I Am Closed

I am closed.
The ache is real

I long to be loved,
But it's loneliness I feel

The trumpet is sad.
The trumpeter dead.

Melancholia;
Blue tinted sadness and dread

My heart is heavy:
Aching, lonely, cold

Openness is fear
Laced with winks of old.

Is this my making?
I'm stuck...fully exposed.

I can't find the key.
I am closed.

When?

When is enough enough?

When do I discover the cause?

When is the truth laid bare?

When does the lying take a pause?

When will these questions stop?

When will the answers come?

When do I discover my worth?

When am I enough, just because?

When will mirth fill the void?

When will sadness seek less applause?

When will my anger eat me alive?

When will I forgive, find freedom?

When?

When?

When?

Wasted

Wasted

I wasted away the day today.

A melancholy wake, 

I fought to hold on. 

Yet still, it slipped away.

The sun set. 

The colors faded. 

Youth disappeared.

I hesitated.  

Life, by time, is but a day. 

A moment to breathe,

A second to play. 

I wasted away the day today

Listless, gripping,

Waiting, longing

My moment, my moment, slipped away

The Time I Realized It’s Me Who’s Ashamed Of My Femininity

“Another round of bullets hits my skin.” 

That lyric from the song “This Is Me” from the film The Greatest Showman is really resonating with me at the moment.

I’ve come to believe that the bullets hitting my skin are from a gun being held in my own hand. I’m pulling the trigger. The question is: Am I trying to commit emotional suicide or am I trying to keep myself just wounded enough so that I don’t have to face the reality of my own emotional prison. 

I rarely give myself the permission or the freedom to do all the things that I want to do in my life. Instead, I give myself fear, anger, frustration, shame, and regret.

I’ve spent many years thinking that it was other people who were ashamed of me for being homosexual or feminine or whatever other disparaging word one could use when belittling. But honestly, it’s me who’s ashamed...of me. I hadn’t even realized how stagnant and toxic my internalized shame had become? 

Lady Gaga reminds me that I was “Born This Way,” and I know that’s true. I’ve been a homo since I can remember. But it’s my bend toward femininity, which in terms of outward expression I like to call gender-expansive, that brings with it a special cloak of shame that I can’t seem to fully abandon no matter how much I grow and change and understand about myself.

I’m so tired of being afraid of the reaction of others at my outward feminine expression. I believe this fear is the root of my shame. I’m embarrassed to be the fabulous, stylish, flamboyant, feminine man that I am. 

I recently published the piece My Father & Me: An Examination Of A Relationship And Its Effect On My Life. In it I pointed out that I have always felt like I was my father’s biggest disappointment, his shame. That examination, and the questions I posed in that piece, have led to more questions, but also a deeper understanding that it’s me who is ashamed. I love who I am in the safety of my own home. But when I leave the confines of that sanctuary, my joy goes to hell. 

A few days ago I found myself in exactly that state of mind. I was in my living room applying a finishing swipe of lipstick before leaving for work. I took in my reflection. I loved what I saw: black jeans double rolled to fully reveal my silver Louis Vuitton boots with 4.5” heel, which I had never worn so exposed before; the green, gray, and black patterned short-sleeved jacket with a pink, jeweled set of lips dangling from the zipper pull. My eye makeup was bangin’; my jewelry the right amount of sparkle and pop. That man reflected in that mirror felt fabulous, was happy. 

Then I walked out my door. As I was turning the key in the lock I could feel a change coming over me. Literally feel it. My chest felt heavy, my face fixed itself into resting bitch. By the time I'd walked down the short hallway and through the two doors separating me from the sidewalk my joy was gone. It had been replaced by a heaviness that I soon realized was anger. I was angry. Mere moments before I had been happy and joyous and basically singing, "Ooh, don't lemme start lovin' myself!” from Bette Midler's “I'm Beautiful.” Damn it! I still looked fabulous but the bliss was gone. 

The best way I can describe this anger that came over me is thus: it was the guard I so often pull up around me for protection mixed with my frustration at being afraid of expressing myself.

Two days later it finally sank in: I’m ashamed of my femininity! 

Christ! I’ve been blaming—or trying to blame—other people and specific situations for my fears when it comes to expressing myself for longer than I care to say. But it’s me. I’m the one. I knew I was firing the bullets. I just didn’t realize how deeply I was wounding myself.

But you know what? Just because I can more clearly see my own self-sabotage doesn’t change the fact that being bullied in my youth fed my fear and stunted my growth. Just because I more clearly understand the huge part I play in my own shame doesn’t change that fact that my father did indeed point out what he perceived were my flaws (mostly my feminine traits) as I mentioned in the above referenced piece. The seeds were sown.

When we’re young we are so susceptible to the words and actions of others. Not that we aren’t susceptible as adults. But in our youth we are still forming and becoming. We often aren’t yet mature enough to form our own opinions. We don’t often understand what we’re feeling or why something brings us joy. We just know we like it or we’re happy. My life seemed rife with mockery, from my love of singing to the way I walked to my fashion choices. It wasn’t a constant barrage of negativity, but it was often enough that I went inward, felt ashamed of what brought me joy, found safety behind closed doors.

