Where Are Queer Men in Fabulis' 2010 Survey of Gay Men's Online Habits?

  
I love my community of queers, freaks, youth workers, and artists. I love the non-conformity, questioning of authority, and out of the box thinking of these folks. They are my brethren and comrades. They are the people I am proud to be among.

Today, a friend posted through Facebook the following Fabulis online survey about gay male online habits.

There was a problem at the outset for me. It came on slide 3 with the statement "The results that follow only include responses from the 94.5% of survey participants who described themselves as gay or bisexual men. All other responses were discarded."

I'm not gay or bisexual. I am queer. I am proud to be queer, and I identify this way partly because I don't believe in a binary gender construct and partly because I want to stand in solidarity with people not of the same gender as me. It is a nuanced identity that doesn't fit neatly into boxes.

I knew by seeing the title of the survey that I would probably not find myself among the respondents. I am used to that. I am used to the a large segment of the LGBT community not understanding the nuance of queer. I am used to being somewhat invisible.

There is no other note as to what the orientations of the 5.5% of the discarded respondents were. There is no mention of why those responses were discarded. They just vanished from the data set leaving me to question where do I fall within the gay and bisexual male community.

I posted this comment on the Fabulis blog "What were the sexual orientations of the 5.5% of the discarded respondents?" bradfordshellhammer, someone I assume to be from Fabulis, responded that those rejected were either straight identified or lesbian. I then asked if queer male was an option. There was a moment of confusion, and bradfordshellhammer posted the categories available during the survey. Queer was not an option.

As mentioned above, this questioning and lack of visibility is nothing new for me. It is why the meta-blog that JW Reports is a part of is called Queerly Complex. Life doesn't fall within black or white or binary codes. It is dynamic, intricate, multi-faceted and -dimensional, and messy. It holds many truths.

I don't derive self-worth from these types of reports, surveys, or news. I don't need it to justify my existence. I am happy doing that myself. What I do need from these types of surveys is an understanding that we live in a much more complicated and interconnected world. We need to stop the reductivism of one versus the other. We need to find ways to build broader based coalitions.

And this can be done simply. It doesn't need to taint a potential data pool. If the survey is concerned only with the opinions from gay men, fine. I don't need to be counted among them because I am not one. But I do need an acknowledgement from that community of my existence. This can include acknowledging queer as a category, writing "we are not including queers in this survey because...",  teasing out queers from the rest of the data pool and showing differences between gay male identified respondents and queer respondents, being completely clear that one only cares about gay men. Any of these solutions at least acknowledge that there is a community out there that is not gay identified and not straight identified.

I appreciate greatly what Fabulis is trying to build: "a social network that connects gay men with amazing experiences down the block and around the world." I also appreciate their openness to the conversation. In that effort for connection and conversation, it is important to not forget those of us who don't fit neatly into the "gay male" label. For we may be married to (or partnered to or dating or having sex with) someone who does.

Promoting Dialogue about Gender and Queerness

I am privileged to be connected to so many different people, organizations, companies, news feeds, and ideas that I sometimes find myself overwhelmed and overstimulated. But these connections provide a unique opportunity to find intersections among diverse and independent movements happening the world over.

Take for example LYRIC's new campaign Gender Dialogue.

LYRIC worked with Intersection for the Arts to create posters that open up the dialogue around gender. The posters were the culmination of a multi-week workshop that "explored gender-based oppression, identity, and expression". These posters are now displayed in enclosed cases at the 16th Street BART Plaza in San Francisco to encourage others to think critically about what gender is and how it is expressed. It is a call to action for exploration and challenging assumptions and bias. And they are visually arresting thanks to support from a professional graphic designer.

I received notice of this new campaign in my email inbox from the Transitional Age Youth Task Force, and I immediately started thinking about my own assumptions. Sure, I identify as a queer so that does mean I am more predisposed to actually look at and reflect on the images. It is also not a given that I would. The reason I took pause and reflected was because I saw pieces of myself reflected within the graphics. I may be male identified but too often that gets conflated with masculinity and manliness. I am not manly. Nor am I particularly masculine. And it was wonderful to see something that acknowledges this complexity. Especially something that looks like pop culture. 

Then, while perusing Twitter, I came across this gem of a video Queerer Than Thou.

