So as to avoid this blog completely turning into a Doctor Who blog I now present a mashup of a TV show and a movie which are both in their respective top 5s of the last three years:
That said, the return of the Doctor (in Utah no less) deserves a few posts of its own….
This one combines several lovely things:
Doctor Who is back April 23. In the meantime, enjoy the new Red Nose Day charity segments featuring our friends Rory, Amy, and the Doctor.
Tomorrow: What do you get when you cross the Doctor, Mr. Bean, AbFab, and Hugh Grant?
I very much identify with this series of videos. I’m proud to be disappointing.
Disappointing Gay Best Friend - GOIN' OUT from mikalabierma on Vimeo.
As I prepare another exhibit for the Utah Pride Festival, my thoughts turn again to the past, especially to the recent past. I remember a time when I felt like a bad person for enjoying Ellen’s 1990s sitcom as a kid, a time when I thought homosexuality didn’t exist, a time when I thought being gay was as much a choice as experimenting with drugs.
Well, time moved on and I grew up, realizing the world wasn’t the picture that I’d painted. I’m still adding figures and changing the palette. I’m still learning to add dimension, light, and shadow to that canvas. Every story and every life seems to enlighten that vision a bit more, and though my life can’t be bound to a canvas (or a metaphor for that matter) I feel this process of revision—Socrates’ “examined life,” if you will—makes me a thankful person. In preparing to leave Utah, I find it a cultural trait that I hope to keep intact—a process of perfection.
The program is provocative and perhaps distressing in the presentation of two people on two sides of very similar stories. It’s telling of our own situations as well as those of men just 15 years ago. I’d recommend it for a good reflection.
A note before today’s post: I’m still here. I’ve been rather busy for the past months and I’m working through several projects. Hopefully, you’ll hear more from me more regularly very soon.
Today’s post starts with a bit of a confession. In 2003, one of my dreams was to work for NPR. As it so happens, this week they have an opening, but I’ve moved past that dream. I recall writing an essay (for a one-credit workshop on the art of autobiography) comparing my childhood hometown in rural Utah to Mayberry and Garrison Keillor’s Lake Woebegone.
I’d confess to mission companions that some days I missed the voices of Diane Rehm, Fiona Richie, and Ira Flatow as much as my family and friends. As a result, I gained the reputation of “Elder granola-hippie-metro-commy-touchy-feely-smarty-pants,” but
c'est la vie. If that’s a bad reputation, I’ll proudly stand by it, I thought.
Upon my return, I auditioned for a spot on the local station, but my stutter got in the way. Writing, literature, and research took precedent, and I moved on. I also moved on as I met some radio personalities. Listening, you create a certain face to go with the voice, the intonation, the sense of humor. Then one day, you run into a personality at a random meeting and it’s like watching your father take off the Santa Claus suit.
Then, sometimes, it’s just what you’d hoped for all along.
I suppose a lot of relationships is being able to share joy in all of its forms and in this particular instance it was shared appreciation for humor and insight into the human experience. That said, it was also pretty obvious we appreciated our host, Ira Glass. His humor and his charm managed to come across better than I’d expected—enough so that I teased Chedner about having some geeking out fantasies as we watched, which I admit is obvious projection.
Experiences like these—the ones in which we admit to sharing feelings we’re perhaps embarrassed to share initially—have been a learning experience. It’s easy to endear yourself to someone you understand, or, rather, someone you work to understand (and work to be understood by).
Dickinson’s Rules for Writing (by P. Crumbley):
After the lecture, I came to the speaker and mentioned the striking resemblance Chedner holds to Dickinson in mind, passion, and pen. His response: “You’re fortunate to know such a person: I’d like to meet someone like that.”
I’m a lucky guy.
On my way to work I spotted a sign:
On my way to work I spotted a sign
And on this sign was written something asinine:
So many aspects of the last few weeks had been thoroughly evanescent. Moments of happiness and epiphany would dissipate as suddenly as they appeared. With my trip to Chile looming on the horizon, connections with people and with my situation seemed impossible. The experience was agonizingly ephemeral—like walking on clouds and realizing there’s nothing supporting you. My feet hungered for solid ground as I tread the air.