My shame was instilled in me but that makes it no less my shame. I let that negativity take root in me and flourish into the gnarliest tree, which continues to thrive on my self-doubt and self-hate…products of my shame. That tree has a far-reaching canopy of leaves that represent my fear. And those leaves don’t provide shade as much as they block my light. Every time I was mocked, laughed at, ridiculed, I internalized my shame and gave the roots of that tree the nourishment they needed to get stronger and to more deeply anchor themselves. That tree must be riddled with bullets.

I’m damaged. But I survived my youth. And I continue to survive every day.

I have a co-worker who unknowingly gives me strength every time I see him. He’s gay, paints all ten fingernails, wears makeup, wears dangling earrings, has pink hair. I don’t know if anxiety overtakes him as he leaves his apartment. I don’t know if he’s afraid as he walks to the subway station. To me he appears happy and alive in his gender-expansive expression of femininity. Seeing him nourishes me and fills me with the desire to get over my shame of being who I am, loving what I love, and just BE. He inspires me to be the brave and courageous person that others think I am. 

My mom has always said I march to my own drummer. She’s right. Nobody else marched in time with me where I’m from. But the little feminine boy inside of me has always been afraid to just BE. Even still, there are those who see me as brave and courageous while I see myself as holding my breath until I reach safety. 

I recently heard Rupaul say, “To watch a boy play with feminine things, in a society that is so masculine, and come through it, and find their fire and their own voice is a very powerful thing.” 

I have not come through it, but I have definitely found my voice, and a shard of power. I am replacing that gun with lipstick and putting on a fabulous pair of heels to pour positive poison on the roots of that tree.

“Well, fire away 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in.” I’m working on it.

My journey continues…

My Father & Me: An Examination Of A Relationship And Its Effect On My Life

Hindsight can provide so much clarity but only if you allow yourself to see.

My father was young. A few months shy of 19. I have no idea what life was like for him before me. He doesn’t really talk about it much. Then again, I never really ask him. 

I have no idea what he felt upon learning the news that he was going to be a father. He was an unwed senior in high school. I don’t know how mature he was. I don’t know if he felt shame. I don’t know if he was afraid. Again, he doesn’t talk about it, and I don’t ask. 

He told me once that he wasn’t very present in my life at its beginning. He blames that on his youth. He regrets it. I don’t think I hold that against him. 

I didn't connect with him. He didn't connect with me. I have a vague awareness—a muscle memory if you will—that exists in my core, suggesting to me that I was uncomfortable around him from an early age. I wasn’t like him. I was different and didn’t yet know how. I was always afraid he was going to see this difference and point it out. My uncomfortableness, I soon realized, extended to the other men in my life—cousins, uncles, grandfathers. 

As I crossed the bridge from childhood into adolescence, I realized that to be left on my own with him filled me with anxiety. I didn’t know then that it was anxiety, but that feeling is something that I now recognize as an adult. I now wonder if he felt as uncomfortable alone with me as I did with him. The truth is, we had nothing in common other than blood.

He was the first male relationship in my life, the first male I was ashamed to be myself around. He was the first person to point out what he perceived were my flaws. He was the first person to make me feel ashamed of some of the things I enjoyed. 

To this day I am convinced that the relationship I have with my father is the reason I won’t let myself be vulnerable enough to connect with other men. They who I long to hold me, kiss me, love me. I'm scared to be myself around them; to reveal myself to them. I was scared to reveal myself to him. I feared the punishment. I still am scared in some respects—of his reaction, his disappointment. I won’t let myself be vulnerable in front of other men because I couldn't be vulnerable in front of him. Shame and fear walk hand in hand.

I don’t remember of time when I didn’t feel like I was a disappointment to him. Because of that feeling, I feel I’m in constant need of his approval, and by extension, everyone else’s. My need for approval fucks me up to this day, e.g., pleasing my boss, appeasing my landlady, low Instagram likes. My desire for approval points back to wanting his. I know it. It’s as if I was never able to validate myself enough.

When Lady Bird, in the eponymously titled film, says to her mother, “I wish you liked me.” Her mother responds, “Of course I love you.” Lady Bird then asks, “But do you like me?”

I’ve never felt like my father was proud to call me his son. I’ve always felt like he was ashamed of me; that I was his biggest, well, disappointment. I’ve convinced myself that he doesn’t really like me very much—his feminine son who would rather pursue musical theatre than hunt, watch soap operas than play outside, paint his nails than get them dirty. I realize that my possibly imagined thoughts have led to self-inflicted wounds and presumptive allegations. But the thoughts exist nonetheless.

I believe that my lack of self-esteem stems largely from the fact that I was, and continue to be, afraid that my homosexuality—and feminine mannerisms—brings him shame. Then again, maybe the shame is all my own and has nothing to do with him. Since I’m already emotionally cutting I might as well cut a little deeper and get it all out there, right? Scars are scars.

