All right, no one’s going to get a million dollars off this, but considering where our comment count is, someone could get that copy of Velvet Goldmine that’s going for the 3,000th comment. The question:
Why are lesbian and bisexual women so into gay porn? Granted, generally not the hardcore stuff; it’s more written, or artwork, or even artistic photographs. (I’m not even into the hardcore stuff; porn just makes me giggle. Those faces they make…gods, I hope I don’t look that stupid during sex.) I kind of get it when it’s straight women; it’s the (more tasteful) equivalent of straight men getting their rocks off on lesbian porn, without the drool, grunting, and inevitable need for a wet wipe.
I’m not censuring; I’m just curious, and I’m interested in hearing you talk about your interests, why, what appeals to you, without feeling the need to defend yourself. It’s just something outside the realm of my experience; as a gay man I’m not so into lesbians or yuri fic/art/etc., so the rather large population of lesbians and bisexual women in the yaoi/shounen ai/slash community just baffles me. Since this is something I have no clue about, educate me. Be as honest and detailed as you want. If you’re not particularly interested in the attachments (or at least not interested in letting them anywhere near you, and you know, some days and with some guys I really can’t blame you), why is the erotic aspect of two men together so fascinating? Hell, if you straight or asexual girls want to throw in your perspective, too, knock yourselves out. Any story that’s worth telling is worth hearing.
Last night, while stripping Linux off my new Eee PC and loading Windows XP from an ISO (as much as it hurt, I love open source but the portable apps I need only run under Windows and don’t like Wine), for some reason my thoughts started straying towards my ex, Arturo - likely because of amusing memories of how completely technologically illiterate he is, and how he’d be horrified that I wiped the OS from a machine right out of the box without even hesitating. He and I were close friends in art school before we ever started dating; we lost everything for a while after he cheated, but after a few years slowly started rebuilding our friendship.
He’s in New York now, trying to finally make good on his graphic design degree, and I admit: I miss him. I don’t miss the man I used to date, but I do miss one of my best friends. It’s a rather odd sentiment for me. I don’t really keep in touch with my exes, though I’m still on friendly terms with some of them. Patrick, my first, is still a good friend that I don’t talk to often enough. I avoid Dave like the plague lest he beat me over the head with his cock ego and overwhelming need to prove himself superior. Cheung is best left alone; that much emo will choke a man, and he was honestly too young for us to have anything in common - plus I’d rather not have many reminders of my one-time adventure with borderline jailbait since I’m not particularly comfortable with feeling like a dirty old man. Takeshii…Takeshii is too complicated. It’s hard to be friends with someone that you at once love, hate, and pity. Then there’s Devon, but…that’s a story best left untold.
I wonder if it should bother me that I can’t even remember the others’ names.
I’m only 28 and I’ve been through enough men to last me a lifetime. Some serious, some not, a couple I’ve even considered tying the knot with, and I wonder if it’s a sign of our times that that’s not even considered particularly abnormal - and no, I don’t just mean the typical gay stereotype of sleeping around and going through men as if they were toilet paper. In this, heterosexuals and homosexuals have more in common than most people think.
The popular stereotype is that homosexuals are serial daters and sluts, while your average heterosexual only has a few relationships in a lifetime before committing to something. Frankly, that’s pure bullshit. Serial dating is common across all of society - in fact, it’s even promoted and made to look like some glamorous lifestyle by television, shows like Sex and the City and…well…anything prime time featuring attractive singles. Not only that, but there are plenty of people among gay and straight demographics demographics that date rarely, get involved in serious long-term relationships, or don’t date at all.
So I don’t know where this idea of gay promiscuity came from, this love ‘em and leave ‘em lifestyle where our partners are just faceless and disposable. We may have been a bit louder about certain sexual freedoms in the 70s, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t happening in straight society, too - and it’s still happening. Even though I’ve had several serious relationships, all lasting at least six months to a year, and even though I’ve blitzed through several brief flings where I figured out it wasn’t going to work after a few dates, weeks, or months…I’m not promiscuous. I didn’t sleep with every man I dated, I don’t jump in the sack on the first, second, or third date, and while I don’t remember all of their names…I do remember the ones I was serious about, and sometimes miss the friendships that we had before we ever tried for something more.
Have I had a few one night stands? Yes. There are times where you just need to feel someone’s touch, need to feel wanted, whether it’s to sate the itch or soothe an ache that runs deeper than the physical. That’s normal. That’s part of everyone’s life, the daily loves, losses, triumphs and regrets that come with trudging through each year and trying to figure out where we’re going only to end it realizing that half the fun of life is being lost. So I refuse to be vilified for being just like everyone else, save for in the gender of my loves and lovers.
I am just like you in my right to love, and even in my right to fail at love as I try with various people, looking for just the right fit.
So when you’re pointing your finger at me…remember that I’m just a mirror of you, pointing a finger right back.
Sorry for a late-night update, everyone. Still working on this “What? I have to make my own schedule?” thing. That, and I’m still not quite back into the swing of things here. I’d hate to have to think that so soon after my 1-year anniversary with 451, I’d have to give DR up…but it’s starting to look that way. I’ve just got too many other things to do, I’m not really feeling it anymore, and sometimes remembering to update every day is more trouble than it’s worth, because eventually you run out of things to say. I never want to be one of those people who ends up beating the horse into the ground whining on about the same old crap with a slightly different spin. I don’t know. I need to think about it for a long time, and in the meantime, keep updating every day anyway because who knows when something might light a fire under my arse.
While I think about that, I’ve got something for a particular reader (who wishes to remain anonymous) to think about: an answer to an “Ask Adri” question.
Dear Adri,
Ever since my sister came out as a lesbian we have been drifting apart. I am afraid that because she is gay and I am straight we will not be friends anymore. We were always very close but now we have nothing in common. Talking is hard. She says nothing is wrong but we don’t do things together anymore. I don’t want to lose her but she’s leaving for college soon and I’m afraid it will get worse when she’s gone. How do I fix this?
Thank you
Lonely Sista
Really, this sounds more typical of siblings everywhere regardless of sexuality; as you age and discover who you are and where your interests lie, you’re going to end up drifting apart a little and no longer having as much common ground. You won’t always want to do things together; it’s just a matter of making sure that the path of communication is open in case you both should ever want to, and for whenever you want to talk about the directions that your lives are taking.