He was sensitive enough to pick up on the fact that I was in the same place in a philosophical sense. I was starting over and opening myself to the possibilities I’d avoided and denounced for the last year of my life. The moral codes that I’d lived up to for so long—abstaining from alcohol and pornography, sex and coffee, etc.—no longer made sense in the grand scheme of things. After a few dates, this was still at the core of our conversations.
“You know I’ve been there before,” he revealed one night (inasmuch as anyone can reveal the obvious). “Practically every one of us in Utah has, or at least we’ve dated them, and I’ve dated a lot of them.”
“Yeah?”
“More recently, but I’m slowing down. You’re interesting and not in that ‘Ooh, he’s a virgin’ sense of allure. I can’t often sit down with another guy who understands and appreciates every single reference from an episode of Gilmore Girls.”
The contemplative, awkward silence following his admission broke with a simple, pointed question: “What do you think your life is based on right now? Just living the moment, finding your place?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” I said simply to stall for time as I wasn’t sure in the moment. “I guess I just want to be happy and wasn’t so I needed a change.”
“That does make a lot of sense, but what’s next? Is your life any different now that you’ve stopped going to church or taken off the garments?” he asked seriously before a stilted aside to lighten the tone “…(which, by the way, are the opposite of sexy).”
“Well,” I said through my awkward chuckle. “I’ve spent a lot of time learning to trust in one thing. It’s a hard transition to believe in other people whether that be you or my best friend or even me.
“You’ll get there,” he said as if he knew my answer better than I did. “It wasn’t like I jumped right into bed with someone or started drinking the moment I was done with the church. It’s basically not even possible in places like Ephraim.”
“GMB, I want you to meet some friends of mine,” Dennis mentioned cuddling one night to the sound of Buffy the Vampire Slayer blasting away in the background. “We don’t agree on everything, but I think we both need to be around some people who are satisfied with their life right now.”
“Who are these people and why the sudden urge to hang out?” I asked half-asleep (not sharing his enthusiasm for 90s fantasy television) and not in the most social of moods.
His taciturn response of “You’ll see” proved itself true after a quick walk across the gayborhood.
As we approached a small red brick duplex, I flashed back to several memories from my missionary time in Brazil. It was like every time I’d meet a family for the first time. They’d happily welcome the new missionary to town with a small party or a big dinner. In much the same way my companions explained to me the history of that particular family, Dennis shared the backstory of the house’s residents.
“Well, they’ve been together three years and they met in Provo at BYU. It was the fairytale romance minus the genders. They have people over for game nights every week. They don’t drink or smoke. This group is probably the Mormon-iest group of gays you could assemble.”
That night satisfied some form of nostalgia within me. Clearly, the ten men and women I met that night had found a way to embrace what they’d been taught their entire life despite as well as the emotions that countered those teachings in one way or another. Perhaps it was Dennis’ way of showing me that happiness was in reach sooner than I’d thought and that forsaking the past completely was not a viable option for me or for him.
Sure, it only returns in a few weeks (Super Bowl Sunday, Feb. 6), but I could sure use a good escape. What better escape is there than a show where 28 year-old actors pretend they’re still in high school.
The following is funny for the first minute… perhaps minus a certain finger gag.
A gem of a film shot entirely with mobile phones cameras in 2008. I’ve been thinking a lot about compassion lately and this film came to mind.
The scene: mailroom at work
Characters: yours truly; Alice, a fabulous blond 40-something woman who fantasizes about the day she’ll teach a course in sarcasm.
Enter GMB. Beginning to sort mail, he mumbles last names to himself as he searches for the correct slots.
GMB (mumbling): Donner, Salmon, Allegheny….
Alice enters.
GMB: Hey, Alice.
Alice: Back from break, I see?
GMB: Yeah. Never long enough, are they?
Alice: You’re sounding a little tired today.
GMB (grabbing his neck): I woke up a little sore this morning. I think I slept on my neck wrong.
Alice (craning in slightly and squinting): I'm sure it felt good to begin with.
GMB: What do you mean?
Alice (teasing): At least I have the excuse of a curling iron burn, GMB. I know a hickey when I see one.
Alice: I’m giving you a makeup lesson as a belated Christmas gift.
Appearing the same day the missionaries stopped by chedner’s place (again).
I’m grateful for the universe’s sense of humor.