I do my best to convince myself that I don’t live in his shadow. But his shadow threatens me from time to time, lurking at the edge of my light. Why? Maybe it’s because his shadow carries with it the testimony of a Christian man who is respected in his community. Maybe it’s because his shadow’s essence holds what I perceive a man is supposed to be? Ouch! But aren’t I too a man? Yes, I am. I often forget that I too cast a shadow informed by the courage of a man who does his best to fight against his own fears to live his truth. My father has always been so concerned with his reputation, and by sheer proximity as his child, I too am concerned with what people think about me. I hate it. We both need to trust ourselves and let that go. Easier said than done. My father is a good man, but so am I. 

I can no longer regret the relationship that we don’t have; that of shared experiences and Norman Rockwell imagery. The responsibility of a relationship falls on both people in it to nurture it and make it grow. I have shouldered the blame for the lack of our closeness for the majority of my life. I am his son and he is my father, but a relationship with him is not, nor has it ever been, solely my responsibility.

It is not my fault that I am gay. It is not his fault. There is no fault. He responded to learning that truth from me more positively than I expected. But I believe it is the wall that divides us. My reason for waiting so long to come out to him was that I feared I would no longer be welcomed in his home. The third thing out of his mouth during that coming out conversation was, “You will always be welcome in my home.” I wept with the relief of a weight lifted. He did, however, respond exactly how I expected in one specific way. He said he believes what the Bible says in regard to homosexuality. Homosexuality and religion: a great divide.

I long to be held in the arms of a man who makes me feel safe and protected, in the arms of a man that I trust. I love him, but my dad doesn’t make me feel safe. I don't have a memory of feeling safe in his arms, merely anxious. I do remember feeling comforted in his embrace when each of his parents died. But those were special circumstances, with heightened emotions, not life’s every day situations. 

I didn't trust him with my truth for so many years because I couldn't face what I feared would be a negative reaction. It didn’t turn out that way, but I still don't trust him. To this day I don’t fully relax alone in his presence. I'm always on guard, waiting for whatever probing question he may ask. It's exhausting. I want him to see me—accept me—but at the same time, I won’t let him. I fear his reaction. So, I don't let any man who might find me handsome, kind, funny, smart, sexy, whatever, see me. I'm always protected, always on guard. 

Why does approval and acceptance of my father matter more than my own validation? Why is the joy that I find in wearing makeup, high heels, and spectacular jewelry not enough? Why is fear mingling with the joy I feel at having my toenails painted? Why do I diminish myself in his presence when I’m at his house for a visit? Am I ashamed of what makes me happy? Why do I snuff out my light? Am I protecting me…or am I protecting him? Would the joy be more delicious if I had his approval or didn’t fear his reaction? I don’t know. I won’t give it a chance. And where my gender expansive expressions are concerned, I constantly think that the men I find handsome, the one’s I’m attracted to, are going to be so turned off by my outward expression that I make sure the key to the gate in my wall of protection is securely out of reach so that I don’t give in to the temptation of happiness beyond the door. Vulnerability is a naked journey.

I’ve spent most of my life protecting myself and now I don't know any other way to live. Days have become years and now I'm 47 and nearly bursting with desires that I won't act upon because I won't let myself be vulnerable. I wear my heels and my makeup and my jewelry out into the world, but I’m on guard. I want to be seen but I also hope that I blend in with the background noise.

He was 19, and I was an accident. Hindsight definitely shows me that our relationship is the root of my self-worth issues and my fears where men are concerned. I am blocked, stuck. I can’t seem to move forward, at least not at the pace I would like. He is not solely to blame. He is merely a factor. This examination is the same shit different day…with a little more clarity and a lot more honesty.

My journey continues...

Freedom, Bravery, and Boycotting in America

San Fransisco 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick kneeled during the national anthem. We all know this. What seems to be missing for many is the why. He kneeled, instead of standing, in response to police brutality in America. Specifically against people of color. It was a form of non-violent protest that continues to divide and incite outrage.

"I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color. To me, this is bigger than football and it would be selfish on my part to look the other way. There are bodies in the street and people getting paid leave and getting away with murder."

These are the words of Colin Kaepernick. This is the why.

Now I have my own why: Why is anyone offended?

This was never about disrespecting the national anthem. (It's merely a song for Christ's sake.) It was never about disrespecting the country. It was never about disrespecting the military. It was always about protesting the abuse of fellow Americans during a song that is supposed to represent America and elicit pride in the hearts of those of us living in the "land of the free and the home of the brave!"

So again I ask: Why is anyone offended?

The unfortunate election of Donald Trump to our nation's highest office, and his childish, petty, bullying rhetoric (the campaign, tweets, rallies), has clouded the judgement of so many in this country. He has shined a light on the hate, that up until his campaign started, had remained at the edge of the shadows. Yes, I know that bigotry and hate surfaced on a daily basis in this country. But nothing like what we are now seeing. Donald Trump does nothing but incite his base with a white power entitlement that has, I believe, legitimized their racism, bigotry, and hate. At least in their own minds.