Do you think I always hated my sisters? I really didn’t. In fact, I still have the stuffed bear that my eldest sister gave me the day I was brought home from the hospital, and despite my feelings towards them now, that bear still holds quite a bit of sentimental value for me. I used to idolize my sisters, and they thought I was a pretty cute little bugger to have toddling around at their heels, too, as long as they didn’t have to change my diapers (and who in hell would want to?). As I grew older, though, and started developing interests of my own and establishing myself as a separate person with his own opinions, they weren’t quite sure what to do with someone who was an actual entity to be dealt with rather than just a physical representation of “oh my god baby brother and the DIMPLES SO CUTE!!!” We started drifting apart long before I knew my sexuality. Confusion over what to do with each other as people instead of childishly limited extensions of ourselves created distance, uncertainty over the cause of the distance caused fights, and those fights led to a widening rift that we never really healed and that turned into a permanent separation once I left my family behind.
The point of that? It’s a cautionary tale because anyone with an iota of common sense could have seen that coming from a mile away - anyone on the outside of the situation with zero emotional investment in it, anyway. As you and your sister establish yourselves as separate and unique (hello, special snowflake), the differences between you are going to seem more acute, and it’s going to seem easy to blame them for a sudden breakdown in communications. Don’t. The only thing stopping the two of you from talking is you and her, a little misunderstanding, and a lot of misguided and idiotic oversensitivity.
So talk to her, and make sure she knows that no matter how either of you changes, she’s always welcome to talk back to you - about anything, including anything that may be on her mind, troubles that might have nothing to do with you or her lesbianism and may be the real root behind her distance. It may be that she’d welcome your input, or a shoulder. It could even be that she’s uncertain of her welcome now that she’s out, and being tentative about exposing too many parts of her life that might make you too uncomfortable. Make sure she knows that you’re fine with it, but don’t start trumpeting a big parade, either. Normalcy is the key.
So forget on focusing on her lesbianism. There’s really no reason to see that when you look at her, other than just accepting it as a part of her as innocuous as the length of her nose. Focus on her, instead, and on being happy for her that her life is branching out, just as yours. When you’re old women with many fat nieces and nephews between you, it’ll just give you more stories to share over hot cocoa (rum spiking optional). As long as her problem isn’t that she wants to make hot incestuous monkey love with you (and I doubt she does, no matter how hard various straight men wish), you should be okay.
With or without marshmallows,
-Adri
Have a question you’d like to see answered on Ask Adri? E-mail your question to adrien-luc.sanders@451press.net with the subject “Ask Adri Question” or use the Contact Form to send your question in.
In the comments to Tuesday’s post, Mizuki highlighted a very good point: We, the gay community and our supporters, don’t have any real leader to follow. We don’t have a Martin Luther King, a Sojourner Truth, a Moses to lead us out of Egypt.
All right, that’s a little dramatic, but the point stands: we don’t have a single person to rally behind enough to give us faith, and regardless of your religious beliefs, faith in something is what drives you to get things done. Faith, motivation, a single unified message that says “We are one, we shall stand, we shall fight.” Instead we’re divided into a dozen, a thousand petty groups that squabble among each other just as much as we rail against the opposition; we can’t agree on anything, let alone which issue to tackle first. We’re too widespread, too preoccupied with other things, too many of us hidden, too many of us trapped in a feeling of helplessness. Martin Luther King could unify people across a nation. Who could do that for us?
Unfortunately, I can’t think of a single name off the bat. Some might say Barack Obama, as he is a charismatic bugger who tends to rally people to blindly support him - but while he might gather support in some areas, I don’t really see him as someone to lead on gay issues should he obtain the presidency. Same with Hillary, despite her pledges…and honestly, I can’t see myself following a call to action from any politician, unless they were so radically different that I actually felt that I could identify with them - and despite sharing a highly mixed heritage with Obama, I can’t identify with him. Don’t get me started on Hillary.
In the gay rights movement, I can’t even name anyone still living who’s made enough of an impact or any kind of significant contribution that I might even care who they are. A lot of that has to do with today’s social structure; if you aren’t a celebrity or a politician, people don’t pay attention to you and so few hear of your achievements no matter how major they may be. It’s a lot harder to lead a movement these days; people are too apathetic, too distracted by their cars, mortgages, and kids, too afraid to take a risk. Most would-be leaders - evangelists of the gay movement - give up before they even get very far, because trying to rally people to action is like trying to wade through sludge as thick as molten lead.
So enlighten me, since I admit that I’m somewhat sheltered and possibly just as apathetic. Is there someone you’d follow? Is there someone who could stand behind a podium and raise his or her voice to stir you to action and rouse your blood? If it came down to descending on Washington, gathering numbers greater than even the Million Man March:
I’m late posting today, again. Not because I was busy (although I was), or because the news is particularly uneventful; not even because the earth (or Wacom customer service) opened up and swallowed me whole into its gaping and fetid gullet.
I’m late because I’m damn tired of beating a dead horse and sounding like a broken record.
I’ve been thinking about this all morning, and realizing that it goes deeper than that; it’s not just me. I’m sick of listening to the very people that I want to fight for, the people I call my sisters and brothers in arms in the fight for gay rights. I’m sick of hearing (and saying) the same tired things over and over again with new names substituted in, the same story, the same tired old whinge. It’s all talk and very little action. I’m sick of listening to people beat the horse to death, only to spend hours more flaying the dead horse.
And then coming back to it again days later.
No wonder people don’t listen to us. No wonder people don’t take us seriously. We aren’t activists; we’re pretentious, self-entitled whiners, and it pisses me the hell off.
Talk will only get us so far when we’re too timid and afraid to do anything. Hold a parade, send a few angry letters now and then, then move back to our safe little lives, our PT cruisers and our nonfat lattes. Stay out of the line of fire. Look out for ourselves, and screw ourselves over in the process.
No.
Take a risk. Do something, no matter how small, to place yourself in the line of fire. Martin Luther King was a great speaker, a moving speaker, a man who could rouse people to action - because he was willing to take action himself, for the sake of his cause. He wasn’t afraid. He didn’t hide. We have no one like him, no single man or woman to rally behind. We’re too busy fighting among ourselves, then placating ourselves by screaming loudly now and then about how active we are in the gay community.
Words aren’t meant to be shouted just to be heard. Words are meant to carry a message. If you fight with words, fight with words that make people think. Fight with words that make people listen, rather than just complaining. Say something that means something, rather than just reciting the same old empty lines. Fight with words that matter.
And if you won’t rally behind someone else, rally behind yourself. Even if it’s a small thing, even if it’s being brave and standing up to someone who casts a slur on your life, your love, your very existence…do something. Something more than words. Something that will leave a lasting impact on someone, something that will make them stop and say, “They’re serious. They mean this; it matters to them, and this isn’t just some self-important parade.”
Don’t do it because you should. Do it because you want to; do it because you feel it from your gut. And if you don’t feel strongly enough about it to do anything, then don’t whine about it, either.
Put up or shut up. But let the goddamned horse rest in peace.
