival in the subzero temperatures, we rushed to the door and made our way in. The bar itself the size of the entire club I’d been to in Canada. I wasn’t sure if I was prepared for what was on the other side.

“This. Is. Club. Sound!” Derek proclaimed. “Can I get you anything to drink? Just kidding.”

As he grabbed a drink, I looked around. I saw guys dressed in nothing but their underwear parading around for compliments (and perhaps more). At the pool tables, there were guys playing the part of chic in their deliberate approach to dressing themselves with the latest styles. And finally there were guys who came off 100% normal—those guys you’d see at school or at a church activity in jeans and a T-shirt and never suspect of being gay. This was a place to leave all of that behind for a moment—the solitude of quietly fitting in—to fit in somewhere else and somehow acknowledge the wholeness of one’s identity.

On the balcony, Derek sipped on his drink as my eyes examined my surroundings and we superficially discussed the experience. The flashing lights and pounding music were not as intimidating as the last time and the guys seemed to share so much more with me. I was not the only Gay Mormon Boy there and could not have been the only one facing the issues that I was facing.

“Are you liking it?”

“It’s different and interesting.”

“Pretty soon you’ll be here every week like me.”

“We’ll see about that. I hope I don’t get a panic attack on the dance floor.”

“I’ll watch out for you. Everyone here will be watching out for you. They like the hot ones.”

Moments later we were on the dance floor. It had been years since I’d danced. Nearly five years to the day with Chastity, my date to the Junior Prom. I had no idea what to do. How to move or what to move to the rhythm.

“Loosen up,” Derek teased. “It’s much easier than you think. Just move to the rhythm.” And with that, he wrapped the arms of his 6’3” frame around me and forced me into the rhythm. I calmed down.

I stopped thinking and started feeling. Nothing was going to hurt me. Nothing could go wrong. I was beginning to enjoy the remixes of Britney and Beyonce as well as the lights and even the humid atmosphere of the crowd.

Derek went in for a kiss and I contently accepted as my heart pounded along to the music.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket. My heart sank as I read a text from Anderson (unaware that I was on a date with Derek): “Save a dance for me. You didn’t mention you’d be clubbing tonight. I’ll be back in a bit. I had to drop some friends off.”

End, Part 5

The Wanderings and Delusions of a Gay Mormon Missionary

Welcome to “Missionary Monday” a new experiment to bring variety and structure to the blog. Each Monday will be devoted to a chronological retelling of my mission. Some of this feature will directly examine homosexuality and much of it will not.

It was never my nature to talk much about my mission because it generally irked me when that’s the only things some returned missionaries had done so.

The Call

The last semester of my Freshman year had ended. My future was entirely in question. I wasn’t certain what I wanted to do with my life by any means. I’d studied English, History, and Biology, but nothing quite seemed to fit. Dating was a mystery. I saw no value in asking a girl out other than to, perhaps, fulfill some cultural/religious obligation (and the idea of asking out a guy was not even a possibility).

I did know two things, however. In a matter of months, 1) I’d be somewhere outside of Utah and 2) I’d be a gospel-preaching, door-knocking, tie-wearing, nametag-bearing Mormon missionary. Months earlier, I’d met with my Bishop and prepared my ‘papers.’

Although it may sound an awful lot like the language used for pedigreed dogs, it’s more like an application. The process entailed a number of interviews, medical exams, the excision of my wisdom teeth, and a lengthy written application followed by a month of waiting for—my call—a response to my quandaries of where I’d be going and if I’d be learning another language in the form of a letter.

One day, sometime in the middle of May, my mother made a frantic, breathless phone call. “GMB, your call… it arrived in the mail this afternoon.”

I was at work and not quite sure what to feel. Part of it was the mystery of a life away from everything I knew for two years (save the gospel). Part of it was the challenge that surely awaited. And finally, part of it was the complete inadequacy I’d felt concerning religion. I didn’t feel the spirit when I was supposed to and logical doubts had loomed over my head for as long as I could remember. In the journal I’d kept at one point, I described myself as “spiritually retarded” for not being able to feel what my peers did.

Still, the need to go on a mission pressed on me whether that be in a cultural or personal sense. For whatever reason, going on a mission seemed to fit and not just because if fit the expectations of my parents. I felt like I could help someone and make a difference in that person’s life even if I didn’t understand or believe, going out into the world, 100% in everything I would be teaching. Feeling right and the possibility that I might improve by the slightest degree a single person’s life was enough for me.

