Hold, Part 2

Three Weeks

With Andre, I’d figured out my unintentional and unnoticed pattern. It was a three-week rut from falling for a guy to things not working out three weeks later in a manifold of ways—disillusionment or disinterest, instability or insensitivity, or simply by kismet.

It was time for life to take a different course, if only temporarily—time to focus more on my schoolwork and meditate on the last year of my life. Having made it through auditions, rehearsals and homework dominated my life. I wasn’t about to abandon boys entirely, however. On weekends, I generally found time for my friends—the occasional party with high school friends, an intensely fun study session or two, and almost every week I set aside some time for my gay friends. Friday nights became an outlet for me as I put things on hold to not feel alone in my sexuality.

Rehearsals took emotional their toll as I was surrounded by teens making homophobic jokes and men who had likely repressed their own sexuality in one way or another to “keep the commandments” or fit in in some other way. Almost ceremoniously I’d arrive at The Wood House and carpool to the club in Salt Lake with Ezra and Alberto. There, I wasn’t alone. There, I could get away from the acting—of the theatrical as well as the real-life varieties.

Though the club is for many a hedonistic experience, for many it is a communion with the self. Eighteen, nineteen and even twenty-four year olds find themselves able to share their most guarded secret with an entire community. For me, the elements of fear and enigma were temporarily pulled away as I stood in solidarity knowing that many of those guys were in the same place: out only to our friends and doing our best to follow the standards of the LDS church. For us, it wasn’t all about sex; it was about not feeling alone (as many as many of us did at church every Sunday).

It was revitalizing to get out like that. Life seemed to be full and balanced. My final semester of college was pushing me intellectually as I went through the arduous process of revising my thesis. Socially, I managed to share my time with friends of all kinds. Emotionally, though, I found myself healing—not through my continued, faithful church attendance, but by the music that filled every me. It was as if music were the mortar holding together the bricks of my life.

It managed to keep the excitement in and the anxiety out of my life for a few weeks. Studying with some Philip Glass in the background pushed me through the most difficult work. Contemplating and understanding the words coming through my mouth at rehearsals—even in the case of characters I didn’t particularly identify with such as Lloyd-Webber’s Close Every Door. The hymns at church were its saving grace. Rhyme and rhythm provided a framework for the meter and melody I puzzled over and relished even with minimal understanding of the confluence of chords.

Even the music of the club—the thump of Lady Gaga remixes, the pulse of techno beats, the phonetically kinky lyrics of Britney Spears—provided a comfort in their own way. For years, it wasn’t cool to like the things that might possibly insinuate homosexuality. That was no longer a concern once I allowed myself to indulge in what made me happy instead of conforming to prescribed desires alongside Ezra and Alberto and others at the club.

Three weeks into this ritual of clubbing the world slowed for a moment. One of the most vivid moments of that time in my life, I remember looking across the dance floor into the eyes of another man as the lyrics surfaced through the techno beat:

I feel the adrenaline moving through my veins
Spotlight on me and ready to break.
I’m like a performer, the dancefloor is my stage.
Better be ready. Hope that you feel the same.

We moved towards each other fixed on the other’s expression, our silhouettes suspended by strobe lights as we negotiated a path towards one another.

After what had seemed like ten minutes, we met in the middle of the dancefloor. Silenced by the blare of the music, we communicated only through dance and waited for silence to peel away the layers between us. It was extraordinary knowing the gap between his teeth, the way we fit in each others’ arms, and his heartbeat before sharing a word between us.

We only had time to utter our names before our friends pulled us apart:

“Mickey, Tim’s parents say he has to be home now,” one of his friends called as Alberto demanded, “We’re supposed to meet Kait for breakfast in five minutes.”

We hugged and passed frequent glances until we were out of each others sight when I suddenly realized it was too late. We didn’t exchange numbers.

 

 

End, Part 2.

My Life in Charts: Figure #4

Homophobia

Forgive today's post. It's as ranty as I've come in a long time and was written after 3 am. It still has some important things to consider.

I recently had the experience of working with someone who considers himself SSA (a term I contend with, but I respect self-definition). He’s a very nice guy, showing concern for others, taking on responsibilities where he could, helping those who needed some guidance.

Unaware that I and one other member of the group consider ourselves gay, he exaggerated gestures and made some offensive remarks along the lines of “that’s so gay,” encouraging similar behavior in some of the younger members of the group. I don’t bring this up as some sort of rant or point fingers, but to admit that homophobia was an issue for me as well. Although I never said anything quite so offensive, I probably ended up hurting people indirectly (a post on that is coming up).

What I’d like to say with all of this is pretty simple. The biggest of hypocrites might be the Christians who worship a loving God that apparently hates his gay creations, but are we any better off for hating them? Especially when they might be hating themselves (see Fig. #4).

