Expelled from School

 
I loved grammar class. I wasn't as huge of a fan of literature class. It was the dissecting and diagramming that did it. It was math.

I've always viewed math and grammar as essentially the same thing. You are balancing equations. You are looking for patterns. You see connections.

That is what I do: I lay bare connections. It gets me in trouble sometimes. Like the time I worked for Minneapolis Unified School District on their out-of-school youth empowerment program.
I was 20 and still naïve about how systems worked. I produced an anti-violence skit with high school youth that was performed at an elementary school. At lunch, the adults were screaming at the elementary students and calling them "stupid" and monkeys".

The high school youth were pissed. I calmed them down, and then we went to ask the adults, politely, to stop screaming and calling the students names. It went against what we had just been trying to teach. How could they not see the connections between violent speech and disruptive youth?

It ended with me being expelled permanently from that campus and the loss of my job. I still make the same mistakes. I just cannot not connect the dots and question authority.

Intervention X 2

  
He called me from my dorm room. I was confused. We were recently broken up; there was no reason for him to be in my room. He was my first boyfriend and 10 years older than me. I was more mature.

I listened to the message from a friends room.

"He Jason. Why did you break up with me? All I want to do is talk. Can't we talk? I love you. Please let's talk. I'm in your room. Come home and we can work this out. Why are you shutting me out? Call me. Please call me. I'm not responsible for what happens if you don't. I just might die."

I panicked, picked up the phone I had just hung up, and dialed my room number. He answered.

"Jason is that you?"

"What the fuck are you doing in my room? Get the hell out or I'm calling security."

"Please can't we talk? Al I want to do is talk. Can't we do that?"

"We've talked, and I'm done. We're over! That's it."

"No. No! I'll kill myself right here if you don't come over. We can work this out. You don't want your roommate finding me here dead in your room. Do you?"

I hung up. My friend calmed me down and told me to call security. I did. Then, I called him back.

"You want to kill yourself," I said. "Go ahead. Just be quick about it. I've called security and they are on their way. You better be either gone or dead by the time they show up. I don't want to clean up your blood off my floor." And I hung up.

Security didn't find anyone in my room. He never called me again. I was proud I stood up for myself.

Years later, I recounted this story to my dad. He gave a slight chuckle.

"What?" I asked.

And he told me that my ex had called him and wanted to meet. My dad obliged. He begged my dad to talk to me and get me to reconsider. My dad told him to go to hell and stay away from his son.

I have never been more proud.

It's So Hard When They Pay for Everything

  
At 21, I was old on campus. That isn't hard when you are one of only about 300 students. It was m second time in college. I was hopeful that it would be better than the last. This one was the complete opposite of the other: liberal, small, rural, and grade-less.

I waited in line to pick my classes silently observing. The conversations around me included: "This summer I traveled all over Italy thanks to mom and dad."; "Well my parents paid for me to..."; "It's so good to finally be away from my controlling parents. I mean really, they expect me to listen just because they pay for everything."

I was lost, out-of-place, a world away. I hated it more than Catholicism. I left at the end of the semester and moved to San Francisco.

Necessities Wrapped

  
He waited for his presents Christmas morning with the anticipation of a child. They were poor. The few presents were necessities wrapped.  He was disappointed and sad.

He's never wrapped an necessity since.

Unexpected Friends

  
They were my friends in college, and thanks to them I see the world differently.

I was the only out queer on campus, though not the only queer. They were not queer but understood. I had more in common with them than the closeted ones. We were action-oriented and , at times, antagonistic.

There was a meeting of the Student Council to determine the policy on LGBTQ issues and clubs. Homosexuality is sinful in the Catholic doctrine. The council was split: half liberal, half conservative. The decision for or against could go any way and would determine if I could keep the LGBTQ club, continue facilitating anti-homophobia trainings, and remain an out student.

They were not a part of the LGBTQ club. Rather, I was a part of their Commitment To Diversity group. They were mostly folks of color dedicated to changing the University of St. Thomas. I was proud they accepted me, and in return I had to confront my privilege and racism.

They were with me at that meeting when I screamed in front of the entire council and their college advisers of professors and priests, "It doesn't matter who I fuck! I deserve the same god damn rights as you!" They applauded. I cried.

