Being Woke Is Simple, But Tell That To The Conservative American Christian

 

To be woke, as defined by dictionary.com, is “having or marked by an active awareness of systemic injustices and prejudices, especially those involving the treatment of ethnic, racial, or sexual minorities.”

Isn’t that a good thing? Shouldn’t we embrace a positive reaction to our historical and present-day negative actions? 

Wouldn’t you think those who profess to be Christians would be at the forefront of this movement—more woke than anyone else?

I would think so. But no. I would be wrong.

American Christians, most of whom are conservatives, use woke as a negative term and fight hard against changes in the world being made by those who recognize the movement's eyes-wide-open benefits.

The Woke Movement isn’t new. It’s been around since the early 1900s when Black Americans coined the term for use in the racial justice movement. It simply meant that a person was “informed, educated and conscious of social injustice and racial inequality,” according to Merriam-Webster Dictionary. I had never heard the term woke until recent years when the 24-hour news cycle and social media brought it to my attention because conservative American Christians were using it as a double-edged sword against those striving for progress and change.

I was discussing the definition of woke recently with a friend who said that Christians don’t see that there is a problem. Or that there ever has been a problem. He added that Christians view wokeness as an attack on them.

Investigating further, I read a post from a Reddit thread from a couple of years ago. The original poster believes woke means being sensitive to injustice and having compassion for the marginalized and minority groups, adding that conservatives mock “bleeding heart liberals” who understand movement and try to implement its intended change. A responder to that post spoke of the perceived toxic environment created by the Woke Movement, opining that when one doesn’t follow the rules perfectly as laid out by those in charge then one is reprimanded. (Who’s in charge?) Further into the thread, responses of “simply having respect” and “wokeness demands repentance but offers no forgivenesses” caught my attention.

Why is there no forgiveness? Why aren’t Christians the ones with bleeding hearts? Why does respecting another person’s color, sexuality, gender, gender identity, religious beliefs (or none), etc., cause such fear-based outrage?

I can’t answer these questions.

From what I remember in my nearly 18 years of going to Sunday school and Baptist worship services three times a week, this man Jesus was supposedly a kind, generous, loving person. He is characterized as a man who opened his heart and his arms to the sick and the poor, to kings and outcasts alike. And he supposedly taught lessons of acceptance and forgiveness.

As a queer from a small town in the red state of Kentucky, I sure know what it means to feel, and be, different. I know what learned fear feels like from the repeated warnings of a fire-and-brimstone preacher as he spoke of a God who would punish me for my sins, turn his back on me if I failed to heed his attempts to convict my heart to turn toward him, and send me to Hell for being gay. 

Side note: if we are all created in the image of this God of the Bible, then that means my non-binary, gay, queer, femme-ass self was made in the image of that God too. And I would suggest that you stop thinking of this God as some white-haired, white-bearded, white man who resides somewhere above the clouds. I suggest instead that you think of this God as an entity that posses both sexes, all colors, and every race. This God would be trans and bi and poly and glorious and glittering in his various shades of life. But I digress.

We all know this biblical God of the White Right, don’t we? And so, too, this man Jesus. (If either of them even exist.) But if this God does exists then he’s clearly a man with a penis. As is this man Jesus. That’s the only option for most American Christians. And the God of the American Christian doesn’t seem to want his followers to embrace trans people or queer people or gay people. No. This God wants his followers to close their eyes to the injustices perpetrated on these communities. They’re angry all the time and righteous as they point out how threatening we are. Their God wants his followers to speak with nasty vitriol and in some cases even perpetuate the injustices with violence. He doesn’t want those dirty fucking trannies to live happy lives. And we shouldn’t even speak of how he seems to feel about the nasty gays and their disgusting sexual habits. Not in His America. Hell no. 

Of course none of that is true. If there is a God how could this entity want anything but happiness and love and full lives for all of its creations? Human beings are the ones who don’t want that. Human beings live in fear of what we don’t understand. Human beings have decided they can speak for this God.

Let’s look specifically at two words in the above mentioned definition of woke: active awareness. That’s it, right there. To be woke is to have an active awareness. Of what? Well, of racism, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, to name just a few. And with an active awareness, a person can actively work against these negatives. 

So why are so many Christians actively working against being woke? To simply respect and support other people seems like something this man Jesus would do, something very Christlike.

This feels like the perfect time to bring up the word “agenda.” I am aware that many American Christians think anything different, or new, is part of someone’s “agenda.” They love to say these “agendas” are being shoved down their throats. We’ve all heard of the Gay Agenda. Of course now there’s the Trans Agenda. And we can’t forget that old stalwart, the Black Lives Matter Agenda.