As was tradition in my family, everyone was notified that the call arrived and we all gathered at the family business. My brothers, my mother, my father, his mother, and my sister-in-law gathered around as I opened up the envelope. I thought to myself in an unsure way, Where will I be instead of here?

In all honesty, you’re not supposed care about such things, but I did. In a semi-selfish way, I wanted the experience of learning Spanish. It was useful and Latin America had its appeal. I could come back and communicate with immigrants and maybe even study it to some extent. Always thinking so practically.

“Go ahead and open it. What are you waiting for?” my father protested. The results were underwhelming, but not terribly so:

Elder Gay Mormon Boy,

You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Brazil [excerpted] Mission. It is anticipated that you will serve for a period of 24 months.

…

“Brazil!? What do you think, GMB?”

I wasn’t sure what to say. Brazil? Two years in Brazil?, was all I could really think.

Adventures in Internet Dating, Part 8

The Future in Front of Me

Drake Hatch had a bashful smile and a kick in his step as we approached each other for the first time. I’m sure my own reaction practically mimicked his expression as we drew closer. Our lives, too, mirrored each other in ways more uncanny than I could have imagined.

After a friendly hug and some typical How-was-your-day? conversation, he told a story I’d heard before (for it was my own):

“Suddenly, one day it all clicked. I met a guy—the right guy in the right time and place—and suddenly I didn’t feel broken. It made sense why girls held absolutely no appeal. Before I knew it, I found myself in a relationship and happier than ever because that question had been answered and that void had been filled.”

As in the case of me and Mark, things didn’t work out between him and that first guy after a year-long relationship.

“I’m sorry to hear things didn’t work out,” I said almost in reflex.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It would have worked out if it was supposed to.”

I was impressed that he had that kind of faith that it had a purpose.

As we walked, we seemed to click on so many levels. He had gone through the same experiences and situations at the exact same age that I had. He’d gone on a mission. He’d had the proverbial rug pulled out from under him. Yet he handled himself so well. I hoped that some day I might become like him—satisfied with life and okay with disappointments. He'd figured it out.

As that first date came to an end, we found ourselves frustrated that we didn’t get to talk about everything we wanted to ask each other. I wondered when I’d see him again.

“Why don’t we do this again tomorrow?” he suggested. “Would you be free?”

“I’d love to.”

I could not have been more or spoken more affirmatively

The next day, the conversation started right where it had left off as we told each other stories about our time on campus as we passed particularly important landmarks to our past.

He told me about how his boyfriend would come and find him in the library. He’d somehow pull Drake Hatch into an empty room or under a desk and make out with him, charged with the suspenseful thought that someone might catch them or they might get too loud.

The locale of the fantasy particularly impacted me—a center of knowledge and learning just amplified the sexuality and excitement—a sensation he picked up on instantly, pursing his lips slightly as he chuckled and flashed a flirty grin.

I showed him the amphitheater where I took Mark on our first date. I was aware that it was a make-out point on campus and wanted him to be the first as we sat there watching 30 Rock on my laptop.

Eventually, the discussion turned to a more serious aspect of our lives as we found ourselves sitting on a bench outside the library.

“What’s your family situation like?” I asked curious about what my own future might look like continuing on the path he’d left in his wake.

“You mean am I out to them?”

“Yeah. Are they okay with it?”

“They don’t know.”

“After five years, wouldn’t they know?”

“"I haven’t told them. They’d want me to see someone and go back to church and I don’t want that.”

“What about your brothers? Do they know?”

“Not really. You’re in the same boat, I’m pretty sure.”

“You’re right. I am,” I admitted. I thought for a serious moment if that’s where I wanted to be three years down the road. Trying to lighten the mood, I asked “So what is your relationship like with your brothers? Are you close?”

“We’re close. We’ve done shows together and we all went to school together.” Rather than alluding to why he wasn’t out to them, he simply elaborated more on their relationship before asking me about my family. “So, how’s your brother Darin? I wondered if he was gay, too.”

“Definitely not. Funny you ask about him, though,” I said, “You came up in conversation last night. I asked if he remembered you from camp and he said ‘He’s the gay one, right?’”