I saw an image on Twitter last night of country singer John Rich's sound man holding the Nike swoosh symbol from the top of a pair of socks. This sound man had cut them off. This is because Nike has made Colin Kaepernick the face of their 30th anniversary "Just Do It" campaign. This sound man is not the only person offended and angry at Nike. I've seen videos of people burning their Nike sneakers and cutting the swoosh off of their shorts. It's amazing. The #NikeBoycott is happening.

I'm taken right back to 2003, when Dixie Chicks lead vocalist, Natalie Maines told a British audience: "We don't want this war, this violence, and we're ashamed that the President of the United States (George W. Bush) is from Texas" 

The backlash was astonishing. Radio stations stopped playing their music. Images of people burning Dixie Chicks merchandise and rolling over Dixie Chicks CDs with a tractor emerged. 

And here we are again. 

Was the war in Iraq necessary? There were no weapons of mass destruction. Was the Dixies Chicks' statement really that far off the mark?

Do we really need to be shooting (often killing) men of color who are unarmed, with police officers found not guilty for the shooting? Is Colin Kaepernick's kneeling really that offensive? Or are people angry that their own prejudice is being served to them on one knee?

A friend of mine talks often about the swinging pendulum between Conservative and Liberal. How it swings one way and then back the other. He often talks about finding a middle ground. We don't seem to be able to find that middle ground these days. Partly because we don't talk to each other. We talk AT each other. We argue with and call each other names. Thanks to social media this unfortunately is very easy. I myself am guilty of it. 

We live in America...the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

We are free to kneel. We are free to stand. We are free to boycott. We are free to have our opinions. We are free to worship. We are free to NOT worship. We are free to love who with love and have sex with that person. We are free to vote for change.

But are we brave? There are many brave Americans doing brave things every day. In respect to this piece, I believe Colin Kaepernick to be a very brave individual. He stood up, or this case, kneeled, for what he believed in. He shined a light on injustice. Those that would try and diminish that light by destroying their Nike merchandise will never stop the movement he started.

The Dixie Chicks may not be recording currently but let's not forget that they recorded another album (Taking the Long Way) after that backlash that debuted at #1, sold 2.5 million copies in the U.S. alone, and won five Grammy Awards including Album, Record, and Song of the Year.

I think Nike will be okay. So boycott away. The kneeling will continue. Trump is "only for now." (Thank you Avenue Q.) Progress is not a bad thing. Racism and bigotry will never go away. And the divide between Conservative and Liberal may widen even more before that middle ground is met. 

Americans are, however, still Free to be as Brave as we want to be.  

When I Took My Heels On Vacation: A Redux

The current television ad for Pacifico Beer says, “Live life with anchors up.” 

Remember two years ago when I took my heels to Cherry Grove on Fire Island? I had all kinds of plans to just be my fabulous self—“strut, pout, put it out." But when I got there, intimidation cloaked itself around me like a 1950s Balenciaga opera coat. I was filled with anxiety. I couldn’t walk out of my cottage with them on. I was so afraid of being openly mocked or talked about behind my back. I couldn’t (or wouldn’t), and didn’t give any person there a chance to support me. I didn’t even support myself. 

I was so frustrated with my stuck-in-a-rut fear that I didn’t return the next season. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face myself. I was embarrassed.

So here I am, two years later, headed back to the boardwalks. Before I left my house for Cherry Grove, the two fingernails that I paint (I only paint two. It’s my thing) were perfectly painted hot pink. My eyes were shadowed, lined, and mascara’d. My lips sticked in my favorite Tom Ford pink, a sheer named “Ellie.” I was going to express myself even if the anxiety made me feel as if vomiting would be an easier alternative. But guess what? The anxiety was pretty low grade. My heart was pounding, yes, but from a little bit of anxiety and a whole lot of excitement. 

I knew this trip was going to be different because I was different from the last time I’d made it. I’m normally reserved and a bit shy at first around strangers. But as I waited for the ferry to take me to that Mecca of Freedom where it seems everyone except for me thrives, I decided to get out of my way. I heard the pop of a top on what turned out to be a can of Corona. I needed one. The desire was immediate. A cold beer was the only thing that would do in the moment. I hadn’t ordered a pre-ferry beverage before. Uptight?

While waiting at the bar for my Montauk Summer Ale to arrive, I met Rick and David. Rick immediately fell in love with my hot pink t-shirt emblazoned with the likenesses of Alexis Carrington and Dominique Devereaux from the “It’s burned” scene from Dynasty circa 1984. He took a picture and from there a conversation flowed. It was easy. It should be easy. We’re all human beings. And those of us who frequent Cherry Grove have something in common. We’re either LGBTQ or an LGBTQ ally. Cue George Michael’s “Freedom 90” and play it loud. Lets all love and support each other. How about it? 

I took a deep breath of liberating air and boarded the ferry…beer in hand.