My reaction to my SSA friend was a firm “That’s not very funny.” The real concern lay in the hurt he might be experiencing which manifested itself in this humor he perceived as seemingly benign. This form of humor doesn't really hurt me so much as make me concerned for the future.

Showing love and compassion to those who tear us down isn’t a new concept (a certain Savior figure comes to mind…), but lets face it. We, as a gay community, are a pretty reactionary bunch and the temptation is to make people uncomfortable to show just how comfortable we are with our situations.

I suppose I could have specifically stated what he’d done wrong or voice that I was offended to the entire group. It seemed more appropriate, however, to voice my disapproval and remain the liberal, positive guy that everybody likes to be around.

It didn’t happen again, so I think the subtle message was well-received.

A (Very) Brief Heterosexual Dating History, Bachelorette #4

Dani

Height: 5’9”
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Talent: Ward Choir
Random Fact: She and my brother were in a musical together although they only spoke to each other once.

The Date:

That first day of class, I remember staring at her, but I’m not quite sure why. Was it her laugh as she courteously laughed at the teacher’s opening day jokes? Maybe the uncanny resemblance to my friend Chenese? Or perhaps it was her sense of style which seemed to complement mine somehow?

The classroom was cozy. The padded folding chairs were lined up side by side, their arm rests removed. I suppose it was so we’d all sit a little closer, feel a little more connected, …and perhaps start dating each other.

You see it was an LDS institute class. For those of you unfamiliar with institute, it’s essentially a set of religion classes for young single adults 18-29. There are also activities such as speed dating and dances directly geared towards getting guys and girls to date, marry, and have babies (in that order).

Slowly, we gravitated towards each other. I told her it was because her shoes fascinated me and she told me that she was curious about why I was always writing in my notebook. Generally, I was outlining a paper or drafting a poem rather than paying a lot of attention in class.

What struck me about Dani was her perfection. Following Nate and Chenese’s one-year anniversary, I had a real desire to have what they did—a deep intellectual, spiritual, personal (and likely physical) bond. Dani’s resemblance to Chenese provoked an abiding hope in me that I might have something just as deep and beautiful.

I was committed to making this the best date possible. I planned a week in advance. I took her to a local restaurant, and I introduced her to the specialty. We went to a basketball game and then went to dessert afterwards.

The conclusion of this story is a lot like that of (500) Days of Summer. Just like in the movie, things didn’t really turn out the way I’d hoped. My expectations and reality told two different stories:

Expectations:

I saw myself sweeping her off her feet. I would be witty and romantic as we sat down to a nice dinner conversation. I would look into her eyes for the first time out of class at that basketball game and we’d feel that spark. I’d feel my issues with touch dissolve as our lips pursed for my first, single good night kiss. Months later, I’d recreate the night as I got to one knee and proposed.

Reality:

Dinner conversation kept returning to the same topic of class. The noise of the basketball game made me anxious. It only made me want to touch and be touched less. Every time I’d look in her eyes, it was like a barrier was there, but on my side—a plate of glass dulling every sound, sight and interaction between us ever so slightly.

I didn’t know what to do, so we just left. We skipped to dessert and she kept asking, “Are you okay?” and stating the obvious fact “You’re not looking great.” Instead of a good night kiss, I had a good night Advil and knelt down that night hoping to pray away the sense of failure after finally being brave enough to ask her out:

Lord, I’ve done everything I was supposed to do yet I can’t help but feel like what I am doing—what I am wanting—is unnatural. Please fix this. Please help me understand.

And months later I did, but only after two more very bad dates.

The Lesson: Formulas and molds don’t apply to people.

End, Part 4.

AfterMARK

Returning from Canada, I knew that things had to change.  I couldn’t go around feeling ashamed or  sorry for myself or feeling like I’d be alone for the rest of my life.  That said, I was returning to a more judgmental place and any adjustment would be gradual. 

Even two months after it was over, my life still seemed to revolve around Mark.  My every action, it seemed, was a reaction to his absences.  Following my trip, though, I returned aware that changes needed to be made. 

I was going to meet people.  I was going to date.  I was going to make friends going through the same situation (aside from me and Cole). 

Part 1: A Friend

Returning to work, Stacia noticed that I was in better spirits.  After the breakup, she could spot the disappointment on me like Oprah can spot a good book.  Upon my return, my account of the adventure at work focused mostly upon the scenery and the research. 

Pulling me aside, she pointed out the change in my disposition.  “You’re looking refreshed. Any Canadian lovin’ I need to know about?” She was delighted by my boldness in obtaining Marcelo, the flight attendant’s, phone number and my moment in Eric’s arms.  “You have the makings of a playa’!”

I was really amused by her comment.  The only gay boys I knew at school were entirely unappealing.  They fit every stereotype I was trying to escape.  They seemed to get upset over every little issue and whine about their lot in life to an unbearable degree.  They had no idea what I was going through.