Drake Hatch was a little shocked. His face and posture tightened. What I thought was funny genuinely worried him. Returning to lighter topics—the shows he was auditioning for, missions, the supervisor we’d shared, our hometown hangouts—we finally got back the momentum that we’d lost in our difficult talk.

As the time came for us to say goodbye, for him to return to his fast-paced life in Salt Lake and me to my homework, we hugged. “Thanks for hanging out,” I said.

“I’m so glad we did,” he said with that bashful smile he’d started with. Pausing for a moment, he asked, “Would you mind if I kissed you?”

“Not at all.”

And there—alone—in front of the library his lips touched mine softly only to pull away a second later. “Goodbye,” he said as he turned to leave.

“Goodbye,” I echoed in an unabashedly enamored voice, turning the other direction. We went our separate ways in perfect symmetry.

All I could think about for the rest of the day was how wonderful those two days had been for me, and that I wasn’t the only one to figure things out so late in the game.

Unfortunately, that was the end.

From the next day on, all of my texts and messages went unanswered. Drake Hatch had simply disappeared and the future in front of me was crumbling.

End, Part 8.

Adventures in Internet Dating, Part 4

Connections

The other messages were far more promising. Drake, Kevin, and the other Drake were closer to my age and all of their profiles clearly stated “Mormon” under religion. They weren’t afraid of alluding to their background or to their missions.

The first Drake proved himself really down to earth:

Hey there. Your picture popped up on new members and then I realized you were in Utah. I thought I’d say hi. Watch out for the creepers on here, though.

Considering the experience just moments earlier, it was really comforting to read something so pointed, confirming my suspicions not only that there were sketchy characters on the site but also upstanding hero types. I immediately got the impression that he was a guy who’d watch out for me. He was handsome and had an amazing smile with the slightest, most endearing of gaps in his teeth.

I sent back a brief introduction and soon our correspondence developed into significant conversations about our families, about growing up in the church, and about dating. He’d been at this for a while, but knew where I was coming from as he indicated following a lengthy instant message conversation:

You really are brand new. You haven’t had sex. You’ve never even touched a guy. That’s something to respect. You haven’t had time to figure everything out. I’ve met guys in all sorts of situations and you’re really cautious. It’s okay. You’ve got to feel your way through.

His sensibility was frankly a turn on. He wasn’t about to pressure me into anything. I even felt comfortable later with giving him my number a few days later. I thought it might go somewhere.

“You do realize this is the first time I’ve ever given a stranger on Connexion my number, right?”
“I wouldn’t call myself a stranger. You know everything you can for knowing me this long and online.”

That was true. I’d made my first real-world connection with a guy online. It was something simple and early on in our conversations. It was something simple. His brother went to the same university and although I never met him, the fact that I knew his brother’s boss (as we discovered a few lines later) was enough to authenticate the experience in a way.

I was speaking to a real person already connected to me somehow. The cosmic thread that people speak of had somehow connected us in the web of life. One was left to wonder if these ties would draw us closer in the coming weeks.

Through our texting conversations, we told each other about our families. Drake told me all about his brother being the liberal one in the family—the go getter who set his big brother on dates with other guys and recently left for a mission. There was also his sister who lived ten hours away yet remained the bane of his family’s existence.

I opened up a lot about my family. After my mission, I was instantly closer to my little brother, Darin, because we could share clothes and hang out with each others friends. Yet when I’d figured out why he was able to have a charming girlfriend and I found myself consistently uncomfortable in even the most casual of situations with girls, I couldn’t share that with him because of the way he’d treated a friend who came out to him the year before.

“I can see why you’re worried, but things have only gotten better since I came out to my family,” Drake assured me.
“I’m sure, but I’m not ready.”

The conversation stalled there.

We attempted to meet up several times in the month or so that we really kept in touch, but somehow there was always something in our way. I thought it was because we were busy and cities apart. Drake—as we later discussed in a meeting of very unexpected circumstances (to be revealed in a later series)—thought it was because I wasn’t interested. And perhaps there were other reasons. As a result, my priorities shifted, so I wouldn’t miss out again later.

At this moment in my life, however, I was more concerned with being comfortable with a new situation and set of experiences. Sorting through Connexion and the interconnected gay world around me would soon provide a number of lessons in that vein.

End, Part 4.