Hi. This may be disjointed, because I’m tired as hell and ready to crawl off somewhere, curl up, and pass out (and I can’t, too much work to do). But I want to post today anyway, partially because I said I would, and partially because there’s something on my mind that’s been bothering me.
I’m a member of several online writers’ groups, mostly geared towards fantasy and science fiction. The groups discuss techniques, favorite authors, genre standards, and all sorts of other things related to writing, trying to get published, trying to find an agent, the whole hoobalah. They also critique each others’ stories; I say “they” because I don’t really participate. I’m a little shy after a bad experience with a rather tyrannical mod in the first group I ever joined (no, I don’t know anything about being a tyrannical mod, do I, Indikaze and Sihaya?). Sometimes I join in the discussion if I have anything to contribute, but otherwise I stay quiet and just listen. Sometimes I learn things. Sometimes I wonder what the hell they’re smoking. It’s always an interesting experience, despite the occasional inevitable online wank.
Yesterday, though, I stayed quiet on something that I wish I hadn’t kept my mouth shut on, even though it’s a small thing and really wasn’t even related to the topic of the discussion. It was related to how commonly accepted it is to loudly express disgust at any display of homosexual contact, and it came innocently enough; it probably doesn’t help that I don’t like the guy who posted it, since he’s a self-important twit who joins every discussion with a long diatribe about how his way of doing things is better than the established industry standard. He’s unique, he’s a groundbreaker, no one understands his genius, he’s a special twatwaffle of a snowflake who needs to be smacked upside the head with a frozen mackerel. I think, though, that I would have been a little bothered no matter who said it, my dislike of him notwithstanding.
The discussion involved how various writers describe fight scenes in novels, and how some of them have obviously never swung a punch in their lives or even observed combat to try to capture some sense of realism without overdetailing. The discussion moved on to things like wrestling (actual wrestling competitions, not WWF-style sensationalism) and how referees will often break grapple holds that might otherwise go on for hours in a traditional competition while the two competitors struggle to gain even a micron’s advantage. Hour-long grapple holds are boring, apparently, and the audience might leave. The comment made was that he (the poster that I don’t like) probably wouldn’t mind watching two people locked in a pornographic position for an hour at a time, but (caps emphasis his)…TWO GUYS? Ugh.
It made me twitch. I would understand if he just expressed something along the lines of a simplified version of “I’m straight so I’m not interested in watching two guys dry hump each others’ faces”; I’m gay, so I’m not interested in watching two women dry hump each others’ faces and can understand. It was the tone of disgust and rejection that just made me pause and want to say, “Does the idea of two men being that close bother you somehow? Because you know, some of us might take issue with that sentiment.” It’s his right to feel that way. It’s just bothersome that it’s so common to casually express that as if it’s normal to say such things, and no one should mind that he’s publicly displaying disgust towards homosexual preferences.
Why didn’t I say anything? Because again, it’s his right to feel that way, and if it comes down to a matter of free speech and a matter of defending my demographic, I’m almost always going to choose free speech as long as the things said aren’t actively causing harm beyond a slightly worked nerve. That and I never want to be one of those obnoxiously oversensitive people who jumps on everyone for the slightest hint of anti-gay sentiment, no matter how loosely implied (or even inferred, because who knows what the person may have intended to imply). There has to be a line drawn between encouraging acceptance and being a complete and total twat.
At the same time, it stuck with me because it’s a symptom of a larger problem: that it is so common to casually revile all things gay, right down to the dreaded “that’s so gay” derision. It’s ingrained in people as part of normal social speech, and it eats at me until I wish I had said something, anything, just to politely point out that while he may not have intended to be hateful, he could be a little bit more tactful and it would be greatly appreciated. Just one little thing to calmly make one person aware that no, even casual unconscious gay-bashing is not acceptable.
But I didn’t, because it’s such a small battle and so open to interpretation that it’s not worth it; within a day I’ll forget about it like I do every time I catch something like that in conversation. It rarely sticks with me and makes me think for this long. I may notice, but I’m not that sensitive - and these people don’t really affect my life so I care for maybe the few milliseconds it takes to really process what they said. If it’s said as a joke, I even laugh my ass off; I’m the last person to really care about political correctness, and when I know the person’s intent I can take just about anything they might say no matter how offensive. It’s when they’re serious that I have to grit my teeth and bite my tongue.
So I wonder what it will take to make me stop and speak up. How bad will it have to get before I lose either my sense of humor or my sense of perspective and say “Hey, man, that’s not cool”?
How do you decide when you should defend yourself and when you shouldn’t?
Thomas Beatie has been on my mind a lot lately, mainly because I’ve been wondering what I would do in his situation, and if I could even go through with what he’s doing. One question led to another, and suddenly a million chaotic theories and thoughts were chasing each other around my mind, issues related to reproductive rights, societal behavior… everything. And out of that came more questions still - well, you see where this is going. Although these are questions that I asked myself (or more like rationalized out along a train of thought), I’d like to ask you as well. I’ll provide my own answers below each question; I’d like to hear your answers in the comments.
1. If you’re male or FtM, imagine that you’re capable of conceiving and carrying a child to term. If you’re female or MtF, imagine that you’re capable of impregnating a partner. If you could and your partner wanted it (whether it’s the only option for childbirth or one of many), would you?
Not just no, hell no - mainly because children give me the creepy-crawlies and I’m about as child-friendly as ball pool filled with rusty razor blades. I think people should have the right to pursue such avenues (such as a transwoman impregnating a biological female, or a transmale being impregnated by a biological male/artificial insemination) if that’s what makes them happiest, as it shouldn’t matter how the child was brought into the world or which parent was involved in what part of conception as long as neither parent was harmed and the child is wanted and happy. I just couldn’t do it myself, and any partner who asked me to wouldn’t be someone I’d end up with long-term, because it tends to ruin relationships if your partner doesn’t respect your decisions about children - whether you want them or not. Besides, I may have an extremely high pain threshold, but not high enough to squeeze something the size of a basketball out of any orifice of my body. No thank you, though I admire those who can.
2. Do you believe that doctors have the right to refuse treatment to patients based on their personal beliefs?
Again, hell no. I think doctors have a moral obligation above their personal beliefs, and that moral obligation is to see to the health and well-being of all their patients - which means performing procedures that they might not morally agree with. Can you imagine what would have happened to Thomas Beatie if every available doctor refused to treat his ectopic pregnancy because of personal beliefs? He could have died. The obligation to a patient’s life and its preservation stands far above any personal or religious beliefs. As long as the procedure is not damaging to the patient’s or anyone else’s mental or physical well-being, then yes, the doctor is obligated to perform it, and perform it to the best of their abilities. I can’t refuse to do one of my writing projects just because I object to my client’s obnoxiously masturbatory self-image based on my personal beliefs, and my work doesn’t even affect one’s health.