Then it hit me.  I’m being a total hypocrite.  I want a world of acceptance and love yet I can’t bring myself to give one of these guys a chance.  I was going to give someone a chance.  Someone safe that I could confide in.  Someone who could save me from the consuming loneliness that I faced on a daily basis. 

One day Jack walked into my office.  He had a nerdy vibe, a high-pitched voice, and that sarcastic, witty way about him.  A slight ping in the gaydar went off.  I think he’s gay, but not too gay.  Sure enough, after a wee bit of facebook stalking, it was clear that he was safe to approach (“interested in men” is a pretty big clue). 

When an opportune time arose, I used my beat around the bush tactics to make a connection and get to the subject.  I started:

Jack, I noticed your status update yesterday (when I was making some changes to the department profile on Facebook) and it struck me-- Geez, that's exactly how I feel right now. You see, I'm going through a pretty bad break-up and it's killing me.

Despite his gruffly sarcastic exterior, he proved himself sensitive and gracious as he sent me a considerate reply:

It's always nice to feel like you have someone who will listen, someone that can at least agree and say "Yes, I get it", even if they can't fix the problem. I'm glad that you at least felt like you could message me. I'm sorry it ended badly. You will find someone better who actually deserves you. Chin up! If you ever need someone to talk to, don't hesitate to ask.

What better response could a guy in my position ask for?  Someone was ready to listen to me and take care of me.  Not long after that, we were texting and hanging out. 

It had become just what I’d wanted when things got complicated.

End, Part 1

Note: Whoever can explain the title of this series first can ask me any question they’d like.  I’ll answer as I deem appropriate (via email or an actual post).

The Experiment, Part 9

The Destination

The next day, I had a lot on my mind.

There was, of course, the kiss. What did it mean? Was it a good thing or a bad thing? A sign of moving on or weakness?

Then, there was the whole question of Eric. He’d asked if he could take me to my last dinner in Canada. It was clear that he wanted to be a friend, but what did that mean?

And finally, what did returning home mean? I’d had the trip of a lifetime and experimented with my very identity. This was a direction I intended to keep going in life. Despite the residual heartache of breaking up with Mark, I knew I was in a better place in life. As the trip came to an end, I knew I had to bring part of that satisfaction back to my everyday life in Utah.

It was a misty, gloomy day. A day that the morning fog rolled in and dropped anchor. I spent my time walking around the city alone. It provided me more time to explore while visiting the last museums on my itinerary. These were my last glimpses of history and culture before I made my way home. My mind weighed very little on the matters of my thesis and research, constantly jumping back to what life would be like in less than twenty-four hours. How could I take part of this life back with me? Being satisfied? Being open and happy?

I met up with Eric after the museums had closed and he’d finished his shift at work. We’d both had a good day, but a lot was on our minds. Making our way from the dorm towards the waterfront we stopped at the Economy Shoe Shop Restaurant.

“So what’s on your mind, GMB? What time are you leaving tomorrow?

“4 am,” I said in disgust.

“You’re probably better off staying up all night then. I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I knew I was going to see my family and friends so soon.”

“That’s my plan, but for other reasons. I’m paranoid of missing the flight and sleeping through my alarm.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll keep you company. We can just chat all night.”

A few hours later, we were in my dorm room sitting on the floor next to each other. We pulled out my laptop and shared pictures of our exes. He opened up about his breakdown after Alan’s infidelity and I revealed that I was afraid I’d never feel the same again.

“You won’t,” Eric said. “Your first is always your first. You’ll meet somebody different, but feel just as good. Someday.”

It was one of those moments in which irony trailed behind the words as he spoke them and they reached our ears. It was time for both of us to move on.

We spent the next hours holding each other until the airport shuttle called. We ended the night with a single, tender kiss.

It was a goodbye. It was a thank you. It was joy.

It was an answer I pondered on the taxi and on the plane back into Salt Lake:

This is who you are and you have nothing to be ashamed of.

End of series.

The Experiment, Part 8

The Taste

Just as in my experience at the pub, the bar proved to be nothing intimidating. I was an alien to this culture and it seemed that being in this world of drinking and not being of it was more than possible. It was perhaps one of the most satisfying nights of my trip. Eric and Geri told me the stories about their breakups, their triumphs, their screw-ups, and their social lives.

It was the first time I felt like part of a group of gay friends. I had Cole, but branching out any further than that seemed too risky. What would people think if they knew?

“Time for your initiation,” Eric said as he and Geri pulled me towards the exit. “You’re going to your first gay club.”

“Reflections is pretty tame. It has a young crowd and we’ll keep you out of trouble.”

Eric paid my cover as he leaned over and whispered, “You’re fresh meat. All of the guys are going to be all over you if you don’t stick with me or Geri. It’s probably best we act like a couple tonight.”

Sure enough, as I walked in I was struck by two things: First, the atmosphere was breathtaking. It was just what I’d expected. Exciting, flashing lights. A packed dance floor. Loud, remixed music. And second, as I entered the room, I felt the piercing stares of thirty men interested in a new face.