The category is: Fem Queer Living Life

I’m going to narrow this down to the “live” part of the word living. I had to live. No one was stopping me but me. I am an expressive, creative person, and I am fabulous. I’m not an abnormality. I’m as normal as any one else—and we’re all a little fucked up. And you know what? Heels are just shoes. And makeup is just pigment. Neither have power on their own. Only by my making either, or both, a big deal do they have power.  

I thought about putting my heels on the minute I dropped all my belonging off at my cottage. But I hesitated because, honestly, my fuchsia Chuck Taylor’s were too cute and the heels weren’t going to be as cute with that t-shirt. Looking back, I was probably having a relapse of my Fear of Expression and Vulnerability Syndrome. I feel like a femme fatale trapped by his own male insecurity. Move it or lose it girl!

I knew my deeply rooted fears weren’t going to magically vanish when my feet hit the boardwalk. I also knew that I was two years stronger into expressing myself. So, within the first 24 hours in Cherry Grove I wore those heels out and about three times. It was easier each time. No one said anything negative. There was no judgement, except me judging myself. I’m only slightly less exhausting than I was two years ago. But ultimately, I felt ebullient, excited, and dare I say, comfortable.

Then I damaged my right shoe. Can you believe it? On the inside where the Throat meets the Shank (shoe lingo), the shoe started to detach. There I was finally feeling liberated enough to let myself shine, and I damaged the damn shoe. Believe me when I tell you that I contemplated just feeling relieved at no longer having to challenge myself to wear the shoes. Old habits die hard. But, that contemplation was brief. In actuality, I was pissed off. The shoes were broken. I wanted to wear them. That option was taken away. I wasn’t in control. The more I looked at those shoes sitting dormant and unused, the more pissed off I got.

Two days later I had a flash of an image. I had seen black electrical tape in one of the junk drawers in the cottage. Eureka! I knew I would be able to use that tape to repair, if only temporarily, the damaged shoe. 

And temporarily it was. I only got to wear them one more time before the tape gave way to a detachment that was too damaged to repair. It’s ok. They were cheap. But their cork platforms were perfect for a beachy getaway where boardwalks exist instead of roads. And I had finally been excited, and somewhat secure, to be wearing them.

Two things happened that day though that proved to me how unfounded my fears had always been. In the final stroll that broke them, I encountered a man that said, “Nice shoes,” as he passed me, then he went back to his previous conversation because me wearing heels wasn’t a bit weird or unnatural. Hours later as I headed to the beach for a late afternoon sit, I encountered a woman who asked, “Where are your shoes?” I was slightly taken aback but completely confirmed. I told her about the irreparable damage. She suggested glue. I told her about the electrical tape. We had a chuckle. As I walked away she yelled, “You’re still glamorous.” 

The support of others goes a long way toward nurturing your courage. Dare I say the support of strangers can lift you even higher? I wouldn’t let the strangers support me two years ago.

Thinking back to the t-shirt I was wearing on the day I arrived, I realized I was wearing the image of two strong female characters. Alexis Carrington and Dominique Devereaux did not let anything, or anyone, stand in their way.

Why do I continue to limit myself? Why do I let myself be paralyzed by my own fears? I was once told in college to put razor blades on my elbows and run. There has never been a more right time for me personally to put those razor blades on and run. Maybe I need to put them on a pair of heels. Gucci produced a fabulous pair a few seasons ago with spikes. I should pull those back outta the box. Anchors up!

My journey continues...

The Guilt of Departure and the Hypocrite's Prayer

My dad was transferred from Baptist Hospital to the rehabilitation floor at Lourdes Hospital in Paducah, Kentucky, a week and a few hours after his quadruple bypass. A quadruple bypass which unexpectedly led to a stroke. For all the progress he had made at Baptist, my mom and I were filled with questioning trepidation as we left him on the 8th floor at Lourdes, alone in his bed.

We were so excited that he had been accepted into the rehabilitation program at Lourdes Hospital. We waited, less than patiently, all that day for his discharge and transfer to happen. We knew that the focused therapies they offered—occupational, physical, and speech—were exactly what he needed in order to come home as close to 100% himself as possible. I had seen him trying so hard in the days leading up this moment. He was determined to improve. Although I sometimes wondered if he didn’t quite understand the questions being asked of him, pretending he did anyway, just so that he could move on to the next phase of recovery.

Side note: I wish I could make him understand that no one is going to think he is ignorant, dumb, or stupid for not knowing the answers. But I would need someone to teach me that also. Maybe if I can get him to understand it I can be my own teacher.

We left my dad in a small room with a roommate who had just arrived post leg amputation. The room was small. I’m pretty convinced it was actually smaller than his private room at Baptist Hospital. There was only one chair for a visitor to sit in, and no other place except his bed for my dad to sit. This was disappointing as part of his recovery from the heart surgery involved sitting in a chair for several hours every day. He still had to focus on that recovery even if the stroke had taken precedence. His only chair option turned out to be his wheelchair. 