That was the beginning of the end of my stay at St. Thomas. I can't remember the outcome of the decision. I was emotionally spent trying to justify my existence and experience to powers that didn't care and active worked against me.

I lost touch with them afterwards, but thought of them often. Then, I joined Facebook. They were and are there. We reconnected.

I admire that they stuck it out. They all graduated and continued on to higher education. It is amazing to see, 14 years later, that we are doing what we set out to do: we are changing the world; we have committed to diversity as a way of life.

Summerfest Shenanigans

  
I was mean in middle school. It was part being near the bottom rung of the social ladder and hormones. Partly, I was just an ass.

Every summer, I went to a non-denominational Christian summer camp called Summerfest. The summer after the eighth grade was the most cathartic. Three thing happened that changed everything. One, I found out that a friend was being abused by her father and repeated the story to an adult so they'd call Child Protective Services. Two, people who were friends in fifth grade but decided to harass me sixth through eighth grade apologized. The third is this story.

We had gone to elementary school together. Then she went to public school. We were friends when we were younger. We both didn't quite fit in, and we were both socially awkward. Both of us were outsiders by the eighth grade. The friends we had when we were younger were no longer friends even though that's what we called them.

This Summerfest, she was there, and because of public school she was now lower on the social ladder than me. She wrote me a love letter -- a passionate, gushing one. Other teens saw it and teased me. They started calling em "Mauve" --  some vague reference to being gay as only teenagers can make. They told me that if I liked her, I had to be a fag. I was desperate to prove otherwise. 

I found the video camera that was chronicling Sumemrfest and stole it. I took the note, one friend, and found a secluded place. We turned on the camera and pressed record.

I jumped in front of the camera and started mocking the love letter. I read it in that annoying voice of a teenager that knows everything. I made fun of her and called her names. I think I even made up a song about how much I hated her.

I put the camera back. No one had missed it. I was proud, momentarily, that my little tirade was recorded for posterity and that it would be seen by other teens. A day later, I regretted everything. I even tried to get the tape back and failed.

I never told anyone else about my actions in hopes the story wouldn't reach her. I'm sure it did. There was a witness after all.

If she is reading this: I am sorry, and thank-you for your current gift of friendship. It is good to know I wasn't and am not the only queer.

David Duchovony's Twin

 
I first met him one night when our church youth group went to serve mealy to the homeless in Minneapolis. He was a volunteer.

I met him again three or four years later while at Cafe Weird. We were sitting next to each other, and I recognized his white gray hair and David Duchovony looks. I flirted.

He said hello and flirted back. I lied about my age, and we left the cafe for a walk around Lake Harriet.

It was a warm fall night --  one with no moon and full of stars, one where all the bugs are out. We ended up at his home. He told me stories of sobriety and twelve steps, of choices made and regrets he had. I listened wanting him more and more as the stories continued. He led me to his bedroom and we fucked. I was in heaven.

We had a few more encounters after that evening, each as divine as the one before. I was falling in love, and I had to tell the truth about my age.

"I'm 20," I blurted out one evening. He looked at me and responded, "I have to go."

Two weeks or so later, he called and asked to come over. I made a candle-lit dinner and shooed away my roommates.

"This can't continue," he said. "I thought you were older. This isn't going to work."

I was devastated. I was sure he was the one. "No," he said. "I am not the one. You have a much bigger life ahead of you, and I will not be responsible for limiting that."

He may have been right, but he was wrong in one way. He was the one: the one that helped me see my possibilities. I left Minnesota the following fall and haven't moved back since.

Chicken Boy and Chicken Hawk

  
I wandered the Renaissance Faire, on break from my tour bus duties, when I saw them. They were the first gay couple I could identify. It was something about the way they touched that did it. I followed them.

One of the men caught me and approached. He leaned in close, whispered "We know. It's okay. You're cute," and handed me his number. I was 15. They were in their 30s.

I held on to his number as a security blanket underneath my pillow each night. Sometimes, I'd pick up the phone and dial his number. I never spoke. I was too afraid that even saying hello made me a fag, so I hung up. I wasn't concerned that him handing me his number possibly made him a pedophile. In fact, it turned me on.

I jacked off to this thought until I came out.