This can get into shady grey areas when it comes to optional procedures such as cosmetic surgeries or gender reassignment surgeries, but I’ll cover that in my answer to the next question, as I think that relates to safeguarding the patient’s mental well-being as well when it comes to allowing them to live happily as their chosen self without the struggles (depression, stress, etc.) that can come from being denied what they need.
3. Specifically in relation to reproductive rights: Do you think that doctors have the right to refuse to perform vasectomies on men or hysterectomies, tubal ligations, or implantation of contraceptive devices in women and FtMs based on their eligibility to breed?
…only in very specific situations, and only with consultation from an unbiased outside party.
Before you crucify me: I think that anyone, male or female, should have full control of their bodies and definitely of their reproductive systems - but I do understand somewhat why some doctors deny patients. Many doctors have been victims of malpractice suits by patients who said they wanted a certain surgery, then years later changed their minds, couldn’t have it reversed, and sued their doctor for allowing them to go through with the decision and rendering them unable to conceive. That’s one reason that doctors often deny people who are still of safe childbearing age.
But there are other reasons that I really can’t agree with - mainly patriarchal and religious stances that value a person’s ability to breed above the person themselves, their desires, and their health. Even if it would make them miserable, even if they’re staunchly against ever having children and are quite certain of their own minds, they’re told placidly that they’ll change their minds (because of course everyone wants children, it’s inconceivable that someone wouldn’t) and denied contraceptive surgeries…even if they’re getting them not to avoid children, but to transition from one gender to the other. Some people even view people who have such surgeries as sluts, who just want those surgeries so they can have indiscriminate sex with anyone and anything moving.
Those views, restrictive and condescending and dehumanizing, I cannot abide. Yes, some people do change their minds and regret it later, because they made hasty, impulsive decisions - but there are people capable of making up their minds after lengthy self-analysis, and there are perfectly normal, respectable people who just don’t want children. Ever.
The problem arises when asking a doctor to determine which is which. While a physician or surgeon is a licensed health professional, not so many serve double duty as a licensed mental health professional, capable of determining if a person is capable of making this decision in an educated adult fashion. The easiest way is just to say no, period, unless they can determine that the person is in actual physical danger and requires the procedure.
Or you could just bring in a licensed therapist.
Seriously; that would keep everyone’s balls out of the grinder. Why not make 6 months of professional therapy a pre-surgical requirement? The therapist would counsel the person on their reasons for wanting surgery to remove or limit their reproductive organs, whether it’s gender reassignment or just a serious desire not to have children, make them aware of the eventualities and pitfalls, ask all the right questions so that they analyze their motivations and don’t make the wrong decision…and at the end of the six months, determine if they’re in sound enough mind to be certain of the decision. At the end of the 6 months, both the therapist and the patient sign off on the counseling, with the patient also agreeing that they still stand by their decision and thus can’t sue the therapist or surgeon for malpractice. With that signature from the therapist, the doctor should then be bound by law to perform the procedure.
Wishful thinking, eh? Then again, there’s also the problem that the burden of personal beliefs then shifts to the therapist, who could still make judgments based on personal beliefs whether they’re supposed to or not and even though they’re trained to offer counsel without personal influence.
Then again, it’s my experience that mental health professionals are better equipped to handle these things than doctors, and can be a bit less biased…or at least put aside their bias more easily.
…now stop looking at me like that. I went to therapy voluntarily for a few months so I could kick my familial issues to the curb and get on with my life. I’m crazy, but I’m not that crazy.
So what are your answers? Would you, could you, should you?
Major Alan Rogers was an intelligence officer who trained Iraqi soldiers. An IED in Baghdad killed him while he was out on patrol. On March 14, he was buried in Arlington National Cemetery.
The Washington Post reported at the time that Rogers’ commanding officer wrote to his family: “As God would have it, he shielded two men who probably would have been killed if Alan had not been there.”
According to the Washington Blade, Rogers was also treasurer of the D.C. chapter of the American Veterans for Equal Rights, which works to overturn the ban on gays and lesbians serving openly in the military.
Because Rogers, it turns out, was gay.
Some, such as Andrew Sullivan, have been quite critical of the fact that Rogers’ orientation has been omitted from media accounts of his death.
Writes Andrew: “to enforce the closet even after his death cannot be explained except by a view that somehow being gay is shameful or private. I can see why outing someone who is alive and closeted is unethical; inning someone who is dead and was out is a function of utterly misplaced sensitivity, rooted in well-intentioned but incontrovertible homophobia.”
It may seem strange, but at first I took the other side. Gay or straight doesn’t matter when you gave your life in defense of your country and to save the lives of others; to act as if being gay somehow made his act more noble than it would have been if he was straight is a bit of a double standard, even if it does take a bit more gall to willingly lay down your life for a country that says “I don’t want you.” But he could have gotten out at any time. He could have publicly outed himself beyond his participation in a group striving for equality and been dismissed, and he didn’t. He chose to remain quiet, stay, and serve his country. That, along with how he lost his life, makes Major Rogers someone to be respected.
And it was that line of thinking that turned me around and made me think, “Then maybe yes, people do deserve to know; it was a part of who he was, and it shouldn’t be omitted from his life after his death.” But I still balk at this; maybe it’s my views that we’re so much more than our orientation, and I’m sick of us being boxed in as gay first and everything else after. Major Rogers was far more than a gay man and activist, and yet were those things to be mentioned in his obituary, that’s all that many of the general public would see. They wouldn’t see an honorable man who fought for others, a son, a brother, an uncle, a friend, a compatriot - whatever he was to so many people.
All they would see is a gay man, and the stereotype flung over that like a cloak to hide everything else that he was.
Is it right? No. Does that change that it’s a popular perception that too many of us perpetuate? Unfortunately, no. And would everyone think that about Rogers if his obituary had made mention of his sexuality? Of course not. America isn’t a hive mind and people have diverse perceptions and beliefs, and many people know that being gay isn’t something that you have to hide or be ashamed of - just as many people are violently opposed to it. So I can’t agree or disagree with the decision to leave his sexuality and activism out of his obituary. On one hand it would have given hope to other gay servicemembers, and maybe even shown some of those “don’t ask, don’t tell” proponents that he didn’t ask, he didn’t tell…but he still gave his life for them, and a gay man was just as good as they are.
On the other hand, it could have brought down unnecessary prejudice on his family in a time of grief when they didn’t need to deal with anything more. And in the eyes of many, it would have demoted him from a brave, honorable soldier to “just another fag.” Maybe mentioning it in his obituary would have been an act of defiance against the prejudiced. Maybe it would have been pointless. And maybe it would have just been another nuance on his life, that didn’t make a wave at all.