The nurses seemed less than adequate and didn’t seem to care about the patients. My dad had such impressive care from most of his nurses at Baptist Hospital. But nothing about the care at Lourdes Hospital gave me hope. I felt this way the first day. So did my mom. We later learned he wasn’t being given the correct meds and that his information was entered into the system incorrectly on his first day. (Instead of heart surgery or stroke patient he was entered as a hip fracture patient.) His room often smelled. The floors were dirty. No one seemed to care. We missed Baptist so badly.

My mother couldn’t stop her tears as she leaned down and kissed my father goodbye on that first night. My heart ached for her. On our drive home I tried my best to be the emotional support that she needed all the while telling her she didn’t have to be strong for me. I couldn’t practice what I preached. I was scared and discouraged too. I told her so. Why do we find it necessary to be strong in times of stress and grief? Maybe we should all just show what we’re feeling and commiserate with one another in our tears and sadness, then get stronger together through that vulnerability. I’m not one who can speak with any confidence on vulnerability though as I find it so difficult to be vulnerable. 

A couple of days later I found myself alone in my parents’ house listening to the cast album of Dear Evan Hansen, and my vulnerability reared it ugly tears. It was as if the knot in my stomach had decided to loosen its grip, move up to my heart, and squeeze it until I nearly burst. I broke down. I felt broken. 

I felt guilty.

The day of my departure was quickly approaching. I knew that I shouldn’t feel guilty that I've built my life in New York City so far away from where my parents live. Yet the feeling of guilt persisted. I was getting ready to depart this place of corn fields and homemade ice cream and leave my mom and my sister there to carry the weight of my dad’s recovery…alone.

I looked around the living room in my parents’ house and read the sayings that decorate the walls: “Our family is filled with Love,” “Loved you yesterday, Love you still, Always have, Always will,” “Family is where life begins & Where love never ends.” These words seem to vibrate straight from my mother’s heart. I pondered the words as I focused on the pictures. I saw the framed photographs of my niece and nephew smiling back at me. I prayed to God that their papaw would be healed and returned home to them fully himself. They need him in their lives. I prayed that he would return home to my mom. She’s been his wife since she was 17-years old. They are each other’s world. I prayed for my sister who was in agony  over her fear that our dad might not return home our dad. I walked back to the bedroom my parents still share 47 years later and stood on his side of the bed. I looked up to the ceiling, tears streaming down my cheeks. I begged to be heard. I begged for God to help my dad recover. I begged for God to bring him home to take his place back in that bed again.

I felt like such a hypocrite for praying. But isn’t that what we do? We pray when we’re scared. We pray when we feel the desperation that comes with the shock of events like  heart attacks and strokes. We pray as we grasp for hope.

No matter the distance between our homes, no matter the distance between our hearts, I want to walk into my parents’ house the next time I’m visiting and feel my dad’s arms around me. I want to hear him laugh. I want to hear him say my name. I want to listen to him tell a story that may not really interest me but that I care about merely because he is still here to tell it…and that he can still remember it at all.

We won’t fish together. We won’t hunt…anything. We won’t really watch the Cardinals play baseball. But we can sit on the front porch and enjoy a cup of coffee while birds chirp and passersby honk. Hopefully my mom will join us with a cup of hot chocolate and take on the fly swatting duties.

When My Dad’s Heart Surgery Became The Lesser of Two Trauma’s

It was hard to imagine what my dad was going to look like hooked up to tubes. I’d seen it before with both of my maternal grandparents and my paternal grandfather. But there was no real way to prepare myself to see my dad in this way. He had gone into surgery just after my flight departed New York’s LaGuardia Airport headed for the landing strip that is Paducah, Kentucky. By the time I arrived at the hospital the surgery was over. 

Much like ripping off a bandaid, I walked into his room in ICU. I had to. As much as I wanted to hesitate, there could be no hesitation. There he lay—my normally active-to-the-point-that-I’m-exhausted dad—hooked to monitors, floating in and out of consciousness, and ultimately silenced by a breathing tube.

There were more drips than I’d ever seen hooked to one person. Two IV poles with 6-8 bags on each pole. It was alien. Bag after bag of clear liquid flowed into his body, necessary for healing and pain, but still disturbing and ominous.

He knew we were there. He periodically open his eyes, revealing brown irises so large that they seemed to have overtaken all the white space. He wanted to speak. He tried to speak. The breathing tube, of course, prevented that. He nodded instead—communication restored in a primitive way that brought more relief than one could imagine it bringing.

When my sister called me three days prior to the events that led to this ICU layover I was alarmed yet not completely dismayed. She told me that my father was going to the ER complaining of shortness of breath, chest discomfort, and a bit of numbness in the arm. I wouldn’t really let myself believe that my father might be having a heart attack. That just wasn’t on the agenda. Again, not prepared. Is anyone ever? 

My dad is not the healthiest eater in the world. Never has been. And there have been many occasions of trying to persuade him to take better care of himself. But he is strong-willed and stubborn. He wants to do what he wants to do. Arguing eventually gets old and inevitably one gives up the fight.