Sensing my anxiety and my exhilaration, Eric and Geri flanked me on our way to the bar. “Two bottles of water,” Eric said. “One’s yours. Don’t be so nervous. We’re here for you.”

We all stood there for a bit, scanning the crowd. They took turns pointing out the deviants.

“That’s The Scotsman. He’s always after Geri even though he’s not interested.”

“Yeah. Definitely not interested. Oh, and that’s Alex, the Craigslist Cowboy.

“I’d advise you to steer clear of that one,” Eric chuckled.

Geri excused himself to go dance. “Are you sure you don’t want to join me?”

“I’ll save the actual dancing for next time,” I responded. “Thanks for sticking with me, Eric. It’s all so new.”

We made our way upstairs to watch the dance floor and get a little space for a nice conversation. Acting the faux couple, he put his arm around me and I sat on his lap. He explained parliamentary politics and Canadian history as I told him about my mission, my research, and life back home.

As 3 am approached, he offered to walk me back to the dorms I was staying at. Midway back, I realized we were still holding hands. We stopped at some stairs in front of a church as the conversation waxed more personal.

“You know, GMB, you fascinate me. If I grew up in Utah, I think I’d be screwed up, but you’re so level-headed. You deserve a medal or something. I say you apply for refugee status and find a nice boy here.”

I blushed.

“May I kiss you?”

I was deeply conflicted. This was a special moment. We had connected on a deep level, but was it too soon?

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said. “It’s so soon.”

“I understand.” He opened up a lot about Alan (his last boyfriend) now in Europe. I opened up more about Mark and what the trip had been like up to and including my breakdown.

“Are you sure a kiss wouldn’t help?” he asked.

It’s worth a try and he’s a good guy. It can’t hurt. I leaned in.

It was a rush of emotions. The warmth on my lips was relieving and wonderful in so many ways, but tinged somehow with the taste of betrayal. Had I made a mistake?

End, Part 8

The Experiment, Part 7

The Canucks

There I was in the big city. Not only would I have no one to please or appearances to keep. I would have a world of urban opportunities open to me. Museums, public transportation, night life, etc.

These last couple of days were going to be casual. None of my plans were pressing or quite as directly related to my research topic, so I had some time to go out and have fun. But what did fun mean without social expectations? Where was I going to find this fun?

To answer that question, I went to the desk at the place I was staying and started up a conversation with the guy at the desk. Eric was tall, pretty masculine looking, and really confident. I asked about the campus and if anything was going on since it was summer. A few events came up and then we started talking about me and home.

“Yeah. Utah’s a pretty boring place. There’s a lot of outdoor stuff, but it’s a kind of suffocating atmosphere.”

“What do you mean, GMB?”

“It’s bland. Very little diversity. It’s nice to be somewhere different.”

“Makes sense.”

Our conversation was interrupted. A cute young man with dark features, a prominent nose, and a winning smile appeared at the door.

“Hey, Geri. This is GMB. He’s here a couple of days from Utah.”

“Nice to meet you, GMB”

The second he opened his mouth, I thought He’s so gay…. Score!

“What are you up to tonight?” Eric asked.” We’ve got to do something. It’s Friday.

“I don’t know,” said Geri. “Maybe a movie?”

“Anything but Mamma Mia. My moms said it wasn’t very good. Plus, I don’t think I can stand a musical tonight.”

Moms? I thought. This definitely isn’t Utah.

“You just had a bad experience when you were dating Mark.”

“Mark?” I said, “That’s my ex’s name.” (It was the easiest coming out ever).

“When you came through that door for the first time,” Eric said, “I turned to the girl with me at the desk and said ‘He’s either gay or American.’ Little did I know you’d turn out to be both!” We all had a good laugh.

“Why don’t you join us?” Geri suggested.

I wasn’t about to pass up the invitation of two seasoned gay boys. I had so much I wanted to learn and experience. They, too, had questions about the gay life in Utah at dinner.

“You’re honestly telling me you’re a virgin? You don’t smoke, you’ve never drank, and you’ve never even been to a gay club? That’s it. We’re going to Reflections tonight after we hit the bar. We have to get this boy educated,” Eric said.

“I don’t know,” Geri said. “Is this really something you’d want to do, GMB? You’re new meat and the guys will be all over you.”

“Why not? Everyone needs a first time.”

“Okay,” he said, “we’ll flank you so nobody assaults you.”

“Tonight, we’re your decoy dates. Whenever somebody tries to hit on you, one of us will be there to help.”

A few minutes later, we made our way to The Lower Deck, a bar on the waterfront. I got inline and showed my ID for the first time ever. After a brief holdup (my ID's didn’t look like the pre-mission me at all), we made our way inside. It was just like the movies.

I found the cacophony of loud conversations scattered across the bar hall oddly mystifying. Friends of twenty years or more gathered for a conversation in the corner. Four forty-somethings on a double date. The performing band’s spouses sitting together scoping the crowds reactions.