I was reading a fairly mainstream LDS blog called Mormonism Unveiled the other day. The post titled “Mormon Messages: Elder Dallin C. Oaks Speaks Out On Marriage And Divorce; Divorced Members Are Not ‘Second-Class Saints’” stuck a nerve. The post quotes extensively from the 2007 General Conference talk mentioned in the title.
As I read the article highlighting marriage as a requirement for exaltation, and the appropriate reasons for entering and exiting the bonds of matrimony. The most important point, however, struck me as a rather relatable one for gay and lesbian members of the church. Something else in the piece caught my attention, though. Three words:
Jack Mormon (the blogger) used the term to describe a misconception that divorced Mormons are inferior to married Mormons. I think the term might be useful in the gay Mormon discussion. Because the greatest form of salvation is tied to marriage and marriage isn’t that perfect, natural fit for gay Mormons, it’s easy for us to feel consigned to a less fulfilling life. No other term I’ve seen has really described the way the situation sat with me.
Enjoy and feel free to spread it around.
¡Hola, voluntários!
We’re excited to meet you in the coming weeks. Remember that training will begin at Hostelling International on Cienfuegos in Santiago three weeks from Friday. Training will take place everyday8-5 through the following Wednesday before you head off to your assignments. We’re still in the process of tying down housing and teaching assignments, but don’t worry. Everything will work out. Again, don’t forget to send us your itinerary as we’ ll have someone waiting to pick you up.
Léo
A sense of relief tugged at a corner of my heart. Blanketed in the anxiety of building a new understanding of life, my chest had been in a state of static tension. A tepid, undulating sensation rose slightly and slowly for a moment and receded like a morning tide over the beach. Glimpses of hope for myself, for beliefs I’d lost and accepting the new life ahead of me lay in dates like the one I’d had with Charlie and with this opportunity to escape and find myself on another continent. As in Canada the summer before, I felt I didn’t need to bring the metaphorical baggage of a year of identity-questioning torment. I prepared myself to be me, but wondered just how much that was true and how much this conflict was a part of me.
Moments of insight had been fleeting for months as questions inescapably hung like an albatross around my neck: Have I really made the right call? Have I forgotten a piece of the greater picture? Is there a magic bullet solution for making my gay and Mormon parts of me work effortlessly in tandem? Should I be as worried as I am about the possibilities of alcohol and sex as I am? Was I right in the first place to prepare for a life alone?
My life was by no means a wreck, but my beliefs were. Trust in yourself was the philosophy that tore people away from happiness according to what I’d learned in the past two decades of my life. Why should I expect things to get any better in my own hands? Are those glimmers of hope enough to abandon everything?
***
“That was the end of it. I was prepared to do anything for him and then he faked a mental breakdown. Everything seemed in reach. Being a husband. Being a provider. Being a father to his kids….”
In a way, his monologue felt prepared. He’d told the story before, emphasizing the same points, processing the trauma of the situation—the rejection, the anger, the frustration. It was like an echo: pieces of the past faintly converging on the present, tempering themselves to the air, and becoming something else completely.
Dennis was going through a similar catharsis, which I considered as I fumbled around with my chopsticks practicing before I humiliated myself. He’d lost his identity much as I had. Instead of having a lover abandon me, I felt as if my beliefs had. Emotional torment was nothing new. I’d just finished a class on trauma in literature, which perhaps drew my attention to this aspect of my own pain. He let me vent my own rejection, anger, and frustrations.
Cross-legged at the floor table, he politely listened, meticulously preparing bites of steak, soy, and rice. My concerns were nothing new. He’d been in the same situation a year ago, and realized just as I had that we had much to offer one another in that moment. We were more than damaged goods enduring one another’s stories so that we could get some action later. He was intelligent enough to realize that and so was I.
Perhaps that is why the date turned around quickly. Once the painful was out of the way and once we knew we both cared, even the most embarrassing details of our life became endearing.
“I’m the most unoriginal dater,” Dennis admitted. “This is maybe my tenth first date here. It just works.”
I looked across the table to his brown eyes, amber in the light of the lamps shaped like pagodas. A befuddled smile appeared on his face revealing his notably large teeth.
“I’ve probably been on that many first dates this month,” I said as I felt the rippling sensation of a blush on my cheeks.
“Don’t worry. We’ve all been there.”
Why would anyone want to hide those?, I thought to myself.