And I fell in love. This video brings the conversation of gender, sparked in me by the ad campaign, to a whole new level. It uses humor to delve into the constructed identities we build around ourselves. Who is queerer: The fembot dyke MTF who throws aside all gender conformity or the polyamorous lisping queen who loves boxes (albeit nontraditional ones)? Neither and both is the answer I found.

We all have unique characteristics that make us who we are and those characteristics are interpreted by others using their own cultural, familial, historical lenses. Often those lenses see us not as we see ourselves. And this is where conflict comes in.

What is important is that we have this dialogue; that we open up a conversation between our friends, family, loved ones, colleagues, co-workers, and those we pass by. We must be willing to be uncomfortable and take risks. And those of us that "look" stereotypically "gender normative" (I use quotes here because what really is gender normative?) need to support our brothers and sisters that are defy gender boxes. We have a burden to be their allies and support their struggle by being proactive.

I truly believe that we as queers will not be free until all people are free. Because after all what makes a queer? Nothing and everything.

On Fire with the holy spirit

  
The Holy Spirit entered my body as they laid hands on me and screamed in tongues. We were in a hotel in Pensacola, Florida, here for a youth ministry retreat on Catholic evangelism. It was a growing movement, and they needed an army of Catholic soldiers ready to take to the streets preaching the word of God. Ours were souls most at risk for we were at that tender age, puberty, where the devil, or hormones, tempt at every corner. They were going to save us, and in return we'd save others.

We were a rag tag crew of mostly kids with which no one else played. We had a common identifier: outcast, nerd, geek, queer. The adults didn't fair much better. One leader was a large woman with short black hair. Looking at her, you knew she had gone through exactly what you had, the teasing and harassment, but she met the world with sparkly eyes and a smile. She was nice, and I wanted to be nice too. If she was here, obviously I was meant to be here. Looking back at the pictures, you'd think we were actually going to a queer camp. Only large steel crosses hung from our necks.

The bus made its journey southward stopping at Grotto of the Redemption in West Bend, Iowa, and then Memphis to see Graceland. We prayed a lot, but I had yet to speak in tongues. Something kept blocking the release. They called it Satan; I called it sanity.

Along the way, I developed a deep affection for and connection to this community. It was easy to count myself among them because they understood the feeling of being queer. Sure it might not have referred to sexuality, but it did pertain to that unique experience of revelation that something about you truly is different. That moment is so profound. It moves you to another place from which you can never go back. Each and every one of us felt different in our homes and lives. Here, we were "normal". Or as normal a group of evangelical Catholic teens can be.

Our travels ended in Pensacola, and I still hadn't spoken in tongues. I was one of the rare ones, even among this motley crew. I was beginning to feel like an outsider, and so my mania set in. Jokes started spewing and obnoxiousness ensued. It actually fit right in. Evangelicals are nothing if not manic. In fact, speaking in tongues requires hysteria and frenzy in equal amounts. I was finally on my way towards revelation. All I needed to do was let go of rationality. My body chemistry would do the rest.

If you have never spoken in tongues or done drugs, it is hard to truly imagine what the experience is like. If you have done either, you've experienced the same thing. It is just that you got there a different way. I was in my early teenage years, and, thanks to my own conservatism, hadn't tried drugs yet, so I had nothing to compare it to. In the moment, it was blissfully divine.

I stood in the center of a small group of youth and adults. Each person placed one hand on me and raised the other towards heaven. Prayer started in English with one of the adults.

"Dearest God in heaven, our Lord and Savior. We are here today beseeching your blessing for your disciple Jason. He is your vessel, dear Jesus. He is open to your love and kindness. He is in awe of your might. He is here to serve, almighty Lord. Please bless him with the gift of the Holy Spirit. So he may experience all of Your greatness, power and might!"

As he prayed, the other surrounding me whispered their prayers with closed eyes and faces turned upwards. Their whispers were inaudible and intelligible, spoken in the language of the Holy Spirit. Each hand on my shoulder, head, arm, waist, back, or neck conducted heat and electricity. My body tingled and sparked. Something was coursing through me. I felt it in the tips of my toes and in that place behind the eyes. The place that opens your third eye.