Geri and Eric got in line to order drinks.

“Enjoying yourself?” Geri asked.

“It’s crazy. I love it.”

“I’d offer you a pint, but I know you don’t.”

Seeing a friend, he excused himself and went off to chat after I asked him where the bathrooms were. I came and returned.

“Hey, Eric. I’m ba—”

Just then, a random woman interrupted us. “Hey, handsome. What are you doing tonight?” she asked, grabbing my butt for a feel.

I was in shock. Was this what sexual harassment felt like?

Eric quickly came over, grabbed my hand and kissed me on the cheek. “Great, hun, we’re almost to the front of the line.”

The woman apologized profusely. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry!… You two are so cute together.” Eric and I kept a straight face until she was out of sight and we busted up.

Leaning over to me, he whispered, “I bet that never happens in Utah!”

End, Part 7.

The Experiment, Part 6

The Next Step

Like coins, every aspect of life has two sides.

I had reached the most lonely point in my life. I was in a land completely foreign to me with people who knew nothing of my situation. The other side of loneliness became more and more apparent as my trip continued. I spent four days on the road conducting interviews, taking pictures, visiting museums, and working hard.

Each day I told myself, “You’re lucky. There are few who are able to do anything like this as an undergrad—alone.”

There it was again. That word. I was alone, but in a good way. Exercising true independence for the first time, I was getting closer to becoming the person I aspired to ultimately be.

This trip forced me to plan and revise those plans as necessary. It took me to the ocean for the first time in my life, to the greenest on an adventure down a mineshaft, and through the greenest forests I’d ever seen.

View Full Album

This was definitely marked progress. I was beginning to recognize what I amounted to despite what seemed like the ultimate rejection. The obvious revelation that my value didn’t hinge on someone else was slow-in-coming and not without relapses. I had to raise myself out of this depression by being what I’d considered selfish.

All of my actions were driven by those around me—driven by what they would feel or do or say about this innocent kid who had the single shred of acceptance of his sexuality pulled out from under him. I was being driven by fear when I needed to be guided by the very potential peeking through the cracks in the foundation of my crumbling life.

Pull yourself together. You have work to do.

became:

There is no reason not to love you. You live life the best way you know how. You care about others. You are living up to the potential bestowed upon you.

Being prideful (or what some would consider confident) and selfish (self-respecting) proved the necessary solution. Paradoxically, caring for and respected myself were the only ways I would keep myself from emotionally barricading myself or physically removing myself from my own life.

As I made my way over the bridge to the final destination of my trip, the capitol of the province, something came over me. What I was telling myself was finally coming together with the world opening up before me.

I was here because I belonged here. I had done the work. I had made the effort. I had used my time, my talent, and my intellect to do research that only I could do.

I realized just like any other of the hundreds of thousands of people in that city, I had my place and I belonged even if it wasn’t exactly the place or purpose I’d envisioned just months before with Mark.

End, Part 6

The Family Stone and My Christmas Movie Lineup

Last night, me and my friends had a little Christmas celebration.  A little shopping with Jacqueline and Cole, we set out to make an amazing Chicken Posole.  (More on that Sunday). 

This Christmas season has been a busy one.  As I’ve committed myself to a social life, a dating life, a work life, rehearsals, and the goal to write every day, I’ve found myself with no time to sit back and relax with any Christmas movies.  That was until last night. 

After dinner, Serenity and Emily joined us as we watched The Family Stone.  It was the first time we’d all been together in far too long.  We crowded into my room and gathered round the television.  As Jacqueline worked on Serenity’s nails, Cole, Emily, and I plopped down on my bed and got comfortable. 

(No platonic cuddling was involved.  We’re just not cool with that). 

Being the one Christmas movie I’d decidedly set a goal to see this year, I had some pretty high expectations and the film delivered.  It immediately struck me as something authentic.  None of the characters seemed over the top.  Their decisions, though sometimes impulsive, make sense.  And finally, the relationships between the characters help us understand them and why they are each the individuals that they are.

Here are 5 great scenes:

1. Playing Charades

Sarah Jessica Parker’s character, Meredith finds herself humiliated in front of her potential future family with an impossible charades clue. 

Everyone needs to be initiated with embarrassment.  That’s the case with my group of friends.  Each one of us has at least one. 

2. Making Dinner

Feeling the outsider, conservative Meredith finally connects with someone—Brian, her potential brother-in-law’s partner.  Brian’s one of the only outsiders who’s managed to make it into the stone family.  At one time or another, we’ve all been an outsider.  It’s truly tender when he recognizes that and offers his help.

3. Nature vs. Nurture

Meredith upsets her boyfriend’s mother Sybil when she asks why any parent would want a gay child.

Meredith (following five minutes rambling on the subject and rising tension in the room) says. “I just think any parent would want a normal child.”