A (Very) Brief Heterosexual Dating History

Introduction

I don’t suppose many of you remember The Dating Game or Love Connection? Those cheesy game show with the live studio audience and the over-the-top one-liners? Those contestants asking flirtatious questions and describe steamy dates?

This series is dedicated to the six women I went on dates with. It is only now that I understand why things were not meant to work out with any of them. I suppose a lot of us view dating as a hit-and-miss game where we instantly click and move, in proper fashion, onto our happily ever afters.

In reality, though, we learn different lessons from these go-nowhere dates.

Bachelorette #1: Rachel

Height: 5’6”
Hair: Sandy blonde
Eyes: Blue
Talent: Concert piano
Random Fact: Cole pulled on her earlobe in first grade and he scared her so much she didn’t speak to her for eight years.

The Date:

“Would you like to go to the dance next Saturday?”

That’s as abruptly and unexpectedly as my plunge into datedom began. It wasn’t me asking the question, but rather Rachel. Perhaps the most timid person I’ve met in my life was asking me out.

It was in the hall after the last class of the day, which we had together. We put up our chairs and turned off our keyboards as the bell rang, dismissing us from Music Theory. It was my senior year of high school and dating was the last thing on my mind.

I suppose I thought it might be fun, but it seemed like more effort than it was worth. (The irony now haunts me). Rachel, Cole’s piano rival, really caught me off guard. I’d managed to go halfway through my senior year without going on a single date and here I was about to bring an end to that streak—one which I was almost proud of.

Rachel’s timid nature (much like my own at the time) was a force I could not overcome. Cliché as it might sound, she really did have puppy dog eyes and I couldn’t really so no to her.

“Sure,” I said with a little uncertainty clanging around in my throat.

She explained the details. The group we’d be going with, the pre-date and post-date plans, and we were set.

Spotting the unintended ambush, my best friend at the time, Nate, straggled a bit to talk to me afterwards. “So you’re going to Sadie Hawkins with Rachel, eh?”

“Yeah. I’m not really sure what that means, but I’m sure it will be fun.”

“Don’t be worried,” he reassured me. “Really. Getting asked out makes things so much easier. You don’t have to plan. You don’t have to stress. You’ve just got to enjoy the ride and say thank you a lot.”

My father offered similar advice:

“Have a great time. Don’t stress. I know you won’t get into any trouble.”

At 5 pm sharp, she arrived at my doorstep. I stepped out in my first tux ever with a turquoise bow tie and greeted her. Timid as field mice, whenever our skin touched or our eyes would make contact, we immediately jerked away. There on my doorstep, she nervously pinned on my cream-colored carnation boutonniere.

Following a potluck dinner with fifteen other couples, we went to the dance. I was so nervous. The ritual of taking pictures, dancing, and possibly kissing seemed so foreign.

Pictures were a breeze. We lined up, coupled up, looked at the camera and smiled. It was as simple as that.

Breathe! I told myself. What if she likes me? What am I supposed to do then? This is not anything to worry about.

But it was. I hadn’t danced since the stake production of The Music Man in 6th grade. I didn’t know any of the music being played. I didn’t really understand how anybody could enjoy this kind of experience.

She was patient. She’d been through this ritual a few times and understood why I might be nervous.

“This is my first time,” I explained.

She reassured me (like so many others), “It’s nothing to worry about. It just takes a little practice.”

She put my hands on her waist and on her shoulder and instructed me in the basic step and the box step. We stuck with that most of the night. Still, I managed to step on her feet multiple times per dance.

It was interesting to see her so confident in my presence, making her the most reassuring teacher I could have had that first attempt at a date. My neuroses kept me from conceiving the night as anything more than a disastrous experiment.

As our night came to an end and we found ourselves on my porch, I was pleased to find that (contrary to the expectations instilled in me by movies and television) a goodnight kiss was not expected, and a simple hug between friends sealed the night as an overall positive experience.

The next morning, before church, my parents asked how the night went and I told them it was fun.

“Why don’t you ask out Rachel, then? Sort of return the favor,” my father said.

“I don’t think so. I don’t want anything serious.”

The Lesson: The only way to learn is facing uncertainty head on.

End, Part 1

The S Word, Part 3

Moving Past the “Why?”