The leader of this laying of hands burst out loudly in tongues and ignited the volume of the others. I was swimming amidst a whirlwind of indecipherable sounds and overwhelming emotion. All of our difference, otherness, and awkwardness made manifest. I was the eye of this hysterical storm, the walls of which were shrinking. More hands were laid on me. More electricity coursed through my body. More prayers were offered.

The tickle behind the eyes intensified to full-grade migraine complete with flashing white light. I was surrounded by clouds lost among the fog trying to find the sky and Son. The tongues were transformed into the song of the heavens, and I listened quietly. Peaking over the horizon was God. I found Him. I was saved. Tongues spilled from my mouth.

My body convulsed. I was caught. They laid me on the hotel room's bed. My face was flush red, and I was sweating profusely. Someone grabbed a wet towel from the bathroom and dabbed my forehead. I kept muttering unaware of what I said still staring at my Lord as He bestowed blessings, revelations, warnings. I awoke with a profound need to proselytize.

The next bit is a haze, but I ended up in the streets of Pensacola, Florida, preaching the word of God at the top of my lungs for all to hear. It was summer and dark, so it was late. I had no fear. God released that. It made me reckless. Luckily, there were few people on the street and most ignored me. Those that didn't thought I was a loon and made their feelings known. I didn't care. I was doing God's work.

I wandered the streets for an hour or two and snaked my way back to the hotel. I was on fire - the Holy Spirit in all corners of my body. I jumped in the pool wearing all of my clothes hoping to cool myself while screaming in tongues. Everyone greeted me with compassion and love and curiosity. I was no longer someone who wanted to be among them. I was someone in communion with them. We now all had a common experience to share. The seal broken, I spoke in tongues during every prayer and laying of hands.

I haven't spoken in tongues since that trip, but I've felt the fire of the holy spirit and communed with god. Something was unlocked during that trip: a desire to be myself including all the mania, frenzy, and hysteria that accompanies living a true existence. My truth may not be Catholic evangelism, but it does hold a deep reverence for existential experiences rooted in emotion. For it was that exact same feeling I had when I finally came out: a complete release of self.

It is why I am still coming out today.

Prop 8 Trial Broadcast DELAYED by US Superior Court

This just in! According to The Washington Post, the Supreme Court issued a ruling temporarily overturning federal Judge Vaughn R. Walker's decision to allow delayed taping of the Prop. 8 trial on YouTube. Opponents claim fear of discrimination and harassment as the reason to not televise the trial and asked the Supreme Court to intervene.

The Courage Campaign gathered over 130,000 signatures last week urging Judge Walker to televise the proceeding, and he responded with a commitment to broadcast the trial via YouTube. In his ruling, he made it clear that the only cameras allowed in the courtroom would be the already installed courtroom cameras that already tape proceedings. These tapes would then be uploaded at regular intervals to YouTube providing the public a rare opportunity to see inside the trial.

This achievement was viewed as a large victory for supporters of marriage equality. It would allow the marriage equality community to see the arguments being made by opponents of marriage equality and help inform further action if the trial turns out in favor of upholding Prop. 8. Additionally, it would show the larger public what exactly the debate is on both sides. Not allowing cameras into the proceedings, keeps the arguments limited to second hand accounts thus dulling the impact of both sides' arguments.

The stay issued by the Supreme Court is only valid until Wednesday allowing justices further time to consider the impact of a televised, albeit delayed broadcast, trial.

The full The Washington Post article is here. 

UPDATE: YouTube Channel Televising Prop 8 Trial

  
Today, the YouTube channel that will be televising the Prop 8 Trial starting Monday, January 11, 2010 was launched. This is a very crucial step in bringing transparency to civil rights cases. You can view the delayed feed here.

Too Much A Queer Marathon

    

Mama Calizo's Voice Factory is being transformed for Keith Hennessy's Too Much a Queer Marathon. It is a mixture of excitement, innovation, community, and chaos as paint flies, rooms get clean, and performers rehearse. Everyone is pitching in to make sure everything is ready for what is bound to be a whirlwind flurry of performances and art from queers the Bay over.

More here.

1-976-THERAPIST

(This was reposted in November 2011 at In Our Words: A Salon for Queers and Company.)
  