“Goddammit!” Sybil shouts to stop her from hurting everyone more.

Everyone is important.  Everyone has challenges.  And parents love their children regardless of what those challenges might be.

4. The Present

Thoughtful gifts can bring people together.  This photo of Sybil comes to symbolize the Stone’s love for each other.

5. The Ending

As Cole pointed out (in the fashion of Jeremy Denk), the last scene’s soundtrack is elegantly simple.  Three notes are repeated over and over again as it becomes clear that people are what bring families together and that unconditional love is what provides us the only reliable foundation for the future. 

 

Merry Christmas!

 

 

Here are a few of my other Christmas favorites:

Love Actually
A Christmas Story
It’s a Wonderful Life
Muppet Christmas Carol
Home Alone (I prefer the second)
White Christmas
Holiday Inn

My Christmas Reading List

One of my favorite Christmas memories took place just a few years ago. It was a snowy night and we found ourselves at Cole’s place for a holiday party.

After a night of games and treats, we sat in his living room taking a breather. We sat around and looked at each other debating what we should do when Cole stood up and grabbed a basket between the television stand and the fireplace.

“Who wants to hear a story?” Cole asked, pulling a book from the basket.

None of us were quite sure what to make of the question. All of us were high school graduates and some of us college graduates, so the concept of Cole reading us a story seemed slightly foreign. In an instant, though, we’d warmed to the idea of being kids again and he started reading.

We sat there as he read to us Red Ranger Came Calling which details the story of a boy calling himself “The Red Ranger of Mars.” It’s not your same old rehashed imagery or story. It appeals to even the cynics who have a hard time getting into the holidays. That night through the amazing illustrations and lively conversations, we learned that “Sometimes folks need something to believe in” and “Sometimes folks need someone to believe in them.”

Sometimes we do need to take a step back and think like kids again.

In the holiday spirit, I have collected some of my favorite kids Christmas books:

1. How The Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss

Standard holiday fare. We all know the story and have it engrained in our minds by the Boris Karloff-narrated, Chuck Jones-animated version of the story. It’s a classic, so I’ll leave it at that. (No comment on the movie adaptation…).

2. 'Twas The Night Before Christmas

Again, not much in the way of originality here. It’s a classic story we all know. A poem approaching it’s bicentennial, it was originally written by Henry Livingston, Jr. and later revised by Clemente Clarke Moore. There are plenty of interesting and original takes and illustrations on the story out there. Take a look. I've been told the Tasha Tudor-illustrated version is a good one.

3. The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg

I remember this one always flying off the shelves in the elementary school library. Everybody wanted to take it home so their parents could read it to them. Probably appealing for its illustrations and the concept, which some train companies actually copy.

4. A Wish for Wings That Work by Berke Breathed

Breathed also penned and illustrated the aforementioned Red Ranger Came Calling as well as the comic strip Bloom County. He has a knack for humoring adults and children alike and getting at some pretty deep stuff just by wowing you with some quick with and a few strokes of the brush.

5. The Twelve Days of Christmas illustrated by Jack Kent

This is a hilarious illustrated representation of the song. It takes the song quite literally and I haven’t seen this book since I was eight years old. It disappeared from the library and I never saw it after my first read. Someday, I will spontaneously buy this book after a bad day.

6. Christmas in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder

Confession time: I love Laura Ingalls Wilder. Every night I would read a few chapters of one of the Little House books to my mother from the age of seven.

7. You Are Special by Max Lucado

This is just an affirming book that shows that being ourselves is what really matters. I suppose I’ve always associated it with Christmas because it was part of a Sunday School Christmas lesson.

No matter who you are, how you were made (or how you believe you were made), or how people treat you, there are good people out there that love you in this world. There is no greater Christmas lesson than that.

Here are some other suggestions from friends:

Snowmen at Night and Snowmen at Christmas
(Both by Caralyn Buehner and Mark Buehner)

A Child's Christmas in Wales
Dylan Thomas

Merry Christmas, Ernest & Celestine
Gabrielle Vincent

A snowman named just Bob and A snowgirl named just Sue
Mark Kimball Moulton

The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey
Susan Wojciechowski

Santa Claustrophobia
Mike Reiss

The Experiment, Part 4

The Hippie

The morning after our little non-discussion, Leandra and I made it way to the college where I’d be doing archival work for a couple of days.  It was a tiny town with a college population higher than that of the actual town.  (Canadian versions of Ephraim, Utah, if you will).

Despite having worked on college campuses for years, there was  something enthralling about seeing so many people my age being young and having fun.  Between semesters, the campus was dead, but there was still plenty to do.  There was always something to do—a concert in the park to benefit MS research, readings in coffee shops, independent movies playing in the one-screen movie theater. 

I kept myself busy and found myself running into the same group of people fairly often.  Among them was a dread-locked hippie with horn-rimmed glasses named Terry.  He was himself.  Happy. Stable. Involved.  Loved.  Everyone in town knew him and held him in their highest regard. 