Memories Worth Capturing

 
We fought the entire ride up to the North Shore, a total of 3 plus hours. It was a miserable car ride made more embarrassing by having a friend along for the trip. I didn't want her to see this side of my family, this side of me.

We got to the cabin, and it was beautiful and luxurious, something we could only afford because it was owned by a friend of the family. Once there, the fighting ceased for a bit. It picked back up again whenever a decision had to be made. Everyone wanted a hand in decision-making but didn't want to be the one to decide. She removed herself at these times. I wanted to but was too stubborn.

In the spaces between arguments, I drew, wrote, took pictures, and hiked. I had fun. My friend is responsible for these times. She helped me escape.

I thumb through my old notebook and photographs, and I see only these joyful and content moments. They were the only ones worth capturing.

Teachers from India

 
A lot of my teachers in elementary school were nuns from India; Calcutta I believe. They were the same order as Mother Theresa. I found it off that they were in the USA teaching privileged, 99% white, suburban kids. They told me they did it for their families. They converted because it provided opportunity and food. I didn't understand this at age nine.

Their hair was long, thick, blue-black, and covered by a habit. They took a vow to never cut it or show it to anyone. It was God's hair.

All of the students were fascinated by this. We'd flip and tug on their habits trying to expose their hair. I'd visit them at the convent hoping to catch them without it on. Someone even trued to sneak into their bathroom figuring he'd see it for sure. (They found him before he even got to their bathroom.)

I understand their choice to leave India (and their families) and the vow they took better now. I did something similar when I moved to San Francisco. I left behind all that was me. I cut familial ties. In doing so, I found my self. Once found, accepting vows, be it my marriage or the bonds of friendship, are empowering. You are committing to being your self.

Thrown Stapler

 
She was my second grade teacher. The year before, a student threw a stapler at her. For punishment, that student was held back a year; she wasn't mature enough to go to the third grade. I wish I had thrown that stapler.

Outcast Like Me

  
I remember him as an outcast just like me, but I think he had it worse. We were neighbors although he didn't live next door. Now that I think about it, everyone on our street was an outsider. We were all striving for something more than we were, wanting to climb and claw up the social and economic ladder.

Growing up there, I thought we were poor. When I visited Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, I saw poverty. We were not poor; we were working class. We were as blue collar as they come, union and all.

He was poor. I remember his mom struggling to put food on the table, and I remember bringing over lunches every now and again. I also remember hating him. He made me look bad, and I didn't need an help in that area.

When no one was looking, we were friends. We'd head over to the Witches' Tree and play spies or cops and robbers or some other boyish game. He took karate. I hated sports. We found that middle ground of imagination.

Remembering him reminds me that we all categorize and compartmentalize. We are taught how at a very early age thanks to money, school, religion, gender boxes, the list continues.

Thanks to necessity, we find ways to blur them.

The Border of Clarity and Reality

  
He sat in the sunshine enjoying the kids playing in the park and the shirtless men tanning themselves (even if the men were in Speedos). The music played in his head as an echo of the evening before. The scent of marijuana and cigarettes mixed with the memory of stale beer and sticky floors. A breeze rushed past, its coolness crisp from its long travels over oceans. He rode that breeze and lost himself among the borders of clarity and reality.

Stuck on Memories

  
I am stuck on certain memories that I know need to be shared, but it is difficult to write about them. These are not the moments of tragedy. Rather they are the moments of first connections and the mundane. It is important to recall these memories as they hold the narrative together.

They are also not real. That is what makes them so difficult to capture. They fall through the sieve of my pen. They are somewhere below the page.

Maybe it is the medium that loses them. They are not the things of words or ink.

Acceptance

 
There are no moments of regret or shame. I accept responsibility for what happened. Even the moments I was powerless.

My Brother Finds Out

  
The news hit my old high school before I could tell my brother, and he found out from friends. That wasn't how I wanted it to happen. I wanted to protect him and shelter him from the new as I was sure it would shock him. I didn't have enough faith in him. He handled it beautifully.

Winnie-the-Pooh in China

 
Winnie-the-Pooh greeted me on the door, welcoming me to their home. I looked around and saw a lot of Disney merchandise, white picket fences, and gates. I felt like I was transported to the Disneyland suburbs of Stepford. I was in a suburb of Hangzhou, China.