Recovery was moving along at a rapid pace. His doctors and nurses were astonished at how well he was doing. Thirty-six hours post surgery he was moved from ICU to his own room on the fourth floor of Baptist Hospital. My family and me, we were thrilled with his progress. So what if he was a little confused? So what if he seemed a bit vacant? He had just been through quadruple bypass with all the anesthesia that goes with it. We didn’t know how long it would take his body to rid itself of the anesthesia. Nor did we know how the pain meds, which my dad rarely takes, might be affecting him. What we did know was that he had a hard time turning to the right and seemed to take longer than necessary to register what was said…or who we were. 

My sister, a nurse herself (and struggling to be daughter instead of nurse), knew something was wrong. She told other nurses. She told respiratory therapists. She was met with reactions of unconcern followed with explanations like, “the anesthesia needs to wear off” and “there’s been so much trauma to the body.” But my sister sees my dad almost daily. She knew something was off. It was actually she who came up with the word “vacant” to describe the look on his face. 

Finally, a physical therapist saw for himself what my sister had been seeing and questioning. And the unthinkable began to run riot in our minds. My dad, the strong, independent, hard-headed man I've known all my life, had had a stroke.

I was angry. I was angry at God. I was angry at the doctor. Human being, party of one. I called my best friend, Neal, and spewed my anger to his listening ear as I paced from corner to corner in a makeshift waiting area.  And much like Jesus did in John 11:35, I wept.

I have never been one to deny my Baptist upbringing. Nor have I denied how it has negatively affected me. But I felt the power of all the prayer that surrounded us. I felt the power in his room. I felt the power in the hallway outside his room. Hands were laid upon my dad. Tears were shed. His name was lifted up to heaven. It took me back to the days of my youth when this act was a part of my everyday life. I felt the power that I struggle so hard to have faith in… to believe in. But it was my family’s faith that gave them comfort even as they dealt with fear and anger of their own. And it was their faith, and the faith of their friends, that comforted me by proximity.

We’re all human beings filled with emotions. It’s natural to be angry, to be scared, to be frustrated, to doubt, to question, to feel bad about laughing in moments of sadness, to feel hope when the situation is dire.

My dad and I have never been particularly close. I’ve struggled with that for most of my life. We have our ups and downs…and silences. But I love him, and I know he loves me. I never anticipated a moment when my dad would struggle to find my name in his memory. My heart ached. I stood before him, staring into his brown eyes, mentally sending the name Michael straight into them. I watched as his mouth tried to form the word. I heard the Um’s as he searched. I saw the frustration on his face. I felt the panic in my heart even as I tried to keep my face blank. Then he said it. My attempt at a blank face still had tension that relaxed. Who knew hearing my name said aloud could be so important? But the double clutch of anxiety and sadness barely released its grip on my heart.

As the days progressed, his quadruple bypass became more and more the secondary trauma. It was almost as if he hadn’t had the heart surgery at all. He wasn’t complaining about pain and rarely took a pain pill. He was getting up from his chair more easily. And walking became less and less difficult. 

The stroke became the focus. 

I could see him fighting to find the words for the pictures he was being asked to identify: glove, keys, feather. I saw him miss the word hammock three days in a row. 

Eventually he began to more easily find his words for speaking, but writing them was a new challenge. I watched as the Speech Pathologist patiently taught him the sound of letters like “f” and “s” much like I remember learning them in elementary school. Every day he was better than the day before. Every day the recognition improved. Every day the conversations were more engaged. Every day he was more like my dad. 

We all know that the heart is our emotional center, and I’ve been told that with heart surgery emotions can run high and spill over without reason. That is true. Dad would often get emotional, cry without warning, stop crying within seconds. Sometimes I couldn't find the reason. Other times it was clear that he was extremely effected as he began to realize he was making progress. He was also very moved by the love he felt from visitors, most of whom had been positively affected by the way he lives his life.

On the morning of the day he was to be moved to the rehabilitation center I walked into room 437 at Baptist Hospital and saw my dad…not just the shell of the man. He was sitting in the reclining chair watching my nephew Dylan play baseball on my sister’s computer. He smiled. He was more himself than he’d been even the day before. I recognized that man. 

“There are bridges you cross you didn't know you crossed until you've crossed.” Stephen Schwartz, Wicked.

As we sat in his room waiting for the doctor to make his final round then sign the discharge/transfer papers, our holding-pattern-of-a-day was broken when dad passed gas. It will probably embarrass him that I even wrote this, but it was the most natural thing in the world. However, what followed was even more so. My brother-in-law said, “Her-ca-lees,” a la Mama Klump in The Nutty Professor. The entire room cracked up, including the best sound I’d heard all week…full-throated laughter from my dad. Natural. Easy.

I think the grip of anxiety finally began to release its hold on my heart. All of dad’s progress in such a short time was nothing short of miraculous. We all knew there was a long road ahead. But I’ll take a long road over a grave any day.