We first met while in the archives.  He was doing work on students expelled from the college back in its Baptist days.  After a couple more run-ins at the coffee shop and on campus, he insisted, “While you’re here, you have to come to Wednesday at Paddy’s Pub.  It’s the thing everybody looks forward to in town.”

So, later that night, there I was.  23 years old and in my first pub (or bar of any form really).  My first time around people my age who didn’t assume I was Mormon or perhaps even know what to assume of a member of The Church.  The only times I’d been outside of Utah were 1) on my mission 2) school trips and 3) family vacations. 

Even within Utah, my interactions with non-members were limited.  Aside from professors, and a few friends, my life was completely filled with people who held the same religious beliefs.  At first, I sat alone.  Terry was nowhere in sight and I was enjoying the music of open mic night.  For being a tiny town, everyone knew how to sing or at least lead a sea shanty. 

As I looked around, I realized no one was judging me based on my sexuality or beliefs let alone the fact that I chose the house root beer over the house draft.  Even if I were to go up to that mic and announce my sexuality to everyone, nothing would change after that initial laugh. 

Terry showed up with his friend Sasha and we spent the night  talking about his ghost tours of the city, sipping our drinks, and listening to the talent.  (I esp. enjoyed this talented Indie artist Morgan Tobias.  Check her out).

All of the talk from my youth about The World being a scary place that persecutes us or doesn’t let us be who we are or believe what we believe made no sense at the moment.  These people really were nothing to fear. I didn’t need to drink to have a decent conversation with them or gain some sense of acceptance. 

I was me.

That was enough for me and everyone around me. 

End, Part 4

The Experiment, Part 3

The Unspoken Understanding

Upon arriving in “The True North Strong and Free,” I met up with my research contact, Leandra. In the mayhem following my flight’s cancellation, we managed to connect after a few hours.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work one-on-one with an expert in my field. We’d been planning this research project for months (since before I had even considered the possibility of being gay), so it was an immense relief to meet her and start our work. We discussed how our passions and lives had led us to the field as well as our family lives. She wasn’t at all what I’d expected. A very tall woman, shy but immensely passionate, with uniquely short hair and a remarkable smile.

For whatever reason, there was an instant personal and professional connection. Leandra was the middle of three daughters; I was the middle of three sons. Academia had engrossed us both from an early age. We both loved to write—confident in our academic talents, but hesitant about our creative abilities. It was the first time somebody didn’t automatically assume I was straight. It was refreshing, but impersonal.

We spent four days together discussing so many fascinating things: the local geology, the extreme tides, ship wrecks, the French Indian Wars, folk music, Anne of Green Gables, ferry rides, wildlife, life during World War I & II. Although we were hard at work (or perhaps as a result of it), discussion of our personal lives quickly tapered off after that initial meeting.

On the third night, following a quiet dinner with a woman she arranged for me to interview, we sat on her porch sipping tea and putting aside the research for a few hours. I pulled out some of my poetry and the blue writing journal I began as a missionary.

I’d received it in the MTC and nearly four years later it was half-filled with attempts at formal poetry and essays as well as outlines of books and telenovelas. She asked me to read her something and I shared a poem from the perspective of Michelangelo’s David as he’s being sculpted, or rather the stone that became the statue. I share only a portion because it’s about to be published; email me if you’d like to see the rest.

…

The gritty mist of yesterday
now lines the floor—
a dusty sea of pebbles.
Bits of myself now lay
at my “feet”.
…
The hands—
they tear at my blighted marble
flesh as
my silent strength
slips away.

…

“You raise a very interesting point, GMB. Although we might view David as the perfect form of man, who’s to say that conforming to some sort of mold of perfection is what any of us want out of life… or even beyond this life?”

No one had ever understood what I’d written on such a level (except, perhaps, for Cole or Jeannie). “It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. You know. It’s difficult to grow up in a really conservative community.”

“I’ve never quite been in that situation, but I can sympathize."

We left our personal discussion at that both of us aware that something in the other’s life was lurking under the surface.

I was indeed struggling with the idea of being perfect—I was the golden boy: perfect grades, faithful missionary and member of the church, supportive friend and brother—yet I felt unfulfilled.

She was struggling with her own demons. I avoided prying into Leandra’s personal life (partly because it isn’t in my nature), but I think we both felt at ease that someone from an entirely different place and culture could connect on such a simple idea of not fitting the mold.

The Experiment, Part 2

Part 2: The Mormon

For the first time in a long while, things were feeling oddly natural despite being terrified at the possibility of a same-sex relationship my entire life. (When I was 10, this homophobia caused me to stop watching Ellen’s sitcom when she came out). Giving Marcelo my number was a huge step.

While I’d never had the gumption or the desire to do the same with a woman after 23 years of mental and emotional conditioning, this felt like a step in the right direction. He gave me his number and we’ve kept in touch although we’ve never managed to be in the same city at the same time.