As we spent the rest of the night on his couch making out to the sound of John Hughes movies playing in the background, I asked, fearing I’d lose the chance falling asleep in the warmth and comfort of his arms, “When can we do this again?”
If I tried writing in the mornings, this is what my writing would feel like. Nevertheless, the moral of the story is a good one:
(via Cognitive Dissenter)
…Pardon the pause in the current series….
In college, I mentored quite a few incoming freshmen. One of the exercises I had them do (mostly to see if they were capable of following instructions). They had to set four goals in four different areas: social, physical, academic, and professional. I suppose it’s time to practice what I preach, though my goals here will avoid major spoilers for the content of the blog.
Social
Physical
Academic
Professional/Writing (because that’s what I hope to be)
Back to the series in progress soon….
It’s been said that coming out to yourself is like going through adolescence all over again. Awkwardness. Angst. Enamor. This time, however, the experience was authentic; rather than feeling dulled or hollow versions of those emotions, the fullness and weight of it all had finally hit me. In this state of second adolescence, age arguably became less significant, especially for me coming to terms with their sexuality at the age of twenty-four instead of fourteen.
While I would never have considered going out with eighteen and nineteen year-old girls (due 1st to the complete lack of connection and 2nd to what I considered the “perv factor”), the idea of dating guys that age seemed inconsequential. They had a better grip on internal religious conflict, the dating scene, and sexuality itself while I had barely come to the conclusion that I wanted a sexual relationship with another man. In a way, these eighteen and nineteen year-olds such as Billie were my seniors. I deferred to and appreciated their experience. That didn’t keep me from doing things that skewed immature.
***
Five years my younger, Charlie remarkably seemed the type of person I hoped to be in five years’ time. At peace psychologically and religiously, out to his family, and engaged in pursuing a husband. He was in town chasing down bits of his past from over a decade ago when his father was a grad student at the university. I offered to help him revisit those pieces of his childhood over lunch at his family’s restaurant of choice, A&W’s.
“I’ve only been here once since my dad graduated,” he explained, pulling his mouth away from the frosty mug of root beer. “We didn’t really have family here, but once in a while I’ll have a memory from the playground up here or my place or the old church and think I’m happy now in part because I was happy here and then. I guess this is my way of keeping that. I appreciate you spending the day doing this.”
I looked up from the mess of crumpled hamburger wrappers and used up ketchup packets. “Really, any day out is a step towards sanity, in my opinion. I’ve been going crazy being unemployed and cooped up for the past couple weeks.”
“If you don’t mind driving, I’d really appreciate it. I just want to remember where I grew up. My house, school, the neighborhood.”
“No problem,” I told him.
We made our way to the now-defunct trailer park. All that remained of his home was a set of wooden stairs, weathered and cemented to the ground. We sat down and he put his arm behind me, not quite confident enough to put it around me. He picked up a pebble and tossed it on the asphalt. It bounced a few times and the dull tapping sounds took him back.
He pointed out the patch sidewalk he’d learned to ride a bike and the trailer of another boy he had a crush on. His past held for me glimpses of future. I wanted to be able to teach things to a son or a lover. I wanted to have crushes without consequence as Charlie did twelve years ago. Paradoxically, we were meeting in the middle. As I helped him navigate his past, he helped me navigate my future.
What loomed in the back of my mind was an inescapable notion that monogamous gay relationships did not exist, though I’d seen them with my own eyes. Charlie had overcome that obstacle. Letting go wasn’t something he consciously considered at every moment as I had for well over a year. Life was life and love was love. It was as if that childhood simplicity never escaped him.
We ended the day in the park. It was a place we shared in memory: croquet, ice skating, horse shoes, barbeques, and wading in waist deep water. Now the stream only approached our knees. We took a seat at the creek’s edge pulling ripples across the surface as if turning back pages of water with our toes.
I looked around wondering about this collision of past innocence and my present ambition to pursue a full relationship. I knew things couldn’t remain so simple and care free, but that moment was as close as my innocence and experience could approach each other. As Charlie put his arm around me and pulled himself a few inches closer, I knew those calm and carefree years were not gone forever.
Drops of summer sun rained on us through the canopy of maples and spruces as I stared at his face. Nose and ears endearingly a tad larger than one would expect, and droopy blue eyes. Without a word, he knew to kiss me in the open in the daylight for all to see. Joy was joy and innocence innocence for a moment and worry escaped me.