Dwelling on this “Why?” Question in regards to suicide can lead to blame, anger, and further destruction, so we must move on to more constructive thinking. Whenever I work with students on their writing, one of the biggest hurdles they face is answering the “So What?” Question—the purpose of the discussion.

In writing this series, the question “Why is it important to understand why someone would commit suicide?” is implied. The answer is that an empowering WE CAN make a difference in someone’s life if we’re prepared (and, of course, they accept the help we offer).

Both Tanner and Craig felt that they would be better off without the world and perhaps that the world might be better off without them. The most logical ways to prevent a suicide is to make sure that everyone, especially those at greater risk, 1) feel like their existence is somehow appreciated and 2) that their problems are manageable if not surmountable.

One Brief Glimpse

It’s not often that I bring up events of the present but I think it’s important in this case to assess how I handled a related situation.

“So… I hear you warned Stuart about me?”

A chat bubble had appeared unexpectedly. It was a GMB I’d met once and found unstable. I had indeed warned my friend about this instability and some unsafe behavior.

“So…why do all of you guys cover your asses instead of letting people make opinions for themselves?”

I explained to him why I’d said what he had and felt completely justified. “You weren’t being safe and I was watching out for him.”

“Well, maybe you should have seen it as a cry for help rather than a chance to gossip. It’s people like you who make me want to kill myself.”

I stopped there for a moment. In part it was a reaction in the vein of You did not just say that!, but clearly he had and was not joking. I thought I’d done the right thing, yet I’d effectively hurt someone enough for suicide to be an issue?

“You want to kill yourself sometimes? Have you talked to someone about it? Does your family know?” I responded with a barrage of questions.

He assured me he was seeing an LDS Family Services therapist and that he was doing better. I offered him the number of the therapist on campus (who I’d never went to following a traumatic flashback to my mission).

“My family knows, but they don’t do anything,” he said bitterly. “You of all people should know what I’m going through, but you just act like you’re perfect.”

“I’m not. No one is.”

“You should have been there for me. That behavior was a cry for help. You should have called me on it, but you just let it all happen,” he jabbed as I wondered how much I was to blame for any of this.

I don’t think that either of us was 100% culpable. That said, I’ve assessed the situation and drawn the following conculsions:

Good:
Showing concern
Asking what help he’d received and who knew

Bad:
Not calling him on dangerous behavior
Not taking advantage of resources for my own mental health

So here’s the plan of action:
I’ll check up on him regularly. have long talks about the Gay Mormon Dilemma, share my experiences with depression, call him on risky behavior, and most importantly be his friend.

Remember:

This is a real problem with real lives at stake. In the past six months I’ve heard numerous stories from Gay Mormon Boys upset at the lives they can and cannot live:

• A missionary telling himself that he’d rather jump in front of a bus than spend one more day in the mission.
• Beloved Boyd who attempted to kill himself to escape the choice between sexuality and religion.
• Two students at the Y admitting to continual repression of suicidal thought and behavior as they repress sexual tendencies.
• A friend disappointed that his sexuality was not fixed by prayer and a mission attempting suicide weeks before his scheduled return date.
• (for related discussion, follow this link).

There are resources out there for those contemplating suicide and those who are trying to help someone avoid that decision:

• Free counseling on many college campuses.
• The National Suicide Prevention Hotline
• The Trevor Project
• Continual love and support of friends and family

End of series.

The S Word, Part 2

Making Sense of the Senseless

Recently, I’ve decided that two key factors kept me from fathoming why someone would commit suicide.

The first is that I simply didn’t understand life. While I had gone out teaching about life and the Plan of Happiness for two years, I knew deep down that I really didn’t grasp some very important aspects like how I was going to get married and have a family when sex and intimacy seemed completely unappealing.

Upon meeting Grey and forming a relationship with Mark, life itself became understandable. I was different and there was a reason for so many awkward situations and conversations that had come to pass.

The second factor was branching out and meeting people that were not part of Utah’s bubble world. This was easy as a college student. International, intellectual, and GLBT friends showed me that there really are more questions than answers in this life. No one can profess to completely understand another person.

I’ve learned about suicide and abuse from people who have faced it first-hand, and realized that these problems are so prevalent in society through movies and works of literature such as Prayers for Bobby, Latter Days, and Facing East.