I saw him off to his gate and made my way over to mine only to find that it had been delayed a few hours. This being the first time I’d ever flown alone, I became a little apprehensive. Making some effort to be social and distract myself, I entered a couple of conversations and put myself at ease when the woman at the ticket counter made the announcement, “Flight 816 to Canada has been cancelled please form a single file line to the ticket counter so that we can resolve this issue and get you home.”

As travelers tend to do, a swarm of passengers immediately accosted the counter, leaving the more laidback behind.

“I can’t believe this,” I heard. “Now I have to let my husband know I won’t make it to our anniversary dinner.”

“Well, Steph, at least he won’t miss the Maple Leafs game now,” a man said chuckling to himself.

“Cut it out, Carson.” Another man cut in, “She hasn’t seen him in three weeks.”

“And this kid’s probably got a girlfriend waiting for him,” Carson said, pointing at me.

Aware that he’d noticed my eavesdropping, I said, “No. Nobody’s waiting for me….anymore.” I laughed awkwardly and they left it at that.

Carson and Steph (on their way back from Ecuador) along with Wallace (a quiet executive in the Cayman Islands) introduced themselves and expressed their delight that I was visiting their country to conduct research.

“Where are you from?” Steph asked.

“Utah.”

“Ah. Mormonlandia, eh?” Carson joked.

The time had come to be open about another part of my identity. “The last time I was on a plane, I was actually coming back from a mission in South America.”

They had their fair share of questions regarding polygamy, the Word of Wisdom, and mission life. They also shared admiration for their Mormon neighbors and the temples they had seen. Over the next 12 hours, I answered these questions as we enjoyed a series of adventures—finding a cab, getting a hotel (see left) at a reasonable price, chatting over dinner in Chinatown, and making the 4 am run to another airport.

And, as a gesture of their Canadian hospitality, they refused to let me pay for anything. “You’re our guest,” Steph assured me. Regardless of my race, religion, or sexual orientation, they would have treated me the same way.

As we bid our goodbyes and went in four different directions, I realized

1. That I was in love with Canada
   
   and
   
   
2. That just as I felt at ease with being gay on this trip, I was also content with my identity as a member of the Church.

The Experiment

In the aftermath of the breakup with Mark, I found myself alone not only in the general emotional senses of the word. I was on a plane—excited to be traveling, scared to be on my own, and unsure about how I was going to handle Mark’s complete disconnect.

This was my opportunity to experiment with an identity totally new to me. One that I’d come to accept over time and perhaps even embrace. I was a gay Mormon and during this trip, I was going to be “out.”

As we all know, though, being out isn’t a matter of shouting from the rooftops, “I’m a flaming homosexual!”

From the beginning, being gay came up just as any other piece of my identity—my religion, my aspirations, my middle name—would. Things would simply come up when they came up. Also, I decided that I wasn’t going to skirt around the issues because I was going to the most accepting and liberal place I’d been in my entire life: Canada.

There would be no repercussions.

No judgments.

No misassumptions.

I could be me.

Part 1: The Number

The experiment all started on the way there. Once I’d crossed the Utah border, it was time to be a little more open. The journey entailed a few layovers and normal, surface-level conversations with my seatmates, but the topic never really came up with the biological engineer or the Atlanta housewife.

One particular layover turned out to be long enough to take a nice walk around the airport and get a feel for the travel culture of which I was practically a foreigner. I people-watched a great deal of the time analyzing the clothing, the conversations, the drink orders. It was totally enthralling to make up stories and contemplate the great, mobile matrix of humanity.

After a few hours, I found myself hungry and debating whether to buy some overly-priced airport food or wait another few hours for my in-flight meal. I wandered a bit trying to find something that I wouldn’t have to exercise off later. I also realized that my people watching had turned into checking guys out. I was letting myself admire the male body.

I caved and got in line at Au Bon Pain—mostly because someone had caught my eye. He was 5’9” with finely trimmed facial hair and dark features. He was listening to his iPod, enjoying sandwich and orange juice alone. Our eyes had caught each other on at least three occasions while I stood in line and I wondered to myself, Is he catching me checking him out or is he checking me out too?

Once I’d reached the front of my line and received my order, I’d realized that for whatever reason the stars had aligned. The only seat left was across from him at a table for two.

My hands were tied. The inevitable conversation began:

“Is this seat taken?”

He immediately pulled out his headphones, introduced himself as Marcelo, and started up a conversation about his job (as a flight attendant) and his family in Puerto Rico. Within a half hour, dating had come up and I was at ease. It felt normal not only to talk about Mark and how I felt, but also to speak of him in the past tense.

“You know, you’re a good guy,” he said. “You have a good head on your shoulders. You care about people. You want what’s best for them. That’s kind of rare.”

“Here’s my number. Let me know the next time you’re in SLC.”

“Thanks. I’d really like that.”

End, Part 1