So I don’t know what to think. I don’t know which way to stand. The only thing I can say for certain is this:
Out of necessity caused by the wife’s inability to conceive due to medical issues, the infant was conceived through artificial insemination and will be carried to term inside the husband’s womb.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that many of my fellow 451 Press-ers were shocked, disconcerted, or downright confused; one even said that the child should never know that her father gave birth to her that way, as it might confuse her - a stance I disagree with vehemently, although I respect the writer enough to know that she has valid reasons for that opinion, and respect her right to that opinion.
To me, this didn’t seem so odd - but then again, I’m biased. 60% of my extended circle of acquaintances and a couple of my closer friends are transmen or transwomen, so I’m quite used to the gender-bending oddities that happen when their gender identities clash with their birth anatomy. I’ve had to be the “wing man” escorting a transguy into the men’s bathroom for the first time so he wouldn’t get nervous and run, and to warn him if anyone came in who might notice that the feet associated with the tinkling in the stall were turned in the opposite direction. I even know a gay transman who stopped his hormones so he could conceive a child by his biologically male partner, so they could have a baby that was part of both of them. It didn’t phase me. Hell, I even sent him to a trans-friendly physician; my doctor works at the local GBLTQ clinic and is pretty open to most things, so I figured he wouldn’t have a problem with dealing with a pregnant transman. I was right. And my friend was lucky.
This young man and his wife, however, have had to deal with hell.
Doctors have discriminated against us, turning us away due to their religious beliefs. Health care professionals have refused to call me by a male pronoun or recognize Nancy as my wife. Receptionists have laughed at us. Friends and family have been unsupportive; most of Nancy’s family doesn’t even know I’m transgender.
This whole process, from trying to get pregnant to being pregnant, has been a challenge for us. The first doctor we approached was a reproductive endocrinologist. He was shocked by our situation and told me to shave my facial hair. After a $300 consultation, he reluctantly performed my initial checkups. He then required us to see the clinic’s psychologist to see if we were fit to bring a child into this world and consulted with the ethics board of his hospital. A few months and a couple thousand dollars later, he told us that he would no longer treat us, saying he and his staff felt uncomfortable working with “someone like me.”
“Someone like me.” And yet someone like him was perfectly good enough to take a few thousand dollars from while stringing them along, wasn’t he?
It’s amazing how cruel people can be out of ignorance and misunderstanding. I know it’s a struggle to deal with concepts like this; I was confused by it at first myself, and have only come to really understand through good friendships and years of exposure to the point where it’s quite commonplace. But I can’t believe that anyone would deny this couple the right to have a child that’s at least partly their own through the means they have available. It isn’t Thomas’s fault that he was born with a body unsuited to him, and had to take what measures he could to be comfortable in his skin. And it isn’t his fault that he and his wife took advantage of the resources they had available in order to build a family.
Transpeople, just like gay people, straight people, bisexual people…all have the right to build a family to nurture and love. I don’t know the words to explain how much it upsets me to see doctors letting their personal religious values obstruct their medical ethics and basic human compassion, denying Thomas and his wife that right to a family. They could adopt, yes - but why should they have to, when this alternative is available? If Thomas feels secure enough to do this, why do people scorn and deride him? Are traditional male/female values and perceptions so important to the root functions of society that people can’t put their preconceptions and stereotypes aside long enough to be happy for the couple that they even have the ability to do this?
I know, gender is defined by biology. A penis is a penis and a vagina is a vagina, and if you have one or the other then you can’t deny that it exists. It’s part of reproduction and it’s a hard fact that people, whether trans or not, have to live with. Transwomen can change their biology much more easily than transmen, due to modern surgical techniques; they can’t reproduce, but they can at least create functional, cosmetically acceptable sexual organs. Transmen aren’t so lucky. Modern surgery hasn’t caught up to them just yet, so while transwomen can work their way past the “gender defined by biology” thing, most transmen can’t. But they live as best they can, and do the most they can - and they can’t be blamed for that. All they can do is be happy with their efforts and hope for social acceptance, because it’s better than doing nothing at all and living miserably as someone they don’t want to be. For them gender isn’t just biology; it’s chemistry and psychology, part of the mental chemicals that define us, our personalities, as male, female, or other. Most people don’t understand that, and don’t understand that the limitations enforced on them don’t make them any less male.
It’s not just society in general, though. Even Thomas’s brother had something unpleasant to say about his first attempt at pregnancy:
When I finally got pregnant for the first time, I ended up having an ectopic pregnancy with triplets. It was a life-threatening event that required surgical intervention, resulting in the loss of all embryos and my right fallopian tube. When my brother found out about my loss, he said, “It’s a good thing that happened. Who knows what kind of monster it would have been.”
I’m no obstetrician, but I’ve done a little reading on ectopic pregnancies, trying to see if it was possible for a baby to be born deformed from one and thus validate his brother’s comments a little more beyond callous cruelty. Unfortunately…no. An ectopic pregnancy will either resolve itself and result in a healthy birth, or has to be ended via medicinal or surgical means. Either a healthy baby is born, or none at all.
So Thomas’s brother is just an asshole.
If no one else will say “good for you, Thomas and Nancy”, then I will. I think it’s goddamned amazing that the pair can do something like this, and no, I don’t think it invalidates Thomas’s masculinity in the slightest. Hell, he could be seen as being the typical man: Mr. Fix-It, using the tools he has available to fix a problem rather than bringing in outside help. They’re fighting to create a family. I think that’s pretty damned awesome.
I’m not even a family person. I recently just told my family to go to hell yet again because my mother wanted to bring me home and set up viewings for me like I was some kind of sideshow freak, with approved lists of people who were allowed in to see the gay in his cage. I don’t want a family of my own. No children, no husband, though I wouldn’t mind a serious significant other. Traditional family units make me twitch in distaste at the wholesomeness and leave a bit of the taste of old Malt-O-Meal fermenting in the back of my throat. But I’m pushing that aside to hope beyond hope that Thomas and Nancy can build a stable, normal family, raise their daughter happily, and just by achieving that, give the f*cking finger to everyone who laughed at them or held them back.
This post was again inspired by Anji and her LJ post; maybe she should take over this site. (Or maybe I should get my arse in gear and get caught up on work so I can think of post topics on my own.) Since so many people seem to think that gays have some terrible agenda, from secret conspiracies to undermine the Christian church to being the new threat to the free world (and let’s not forget ruining the traditional family and discriminating against straight people)…maybe it’s about time to show people what gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transfolk really think about when we’re plotting our day-to-day agenda. And hell, if you’re straight…what’s your agenda? Gay genocide? Conversion therapy? No? I didn’t think so.
My gay agenda:
Turn your children gay by age five. Become a published fiction author by the time I’m 30.
Destroy your faith in God. Make my move to Chicago (almost there, already booked the movers).