Essentially, we are put in a state of cognitive dissonance. Part of us is aligned with Church teachings while the other half stands (whether it be in action or existence) in opposition to that ideal. We all have different methods of resolving this conflict (as I discussed in Walking the Fence) and unsafe behaviors such as suicide result because they seem like the best option.

Another Death in the Family

It was Saturday night and one of my last nights at my parents’ house before moving out. The phone rang.

“Hi, grandma. How are you?”

“I’m good. Is your father home?”

“He’s at a court of honor. Might I give him a message?”

“Tell him Craig’s shot himself and to come over as soon as he can.”

Grandma was always one for keeping her cool. The worry and grief in her voice were imperceptible.

I sent my father on his way, shocked that another cousin, seemingly a happy family man with a wife and two-week old daughter, would take his own life. The family had gathered at her house to grieve.

Four days later, we sat at the funeral. I will never forget the words of Tanner and Craig’s fathers. Both of them described in uncomfortable detail an uneasy trek up stairs to learn about their respective sons’ last act.

Tanner’s father found a letter neatly sealed on the kitchen counter. He read it aloud to Tanner’s widow in the kitchen holding her as they sat together at the kitchen table. The depression he’d fought for years became unbearable. Expressing his love, his doubts, and regrets, he said his final goodbye.

Approaching the pulpit, Craig’s father kept his composure. “Every step I took, I hoped I would hear some sign of life, of my son’s love as I went up those stairs. Each step grew darker and more silent.”

His voice cracked, tearing a gap in the dam holding back the tears. “My ears were first to tell me something was wrong. Then my nose. I could tell he was not there anymore and I saw him—No!—his body lying there.”

The silence was labored as no one wanted to hear even the barest of accounts.

Speaking for himself and Tanner’s father, he said, “After what they put us through, forgiving them has been the hardest thing either of us have ever or will ever have to do. We still love them and they are missed.”

From then on, it became an issue at the back of my mind. I didn’t ever want to hear another story like that. Of the depressed father, of the rejected Gay Mormon son or daughter, or the person nobody thought had a care in the world.

End, Part 2.

The S Word

Suicide

There come times in life where two completely different spheres of life somehow cosmically connect.

This week, BB has been sharing some shockingly-personal experiences about an attempt at suicide, which (in a way) helped me prepare for a lengthy and worrisome discussion with a friend who has been facing the same gay/Mormon conundrum. For that reason, I’ve decided to dedicate some writing to this topic, so that I might better understand suicide and its prevention and hopefully make a difference in the life of someone who needs to help someone or be heard.

Some Background:

There was a time in my life that I struggled to understand why anyone would ever consider suicide (enough so for me to outline a paper on why West Side Story is a superior work of art to Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet). How could life get so bad that death would be a suitable alternative?

High school was an incredibly idealistic time for me; however, once I left that world and made my way out into the real world—out of the bubble of Utah Mormon culture and into the mission field—I began to understand that the real world was composed of the shades of grey I’d only begun to recognize in art and literature.

I came home a different person emotionally, physically, mentally, and psychologically. I had the best and the worst experiences of my entire life (including an emotional breakdown— all of which I’ll detail more in the future), allowing me to empathize and connect with practically every person I’ve come in contact with since then.

A Struggle:

Things are different once they’re knocking at the back door, demanding your hospitality, your attention, and a cup of sugar.

It was like any other Saturday night. Grandma always called my father (her favorite son) to talk about her week and how things were going with the rest of the family. The call lasted only a few minutes before he called me and my brother to dinner twenty minutes early.

“Boys,” he said in a husky whisper, “you’re cousin Tanner’s dead.”

Tanner was nearly forty, reconciled after a brief period of estrangement with his wife. He put the kids to bed, kissing both of them on the forehead, took half a bottle of pain medication, and then fell asleep holding his wife in his arms.

In the moment, as my father described what had happened, only one thing went through my head. My reaction was anger—anger at taking a father from his children, a son from his parents, and a husband from his wife. The greater frustration, though, came later. It was not the matter of loss (for that was all too common and understandable), but rather my own inability to understand why a seemingly happy man would do such a thing.

To be honest, despite all of the sincere efforts I made to understand—from talking to my family to reading about suicide on the internet—I just couldn’t find an answer.

I’ve said before that figuring out and accepting my homosexuality became the key to understanding so many other aspects of life. This is one of those aspects.

End, Part 1