Another Goodbye

I’ve discussed the topic of suicide before, but unfortunately, it rears its ugly semblance with frequency here in Utah.

I’m not going to sensationalize another suicide of a gay Mormon who I never knew, but rather invite you to a vigil in his honor. It will take place today from 9-10 pm at the Utah State Capitol (FB event link).

Todd Ransom took his own life this morning after much conflict and non-acceptance, leaving the world with the following Facebook status: “Sunrise - accept this offering – Sunrise.”

Unfortunately, one of the simplest lessons of Christianity remains forgotten. The only way to avert more losses is to offer one another our love unconditional.

The Life and Times of Boyfriend #2

"This is a story of boy meets boy.
But you should know up front this is not a love story."
At least not anymore.

Call of a Distant Admirer

Romantic and
Rational
Converge
In braided Reality.

***

I’ve seen you around and just can’t get you out of my head. I’m kind of shy and I’ve been debating saying anything. I mean, I’d just come off as some weird stalker, right? After a few days, I finally decided to say something. You’re really cute and when I found your profile online, I fell even harder. If you don’t want to get to know me, I totally understand. I just had to say something because it was eating at me.

Sincerely yours,

Andre

***

Typically my Mondays don’t generally start off on such a positive note. Going into midterms, the drudgy fog of returning to school and work from a busy weekend lifted for a moment with those words. The message shortly followed my admission to myself that a relationship with my dream guy was not really possible at the moment. Evan needed space and friendship and I begrudgingly offered both.

The appearance of Andre was mysterious and relieving. I wondered what the larger part of the story was. How he’d heard about me or seen me and what sparked his interest in a college student working out his issues with homosexuality, romance, and religion. Subconsciously, I formed a connection with Andre in our shared, neurotic angst. His message was at once courageous and self-deprecating.

My interest piqued, I responded inquisitively after looking a bit of online sleuthing on my social networking sites. He was cute with dark hair and thick eyebrows. His eyes were bashful, somehow unsure half-open in most of his shots reacting to the emotional pressure of his photo being taken and that image of him surviving for eternity. His demeanor put a smile on my face because I saw a lot of myself in him—the self that lacked confidence before I’d come out to myself.

Socially speaking, there weren’t many connections. Apparently, he’d recently moved to Utah without knowing why he’d made the decision: “I’ve been in Utah a few weeks. It wasn’t what I’d expected and I’m not sure if I like it yet. Time will tell.” I posed him a set of questions aimed at understanding the gaps in his story. Even before I realized my homosexuality, Honestly, what would possess someone to move to Utah?, became a rather regular thought. That sentiment was only amplified by the fact that Andre was a decidedly out gay man. Of course, that was the first question I tossed at him.

“Two reasons,” he responded. “I got a promotion and I have a few friends here from when I was in CA.”

His story unfolded over a series of emails, instant messages, and eventually via text messaging. He’d recently become the area manager for Radio Shack. “They asked me to move to Salt Lake, so I could oversee this hub of stores. When you look at it, though, it’s about the same as Nebraska, only different.”

That said, Nebraska was home for him. It’s where his mother lived. It’s where he graduated high school. It’s where he met his first boyfriend. Nebraska didn’t provide a lot of opportunities, though. He found the dating scene small and racist towards Latinos. There was no room for advancement at work there, so he took a risk and applied for a position elsewhere.

Despite some distance issues (a common issue for me even at that time), we decided it would be a good idea to meet up in my hometown. Despite being a few years older, he took a characteristically youthful and enthusiastic role in the relationship. Following a barrage of questions about what I liked to do, I assured him I’d be happiest with something simple.

“A conversation and not some sort of present will be more memorable and valuable. Just be yourself and we’ll have a great time,” I assured him.

End, Part 1.

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.

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?

Utah Culture 102

Due to a problem with my personal computer that should be resolved quickly, I will be postponing the next (and perhaps final) installment of Adventures in Internet Dating.

The State Legislature

One thing that really gets under my skin about living here in Utah is our beloved state legislature. There are really two key issues that I tend to shake my head over on a regular basis whenever I hear a news story involving the state legislature.

The first is education. I've had an opportunity to be on Capitol Hill speaking to senators and house members about the value of higher ed, but it doesn't seem to make any difference. Cutting education budgets, teachers’ retirement benefits, and student services seems to be one of the first things on the proverbial chopping block every time there is a budget shortfall.

The other is civil rights. Same-sex marriage is not up for debate when it’s barely kosher to even bring up the idea of non-discrimination in housing and hiring.

Recently, both of these issues and everybody’s favorite non-bigoted, non-partisan senator—Chris Buttars—all managed to make it into same segment on Rachel Maddow’s show.

Yes, this man just suggested making 12th grade optional and called gay people "Mean" (which, for him, is holding back). I guess he’s nostalgic for the one-room school house he was educated in a century ago. He might not be a shining example of Utah culture but he definitely represents its nadir (one of my favorite academic words; see definition here). This is probably epitomized by this little slip of the tongue as well as the fact that he’s repeatedly reelected:

Again, I hope that this sheds some light on the political culture of Utah and my hostility towards it.