End you and all that you love, you filthy heteros. Continue to improve my writing skills.
Ruin good moral values by having lots and lots of unprotected sex. Keep myself healthy for as long as I can.
Crumble the foundations of families by getting married. Look after those that I care about.
Spread disease by fucking like a filthy little monkey with anything that moves. Make more time to read, as I don’t do it nearly enough lately.
Do a lot of drugs. And give them to your children. Learn to bellydance.
Take over Congress and make it illegal to be straight. …finish this frigging project that’s due by 1p CST today.
So that’s my agenda for the next few days, months, years…whatever. That’s what I think about when I think of things I plan to do. I suppose when you look at that as a gay agenda, we don’t seem like such terrible fiends (as long as you don’t read between certain lines and take a little tongue-in-cheek humor too seriously… >.>). Too bad we can’t get a few homophobes to understand that.
It’s 11:34a, and I’m sitting in the food court of the Sharpstown Center a few blocks from the library. Today was my first day walking the nearly three miles from my apartment to the library; I thought, carrying the laptop bag, that it would take me about an hour and a half. It took me fifty minutes, and here I am killing time until the library opens at noon. My shoulders ache a little; the laptop’s heavy. My eyes sting from walking on a major street for almost an hour with dirty air blowing into my eyes and irritating my contact lenses. My hair is a mess, but this time I had the sense to use better gel. My nostrils are full of the scent of wild onion flowers, more potent than I’ve smelled since childhood summers playing in my grandmother’s backyard in Ponchatoula, Louisiana.
For some reason those years and that place were on my mind today - likely because as I walked, I passed dozens of children and teenagers. Everyone’s out on break and enjoying the sun paired with the cool spring wind; it’s a lovely day. Arrogant boys with that swagger that owns the world jerked their chins at me in passing on the sidewalk; harried mothers shepherded their children along and smiled in acknowledgment when I stepped onto the grass so they could pass without hindrance. Most of the children looked happy, chattering gaily with their friends. A few isolated themselves, held back from the others and keeping, for the most part, quiet. They didn’t seem miserable; just…separate, as if there was something that set them apart from their friends.
I want to say that I remember that feeling, but in truth, it’s barely a shadow of recollection, faded by time. I’ve said before that I didn’t even know what homosexuality was until my early teens; I had no idea what the word was for why I felt just a little different from my peers - why when one of my closest neighborhood friends started noticing girls, I subtly started noticing him. The thing was, I didn’t care. Although I have a bad history with my family, I didn’t have an unhappy childhood despite being poor. I wasn’t a miserable outcast, isolated at an early age by my sexuality; that didn’t come until my preteen years, and that was more caused by my surly attitude, smart mouth, and budding misanthropy. It wasn’t because of any inner knowledge of difference, isolation. Many people say they knew, from the moment they became self-aware. I didn’t. And I didn’t need to.
What I knew, as a child, was that I could catch dragonflies by the wings, holding them carefully until they got used to my touch and would settle on my finger without coercion, only to start and fly away if I moved too fast. I knew that pine trees were all wrong for tree houses, but for ground-level clubhouses it was always best to layer a thick sheaf of fresh green needles over the outside of the structure and stick it in place with the thick, resinous sap, so that water would sheet off and it would be safe to take shelter from the rain. I knew that if you plucked the stems of wild clover flowers and tied them around each other, you could make a necklace that would leave pollen all over your shirt and fill your nose with its sweet, musty scent all day. I knew the smell of thick swamp mud, the faint bubble that pops to the surface right before a mud turtle comes floating up to stumble into my grip, the wet squish of a crawfish’s mud cone as I kicked it over with my sneakers. I knew skinned knees and Sega on a rainy day at O’Neil’s house, and going home to the soft, homemade sugar cookies that my mother always baked no matter how tired or angry she was.
I knew all I needed to know, as a child. I didn’t know that I was gay, and I wouldn’t have wanted to - not in this world, in this time. I was a child for as long as I could be, blissfully unaware and wearing my heart on my sleeve, unaware of the hurt and the wonder, the struggle and the beauty, that could come from one single word that has, in many ways, shaped my life since then.
And no matter how many people proudly proclaim that they’ve known since they were toddlers…
I’m busy and working my head off, so you know what that means: it’s survey time again! Normally I do an “Ask Adri” when I’m busy or the news is slow, and gods know I’ve got a backlog of reader questions, but right now I’ve got work coming out the effin’ culo and don’t even have time for that. So…
We all know that I make no secret of the fact that I’m gay, even when it isn’t blatantly obvious. I don’t bring it up as a point of introduction (”Hi, I’m Adri, I’m cranky, and I’m gay!” …I think not) or walk around with a rainbow flag stuck in my hat, but if someone asks, I don’t try to hide it. Hell, I write this column under my real name, and on my public writing blog I make no secret of the fact that I’m a gay author who likes to focus on minorities (whether by sexuality or ethnicity) as protagonists. Sure, sometimes it gets negative reactions, but thankfully in my line of work I have the freedom not to worry about job security because I don’t have to deal with my employers face to face and they don’t care as long as I don’t make them look bad all over the internet - and as far as social situations, well, I don’t really want to be around anyone who’d have a problem with my sexuality anyway, so it works as a good screen-out factor to catch 50% of the human drek. When it comes to family…well, we just won’t go there. Suffice to say I stopped caring what my family thought of me a long time ago.
There is the fear factor, wondering if anyone would cause me bodily harm out of prejudice, but…screw fear. I just don’t care. I am who I am, and that’s the way it’s going to be, for better or for worse. But not everyone feels that way, and some people are less open than others. So survey says…
Gay, Bi, Lesbian, or Transgendered: How “out” are you?
(a) I’m so far in the closet I can’t even see the light.
(b) I’m out to a few close people, but no one else.
(c) I’m out to my friends, but not to my family or in the workplace.
(d) I’m out to friends and family, but not in the workplace.
(e) I’m all over the place, baby. Out and proud and just a little loud.
(f) I’m out, but not declaratively so; I make no efforts to hide it, but
don’t announce it, either.
(g) I’m straight. The only closet I worry about is the one with my
clothes in it.
(h) I’m straight, but closeted anyway because for some reason I
decided to pretend to be gay/bi/lesbian/trans/etc. (Hey, this
happens.)
(i) I’m asexual, you insensitive bastard.
(j) Other/will explain in comments.
My answer’s mostly F, but with a little of E when I start to get defiant about it. Although maybe I wouldn’t be so open if I ever had to fear ending up featured in a homophobic Polish political speech…
Erk, I’ve gotta run. ~flees~
P.S. Hikaru, I swear to gods if you respond to this before you’ve had at least eight hours of sleep, I’m flying out there to shiv you. Rest, you psycho.