Later that week, I had a nervous breakdown.

Trannyshack Reno

We went to the first Trannyshack Reno. There were four of us. We drove up decked out in our best drag, marijuana and ecstasy in our pockets, blaring pop music. It was a fast and fun drive complete with strange looks at drive-thrus and gas stations.

The neon lights and crisp white snow welcomed us to the high desert bug small town. It was a warmer welcome than the one the concierge gave at the hotel. We set our bags down, washed up, and got read for the show still blaring the pop music, cocktails made of 90% liquor in our hands, bellies, and heads. A swallow of ecstasy and puff of joint later, we went to the show.

We danced madly and hooted loudly. We hit behind the stage curtains and tripped on steps. We drank and drank and drank.

We meandered the streets ending up at a nameless casino with a buffet, hungry and parched from the copious amounts of alcohol and THC. We sat ourselves and waited for the server. And we waited as our bladders screamed and our make-up faded until two of us had to visit the girls' room.

The left and we continued to wait for the server. She arrived.

"Excuse me," she started, "but we caught your two friend in the women's restroom. While it was okay for one of them to be in there, it wasn't okay for theother. We are going to have to ask you to leave."

"What," we both asked.

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I know how this sounds, but it's company policy." She looked concerned hoping we wouldn't make a scene. She put her hands on the table and leaned in. "Listen. I'm a lesbian. I do know how this looks, and if it was up to me we wouldn't be having this conversation. But I need you to please leave."

A gentleman in a suit was watching from the corner, and a scream erupted from outside the restaurant. "But she is fucking beautiful! What the fuck? Get your hands off me. Can't you see she's all woman. God damn it! She's more beautiful than your ugly ass. Yeah. I said it. You have an ass of a face!"

The server looked nervous. We quietly got up and left.

"Fuck you! Get your hands off me you prick."

We gently grabbed her arm and started to escort her and our other friend out of the casino.

"This place fucking sucks! Can't you see how beautiful she is. Look at her. Look at her!" She screamed as we rode the escalator. "Fuck you! What are you looking at?" She yelled as we passed the slot machines. "What the hell just happened?" She asked as we walked through the door into the wintry early morning.

The snow was falling and the neon lights refracted against the crystalline flakes. It was bright for 4am and no one passed us on the street.

"It's warm, and I'm tired," she said, and she sat down on the sidewalk.

"We're fucking beautiful. I love you all," she said as she passed out.

We all looked at each other and laughed. We were beautiful and loved and no one could take that away.

Tighty Whities

 
I've only been paid for sex a handful of times. I've had sex for food, drugs, and booze more often. There is something about the exchange of money that made and makes me uncomfortable. I am always uncomfortable around money.

We answered an ad on Craigslist. He wanted a couple with a bisexual man. He was willing to pay a lot of money for me to put on some tighty-whities and fondle me as she watched whispering forcefully in his ear. He was older, discreet, not gay, full of turmoil. We were desperately poor and needed some spare cash. Halloween was approaching. Marilyn and Ling needed some new clothes and make-up.

We drove to Albany late that night when there were barely any cars on the Bay Bridge. His apartment complex was a left over from the 60s or 70s with lots of mirrors, glass, gold, brass, and chandeliers. I caught my reflection looking tired, stressed, strained. She was tentative and reserved. We rode the elevator up to his apartment surrounded by these reflections, unable to escape until the doors opened and they greeted us in the lobby of the twelth floor. We were in a maze of mirrors constantly reminded of the distortion of these events.

I knocked on the door, and he opened revealing a pitch black room. He was even older than he told us, somewhere in his 70s.

"Put these on," and he hel out a pair fo 36" Fruit of the Looms. I took them to the bathroom, stripped down, and obliged. I was a 28" waist. They were saggy and looked like a cloth diaper.

The apartment was sparsely furnished. Only a futon lay on the floor of the bedroom. He was in the same Fruit of the Looms patting the large, hard pillow.

"Don't touch me," were his only instructions to me. "Tell me how dirty I am," were his instructions to her.

About 20 minutes later, we were done. He handed us around $200 and said "I don't live here. don't even thing about coming back." We left.

I kept the Fruit of the Looms until I fit in to them. Then, I threw them away.