I was sent to a counselor in the eighth grade to cure me of my homosexuality. Obviously, it didn't work. I am a happily queer man.

The signs were there for many years before -- my favorite sport (and the only one I played for an extended period of time) was gymnastics, I was in musical theater, my dad walked in on me playing with a boy's prick -- but were denied or not acknowledged. They were the types of things that just made me flamboyant or weird. My family was fine with weird. In fact, from old stories told by my dad and his mother, I'm positive my dad was also labeled weird in school. Being a fag was something else entirely.

It became too hard to deny when I was in the eighth grade because of a large telephone bill my grandma received. Grandma got me a job washing dishes a the Catholic retreat center at which she cooked. It was a weekend job, and my dad worked at the grocery store right next to it. When dad was working, it could sometimes be a couple of hours before I got a ride home. So I'd walk to grandma's for the afternoon. She often still had cooking duties, so I would sit in her apartment fiddling with the organ, flipping television channels, or raiding her fridge for a ham and Miracle Whip sandwich.

Her apartment was filled with bric-a-brac -- free calendars with birds from gas stations, glass candy dishes, needlepoint wall hangings, Reader's Digest, lace doilies -- and the flowery air of old people, a combination of rose and gardenia and lavender, permeated her home. It was filled with things that wouldn't entertain a thirteen year old boy raging with hormones and extremely horny.

One afternoon while walking to grandma's apartment, I picked up a copy of the alternative weekly paper -- the kind with the personals in the back -- hoping to pass the time masturbating in her bathroom. She was still at work, and I let myself in. I settled in by making something to eat and relaxing on the arm chair watching People's Court or The Jeffersons. I flipped through the paper lingering on the picture of half naked men (the escort page) and on the "men seeking men" and "women seeking men" personal ads. I got hard and stupid and noticed in between the pictures and the ads a 1-976 number for a gay chat line complete with a code for a free trial offer. The tingling sensation in my head urged me to pick up the phone and dial, justifying, "No one would ever know it is me as long as I hang up before the trial ends."

I took the telephone in to the bathroom -- I was smart enough to know I didn't want grandma walking in on me wanking -- slowly dialed, and listened to the instructions. I came five seconds later to the automated voice telling me to record my name. I hung up and was immediately addicted to anonymity and risk.

Picking up the paper for a new "free trial code", dialing the number, and whacking off in the bathroom passed many afternoons. I became so obsessive that I didn't notice that the free trial was over. I was lost among anonymous liberation and sexual fantasies.

One evening, I overheard my parents talking about a large phone bill grandma received. I know I would be outed if I didn't do something, so I started plotting and planning how to get out of it. Crazy ideas about calling grandma and pretending to be customer service from Man Chat ran through my head. Here's how I imagined it would go:

"Hello. Is Mrs. Wyman there," I'd ask in my best imitation of a man's voice.

"Yes, this is her. How can I help you?" She'd reply innocent and old.

"It seems that there has been a mix up on our end, and you have been inaccurately charged for calls placed to Man Chat."

"Really?"

"Yes. We will clear your account momentarily. It may take up to two months to show up on your phone bill. Please forgive us for any confusion or headache."

"Oh. Okay. Take care and have a nice day."

And she would accept it all as fact and hang up the phone. Then, I'd collect all my paychecks, pay the bill, and no one would be the wiser.

I never got the courage to make that call. Nor would my grandma have just accepted that explanation. She would want to know why the mistake happened in the first place. I probably could have thought of something, but I was afraid everyone would see through it and figure out it was me.

Even without that call, they did figure out it was me, and I was confronted. My parents were confused and crying. One of them called the number and found out what it actually was. They were not going to have a fag in the family. It was sinful and punishable by a fiery torment in hell. All of us were Catholic, and nothing was going to jeopardize that.

My parents found a counselor. They ushered me an ultimatum: see the counselor and stop being queer or get kicked out of the house. I was thirteen and opted for "stop being queer".

We drove to the therapist's in silence. I sat in the back of our paneled station wagon terrified and practicing my responses.

"No sir. This is just a phase. I am not attracted to men. I like tits. Yes, it will never happen again. Really, I don't like men. Well, yes...but only as friends. Girls. I like girls."