Unsurprisingly, most of the limited circle of friends allowed past my cantankerous, defensive personal space barrier are gay, lesbian, bi, or trans. Well, perhaps that is a bit surprising, considering my criticisms of prevalent shallow, judgmental behavior in the gay community - but you tend to meet like minds in places like art school. In art school I met fun, relaxed, quirky people all across the GBLTQ spectrum, and held on to quite a few friends from those years. Through them I met others, and have built a close inner circle of people who avoid triggering my typical reaction of “Don’t make me stab you with my f&#$ing pencil” every time they open their mouths.
Because of that, though, I’m admittedly sheltered from straight people. Most of the straight people I know are via my LiveJournal friends list online, and I can’t really say I know them beyond what they choose to share of their lives in daily, weekly, or monthly posts. We have little in common, in truth. We have different interests, different perspectives, different approaches to life - but then, that’s what makes them interesting, and why I enjoy reading their posts. A recent kerfluffle over at LiveJournal (yes, another one, they just can’t stop) regarding censoring of interests brought up an interesting divide, though, one addressed by Anji (yes, our own raging lesbian Republican commenter) in her journal: more straight people are offended by the censoring of words like “gay” and “yaoi” among popular interests than gay people. Gay people just don’t care.
It startled me to realize that she’s right, at least in my case. I don’t care. I didn’t care about the fact that LiveJournal might be practicing homophobic censorship during the Harry Potter fanart / ponderosa121 / boldthrough / strikethrough / do-we-really-need-to-rehash-this incident beyond the fact that it was arbitrary censorship of art in general with flawed judgments of “artistic merit”, because as far as gay rights go, it’s just not an issue.
Another reader once brought up her view that straight people don’t go out of their way to support us; in fact, they do. Straight people will raven and rant over things that don’t even make us blink, and yet will shy away from the larger issues that require more work than loud protest and posting angry diatribes online. It’s not that they don’t mean well; they’re just misguided, and so eager to defend and be pro-gay that they miss out on the things that really matter, focusing so intently on single pixels that they miss the bigger picture. (Yeah, I know, that was lame.)
There’s a clear divide between the gay community’s idea of what matters to us, and the straight community’s idea of what matters to us. It’s unavoidable, considering that we approach issues of gay rights, freedom, and censorship from wholly different perspectives, pitting internal vs. external.
It’s not a universal problem, of course. There are plenty of straight advocates who don’t sweat the small things and labor right alongside the gay community in tackling those massive issues that will take years of work and struggle to unravel, and I think if we could educate more people in the straight community about key goals for gay rights before they toss on their boxing gloves and dive into the ring, then we might make more progress under more clearly focused efforts - because for the most part, the general population just doesn’t get it. That’s why gay news coverage in major media is so sensationalist and yet oddly spotty and dismissive; that’s why LiveJournal* explodes into a hotbed of “omg first amendment free speech” outrage the moment someone says “that could be construed as homophobic censorship oh noes!” To give people fair credit, maybe these issues matter to them. If they want to fight that hard, then I admire their passion.
But I can’t help but wonder why they fight in the name of people who don’t really give a damn about the things they’re so upset about. Fight in their own name, sure. Fight in the name of whatever personal issue makes these things important to them. Fight against censorship in general, because gods know that pisses me the hell off and if that’s all it’s about, then I’m right there with you. Fight against hate speech in general; don’t ignore widespread use of “n*gger” in high schools because it’s trendier to complain about kids saying “that’s so gay”. Don’t just flip over speculated homophobic behavior in popular television while dismissing misogyny and sexual objectification that abound much more freely. Don’t just rage over Christian conservatives seeking to ban gay books from libraries; look at all the books they seek to ban, all the information they seek to repress on history, other faiths, freedom, and culture. Hell, worry about Tibet; things are a bit chaotic over there right now. When it comes to the little things, look for the bigger picture, rather than focusing on one tiny quadrant and ignoring others. But as for fighting for us?
Thank you for the support and I wish you luck, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry.
*Granted, LiveJournal is a bad example of this. Most of the people on LiveJournal are fighting for their own right to be interested in these things, and to draw and write and express themselves in regards to whatever they want without censorship; it’s about protection of expression and not about gay rights. I just used LiveJournal as Anji’s post about the mess on LJ is what prompted this line of thought. But there are quite a few waving the gay rights flag in the dust-up, and there have been several widely-publicized media incidents in which straight advocates went psycho over one or two words and were righteously offended by things that…well…most people in the gay community just shrugged off.
It’s 8:52a and I’m sitting in a McDonald’s about a mile from my apartment, looking over printouts for today’s work, listening to godawful muzak, and nibbling on something that can’t exactly be called food but that silences the ravening of my belly. I’m waiting for the bookstore/cafe down the street to open so I can stake out a power plug, order coffee, and put in my 7-8 hours taking care of projects due today and tomorrow for my new job. It’s my first day working mobile, packing up the laptop and my Verizon wireless modem and just heading out to find somewhere to settle, people-watch, and enjoy having the entire city as my office. I’ve been dreaming about this for years, for even longer than the three years that I spent tethered within the confines of my home, chained to my home phone line by my old job.
I’ll admit it’s a daunting experience. I’d forgotten how isolated I’d become, how sheltered. I could go days without seeing another living being other than the cat; I left the apartment only to get the mail, run errands, and go to the grocery store at insane hours of the night. I’m not used to being around constant streams of other people in the usual volumes heralding daylight activity. I’m not used to quietly not-reacting to the presences of strangers; I’m not used to the quick, assessing glances in passing. I’m not used to that feeling that comes from instantly being recognized as gay, not by one random person in the grocery store but by someone here, another there, about every fifteen minutes a bored glance that passes, pauses, and lingers, questioning.
That look of recognition, at least, I know. I don’t know what it is about me that instantly identifies me; I’m not particularly flaming, flamboyant, stylish, or even the slightest bit swishy. Maybe it’s the big, waifish eyes that I curse every time I glimpse myself in the mirror. More likely it’s the rose sunglasses I wear to shelter my photosensitive eyes against bright artificial light - pink just because it amuses me. But regardless, as I sit here and type on my laptop and drink my coffee, I’m getting looks. Not from everyone, no. Just that old man with the forming liver spot on his balding head - a quick wrinkle of his nose, a grimace, “damn punks” written silently in every rigid line of his face. That woman with her toddler, moving to a seat two booths down from me, then casting me a wary look and shepherding her son further away. Another glance over her shoulder - disgust. A less hostile look from another man passing through, on his way out the door; I’m not sure what it is about him, but I can glance at him and know, too. He’s just a crisply dressed office worker, blouse and slacks and short, neat hair, but we exchange quick glances of acknowledgment, brief and uninterested, and he’s on his way.