The Armor of Expression

Self-examination is necessary, especially when related to your behavior. It’s the first step toward healing, toward change. I’ve been doing quite a bit of it lately. I’ve listed some of my most powerfully persistent behavioral issues below:

• I’ve always cared what people think about me. It’s a charming trait I inherited from my father. No matter how often I read the adage, “What others think about you is none of your business,” I can’t seem to not care.

• I’ve always had to be put together. You know, hair, clothes, shoes, etc. As consummately composed as possible. Even if I’m going for the disheveled look, it’s perfectly fashioned dishevelment.

• I’ve always striven to be in control. I might be the perfect embodiment of a control freak. Sometimes it takes a lot of deep breathing to hold myself together and maintain the constriction that control demands.

• I’ve never really been able to laugh at myself. An exception to this might be if I were in the presence of people I absolutely trusted. Even then it’s difficult for me and can often takes days after the laughable experience has happened. That’s probably because in my youth other people did the laughing…at me. I was a target of mockery, ridicule.

• I’ve always been my harshest critic. My mistakes are not learning experiences. To me, they are failures. And I’m constantly afraid to fail.

Ugh…my issues exhaust me.

As a child growing up in a conservative, Christian family in a small, conservative, Southern town, I couldn’t present myself in any way other than my idea of perfection. Perfection was my armor. Is my armor. But as you know, perfection doesn’t exist, and it only takes one person to knock you down when you’re feeling good about yourself.

When I was in high school, I had a pair of dress shoes that were trending, totally of the moment. They were concrete gray, sleek and long with a toe that was more pointed than round. They laced up with color coordinated gray laces. They had a brown dress shoe heel. I loved those shoes. But I often got mocked while wearing them.

I remember specifically an incident that happened on a bus ride to school one morning. A student who was a grade, maybe two, behind me in high school called them nurses shoes. They didn’t look like nurses shoes. Nothing about them said “nurse.” But he was a bully and making fun of my shoes was his way of belittling me.

I remember pretending the shoes had been purchased at Macy’s on some mythical trip to New York City. Buying them in New York City sounded more exciting. It was out of the norm. And somehow I thought this fabrication would change his opinion of the shoes…and me. In my mind, it provided a reason for why I would have shoes that were different from every other male, even though they were purchased in the same mall where any of my classmates could have picked up his own pair. The lie I told did nothing to change his opinion.

He took away the joy I felt from wearing those shoes. I let him. I was intimidated—paranoid—every time I wore them after that.

Thirty years later, I connect that experience to my present. I’m broadening the way I express myself every day. I’m very gender expansive, which includes wearing makeup, statement jewelry, and fabulous high heels. And there’s always a little part of me that’s on guard waiting for the bully to mock my shoes and in essence...me.

No matter how much I learn about myself—no matter how much I grow and change—my past affects me every day.

When your early life is lived constantly on guard, that guard remains somewhat raised for the rest of your life. It doesn't matter how strong and courageous and brave you become. It's there. I have to fight my inner demons every day to be proud of who I am, to be brave, to not be ashamed.

I continue to express myself as perfectly as I can because it’s a way for me to maintain control and to protect myself. I was the sissy, the faggot, the queer, the butt of the joke. As a boy in that small, conservative, Southern town, I learned that having a sense of style did nothing but draw attention to me--negative attention. And style wasn’t something for which to be praised. At least not by my peers.

Sometimes the elements we use for expression, e.g. clothes, makeup, shoes, jewelry, etc., are more than mere expressions. Sometimes they are armor.

I was recently struck by the lyric “I’m stronger than I feel” from the Miranda Lambert song “Keeper of the Flame.” I paused to wonder: Am I?

That high school bully should have no power over me now. I mean it’s not like he can make me feel shame for the shoes I like to wear. But I kind of hate him. And honestly, I kind of hate myself for being unable to truly feel the freedom I should feel. If you don’t endure something like that you have no idea what it’s like. You don’t know the shame. You don’t know the fear. You don’t feel the residual effects.

A few days ago I watched the extras on the DVD of the film The Shape Of Water. In one of those extras, the film’s director, Guillermo del Toro, said that he finds three things terrifying: order, certainty, and perfection. He goes on to say that the film’s “Richard Strickland" character represents all three of these things. What struck me about this commentary--as if his words had actually reached from my television screen and slapped me--was that del Toro said of those three things, “They are completely impossible. And they are the torture of our life. ‘Cause no human can be any of them.”

And here I am seeking order and perfection with a bit a certainty thrown in for spice--rigidly trying to hold myself together. Am I merely torturing myself? Let me change that from a question to a statement. I’m torturing myself.

There has to be a change. I know that. I also know it’s not going to be easy. I don’t even know how to begin. But that’s all part of life, right? You figure it out as you go. At least I’m aware, and that’s a step in the right direction. So, I’ve challenged myself to the following:

• Accept that I exist in a world where perfection does not. Therefore, I will never be perfect.
• Believe that mistakes are not failures and give myself the freedom to make them.
• Understand that laughing at myself frees me from the weight of my blunders.
• Trust in myself—I am stronger than I feel.
• Allow vulnerability to pierce my armor.
• Stop being my own bully.

My journey continues...