All three of us met the the counselor first. He told us he was recently on Oprah and was an excellent and trusted family therapist. My parents outlined the problem and what needed curing. He just listened, and then he told them he needed one-on-one time with me. They left the room, my mother crying, my dad silent.

Once the door closed behind them, the therapist looked at me with his brown eyes and messy hair and said, "Contrary to what your parents say, homosexuality is nothing to be cured."

I stared at him dumbfounded, mouth slightly open. Here was a chance to finally say it. I bordered on tears and the ultimatum reverberated through my head. I responded with waht I practiced in the car.

He excused me from his office with the diplomas and certificates and picture with Oprah and asked me to send in my parents. They exited five minutes later and we all hopped back into the rusted station wagon with the slightly flat tires.

I don't know what he said to them, but I wasn't kicked out or sent back. It was another five years before I had the nerve to say I was gay and another seven after that to finally admit to my family I was queer.

The second and third time around they were more prepared and accepted me for me. Time and distance are forces that change people, circumstances, and situations. Fortunately, my family changed in a manner that opened their hearts and minds. For that I am grateful.

My grandma forgave me for racking up the phone bill, and met my soon-to-be husband many years later. I'll never forget the way her eyes lit up when she met him. She smiled the way grandmothers smile when they know you've found "the one". She was in her wheelchair and asked me to sit by her. She grabbed my arm and looked at me.

"Jason. He sure is handsome. You've found a lovely and nice man. I love you, and I wish you all the love you deserve."

That was the last conversation I had with her before she died.

Questions to Queer

I never asked to be queer, but it is through questions that I found it.

The Not So Silent Signs

He came all over my retainer when I was 11. Right after, my dad caught us doing the deed. None of us have ever spoken about the incident ever again. These are the not so silent signs that your life is queer.

What's Queerer?

  
It is a weird thing to find yourself one of a finite number. 18,000. My husband and I are one of 18,000 couples. What's queerer:

Being segregated from your own community by date?

Or not having these rights at all?

Or being a part of an institution that still doesn't recognize you?

Or believing that that institution has any validity or bearing on who I am?

Or not giving a fuck and claiming your own freedom?

Seeing More Than Gay

She was the love of my life for six plus years. I am queer because of my love for her. I was no longer gay because I loved the feel of her smooth, supple body next to me -- the way her breasts pushed against my back. She was not the first. She was the catalyst. I am forever indebted to her for showing me so much more than gay.

Now I Am...

There was a time when I was gay. There was a time when I was straight. Now, I am queer.

Coming Out Again, and Again, and Again

  
I came out at 18, but also at 8, 13, and again at 23. Each time, I found a new piece of myself and lost another. It was a constant opening and shutting of doors, of answering different people's knocks in the early morning hours. Partially, it has been about me and my identity. Partially, it has been about conforming to others' constructs. It is a vacillation between breaking free and being bound. In reality, I am still coming out. I always will.

Morning Prayer Revelations

  
Morning prayer was a ritual and requirement, and every morning I reluctantly attended hoping I would be forgiven of all that took place the day and night before. Instead, I was greeted by my fellow seminarians with "Hey fag, you shouldn't be here." Or "Look at that fucking queer." The ones who visited at the early morning hours were the loudest, especially him with the confederate flag. These men were and are the future of the Church.

Just Weird

 
I was called "faggot", "fag", and "fucking queer" from the sixth grade on. Before that, I was just "weird".

"and we're in love"

She came out to her parents.

"What? Isn't he gay," they asked.

"No," she said. "He's queer, and we're in love."

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.

Chuck and Charles in They Meet, Number One

 

Chuck and Charles is a monthly comic strip created by Queerly Complex Editor Jason Wyman that follows the exploits of two queers as they discover anonymous sex, missed connections, and synchronicity. To view the strip, click here.

Our Dance

 
We danced. It was simple and uncomplicated. I put my head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me closer. Antony was playing. We were in love.

We still are.

The Apology

 
He pulled me in to his office.

"Jason," he started, "you can't volunteer here or be a part of this church any more because you're gay. It isn't the message we want to send the youth."

"But I've been raised in this church. I went to school here. I teach Sunday School."

"I'm sorry. You can't do that any more. That's all I have to say."

Years later, he emailed an apology.

I still don't visit that church.