Everyone else is content to ignore me. I ignore them. We all have our own business, our own lives, our own schedules to maintain. One fag sitting at a corner booth in McDonald’s isn’t important, or interesting. They’ll forget me with the first bite of their food; I’ll forget them by the time I finish this post. Some might not even be giving me those distasteful looks because I’m a little obviously gay; some might be because I’m young, dark-skinned, casually dressed, wild-haired, and sitting here tapping away on my laptop with my headphones in my ears and the little green light of my USB wireless modem blinking. Any one of those can be offensive to some. Sometimes it’s just enough that I’m a solitary male of unknown intentions. You never know what will set people off.
But it doesn’t change that now, suddenly, I’m aware of people looking at me in a way that I haven’t been for a long time. I’m aware of people taking me in, assessing me, judging me based on my clothing, my genetics, the way that I carry myself, the things I have with me. They’re forming a picture in their heads of who I am and what I do without ever meeting me. And some of them, statistically, are thinking “f*&!ing fag”.
Would anyone do anything about it? No. People with prejudices rarely make scenes in public places. They throw dirty looks, they keep their distance, sometimes they murmur to each other. But it’s not a pleasant experience to be the subject of such scrutiny, and I’d forgotten what it was like to deal with it every day. I’ll get used to it; I used to be completely impervious to it, although it’s natural that renewed exposure would bother me now that my skin’s thinned out a little. But there’s a reason that openly gay people often feel unwelcome in society in certain places, whether alone, in pairs, or in groups. That mute resentment, those hard glances…all are part of that. That knowledge that some day, somewhere, someone with a grudge might do something, and yet another of us will be making the headlines documenting another “tragic hate crime”.
Does that mean I’m afraid when I go out, now? No. I wasn’t afraid before, walking down the streets of Houston at 3a, arms laden with groceries and too encumbered to even defend myself should someone decide they want my wallet. There’s no reason to be afraid; even if I don’t live or travel in the best neighborhoods, there’s little likelihood of anything happening to me for whatever reason. Someone is attacked, injured, or killed in Houston almost every day, every night - but in a city this large, the odds are that it won’t be me.
But it has to be someone. And now that that awareness is awake again, that knowledge that people aren’t as oblivious and dismissive of me as I’d like them to be…I can’t help but wonder if one evening I’ll be walking home with my laptop on my back, only to stop at the sound of an angry voice.
It’s turning out to be harder to get back into this than I thought. It’s funny how being away for a short time can completely throw off your flow; now that I’m back at DR, sometimes I find myself looking at this blog and thinking, “Okay, I’ve got it…now what do I do with it?” And yet I can’t abandon it; I know eventually I’ll find my stride again. The key is not quitting, or even taking too long of a break - because when you back away for a while, after a while you start telling yourself that you’ll go back soon…and yet you never return.
The same can be said of many things. I’ve been thinking of various aspects of my life where that happened; my old comic, for one, although part of that is because it’s not viable as-is. I would say my fiction writing, but I never leave that even if sometimes I bounce from story to story and feel as if I’m not getting anywhere. Even if I can only pick out one sentence a day or send out one query letter a week, I still hold tight to what is turning into one of the most important aspects of my life. What I can’t help remembering, though, is that I used to be a hospital volunteer and HIV/AIDS activist…and somehow, after I wandered away, I never wandered back.
For four years in high school I volunteered at one of the two major hospitals in my (at the time) home city; I worked the front desk, watched the gift shop, minded outpatient, even (on short-staffed nights in the emergency room and the maternity ward) helped set a few broken bones and assisted in a few live births that could probably get the hospital administration in a great deal of trouble if I ever revealed the name of the facility.
Outside of my usual four hours a night, though, I also participated in the hospital’s youth coalition, which was actually a branch of NOLAN - a New Orleans-based AIDS outreach program. We held weekly meetings, fundraisers, STD education seminars, condom distribution programs…the works. On the weekends we’d meet at a prearranged location to box up food bought with the fundraising money and, riding along with the organization’s adult mentors, bring the food to AIDS sufferers too bedridden to shop for themselves - people who had no one else. No family, no friends, no one who cared about them. Just us - bringing them food, picking up their prescription medications, taking them out for a day at the movies when they were feeling well enough for it, keeping them company with TV, books, and conversation when they weren’t.
Staying by their bedsides and helplessly watching them die, when the time came. It hurt. It hurt more than I care to remember, but it was better than letting them die alone.
All of that ended when I left for college in a different state. Suddenly I had homework, new friends, campus events, new hobbies, and yet more homework still - and I had no personal transportation or even public transportation (it was Alabama, what do you expect?) to really get anywhere. The local GBLTQ organizations were more social groups than anything else; any outreach programs were in the city, out of reach (no pun intended). My life went elsewhere. Later, after university and my move to Houston, I tried to get involved - but the GBLTQ organization that I found within reach was, again, just a social group. There are plenty of outreach groups here that I could have joined, but suddenly I found that work was in the way - work, life, and everything else. So any volunteer services that I might have gotten involved in just…faded.
And thinking about that makes me feel a little sad, a little guilty, and a little self-absorbed. I still don’t have time even now to get involved in gay rights movements, HIV/AIDS outreach programs, any of it. I’m hoping when I move to Chicago to find a more active local community (not to mention that Chicago public transportation is better, so I can get anywhere I need to go in 10-30 minutes rather than 2-3 hours), but right now I can’t help but look back on the past few years of my life and know that while it wasn’t my fault that everything else fell by the wayside while I struggled for stability, I still could have found ways to do more. What about you?
Are you involved in any aspect of the gay rights movement, or HIV/AIDS outreach and education?
(a) Yes; I do everything I can.
(b) Sometimes, when I have time.
(c) No, but I’d like to be.
(d) No, and I’m not really concerned about it.
(e) Other/will explain in comments.
DarksideRainbow.net is 451 Press's look at the darker side of the
rainbow - where gay life takes a decided turn away from the happy, the
shiny, and the pink, complete with news, gossip, and a healthy dose of
caffeine-fueled cynicism from gay blogger Adrien-Luc Sanders. Check in
Monday through Friday for a decidedly tongue-in-cheek slant on current
events in the GLBTQ world, spiced with a few fun rants.
Why are lesbian and bisexual women so into gay porn? Granted, generally not the hardcore stuff; it’s more written, or artwork, or even artistic photographs. (I’m not even into the hardcore stuff; porn just makes me giggle. Those faces they make…gods, I hope I don’t look that stupid during sex.) I kind of get it when it’s straight women; it’s the (more tasteful) equivalent of straight men getting their rocks off on lesbian porn, without the drool, grunting, and inevitable need for a wet wipe.
This has been your “god I need sleep” post for the day.