Agenda is not a bad word. It’s a plan. And the agenda for any of these movements is to shine a light on the disparities and the prejudices and the treatment of people in these communities. But these “agendas” sure rile people up, don’t they?

It’s American Christian who have the biggest “agenda.” Example: you may be a person that’s against abortion. And that’s fine. You can be against abortion. To me, that means you’re not going to have an abortion.

But many Christians rejoiced when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, even though that meant millions of women most of who these Christians will never know, lost access to safe and legal abortion. Tell me Christians don’t have an agenda. And theirs is the Agenda being shoved down the throats of too many Americans on a daily basis.

What about your Ten Commandments? What about the Golden Rule? What about “Judge not lest ye be judged?”

Woke merely means I see you. I acknowledge your struggle. I recognize your community hasn’t been treated well. I want to understand. I want to help. I have empathy. I include you.

If I seem frustrated, maybe even a little angry, (and a bit more than anti-Christian) you’re not wrong (and, yes, I am). The truths is I, too, struggle with being woke. But it ain’t that deep. And it sure as hell isn’t something that conservative American Christians should be getting their panties in a twist over.

My Recruitment Office Was In The Church

Anita Bryant, the acid-tongued former orange juice mouthpiece turned born-again Christian anti-gay savior of the children, once said, “Homosexuals cannot reproduce, so they must recruit. And to freshen their ranks, they must recruit the youth of America.”

What a load of fear-inducing horseshit!

I am a homosexual. I am QUEER!

I was born. Two parents: a mom, a dad. Loving home. Raised in the Baptist church.

Homosexual. Queer.

I was not recruited. I just am.

But do you know who recruits—that is, indoctrinates—children? The church. Yes. The church indoctrinates children because they want them to believe a certain way and to accept—without question—that their God is real and that a man named Jesus died for their sins and that homosexuals are godless sinners. They have to replenish their numbers to keep their hate strong. That’s recruiting.

The church was the place where I found my first sense of community. But, in the opinion of a person who walked away from that community, the foundation is built on quicksand. One must follow and conform and walk the “straight”and narrow path.

(Horseshit)

In reference to my Baptist church upbringing: I am still recovering from that. As a queer person, what I learned in my time there about their God’s wrath, punishment, Hell, fear, and blind faith continues to affect my life. I haven’t attended a church service regularly in just about 35 years. But the teachings remain imbedded in the adult mind of the child who absorbed them.

I was indoctrinated, for sure. My attempted recruitment to be a soldier in the “Army of God” failed. Thankfully. But the recruitment attempt happened during the formative years of my life and therefore still fucks me up.

Back to Anita Bryant, it seems to me that fear played the biggest role in her ridiculous passion play about saving the children. Maybe she was afraid of what she didn’t understand. Maybe she was grossed out by the idea of homosexual sex. Maybe she truly believed the shit she said. She recruited people to her cause by using the fear tactics she no doubt learned in a church service.

(And if you believe in karma then it truly is a bitch because Anita Bryant has a gay granddaughter. Suck it, Anita!)

I was not recruited to become a homosexual. I was not recruited to become a queer. I was not recruited to become non-binary.

I was not molested.

I was born.

(And once upon a time I was Born Again. I reject this.)

I continue to fight to accept myself. I continue to fight against the need to be accepted—I want to be accepted for who I am, but I want to not need that acceptance.

And sadly, I continue to have to fight the fear.

I walked away from the church years ago and a community that pushes for believing without question and doesn’t accept LGBTQ humans. But I continue to walk through my own life—albeit on a curvier much more spacious path—with heels on my feet and polish on my fingernails, questioning everything.

Queers do not recruit.

Christians recruit.

Pink is My Empowerment Color

Have I become Shelby Eatenton?

For those unversed in the Louisiana-set world of Southern belles and strong female friendships that is Steel Magnolias (you should watch it immediately), Shelby Eatenton is the “Pink-is-my-signature-color” character played by Julia Roberts (in her first Academy Award nominated role). 

I am very comfortable with pink these days. It has become a very significant color in my life after the color blue, which holds the top spot because it brings out my eyes. But not so long ago, I was threatened by this palest tint of red.

Back in 2011, I decided while getting a manicure in Provincetown, Massachusetts, to get the nail on my left index finger painted blue. It was different. And if I desired anything while growing up in my small Kentucky town it was to be different. But I digress. I liked the color on the single nail. I found it interesting and unique; a somewhat stylish fashion statement.

I continued to paint that one nail myself for years. I acquired bottle after bottle of nail polish. So many shades that I risked the polish drying up before I could possibly use it all when only painting that one nail. Eventually, I decided to add the middle finger on the left hand to the polished party. And you know what, two was better than one. I liked the pair. They added something a little avant-garde to my style. They also multiplied the questions from those enquiring minds that wanted to know: “Why just two nails?” I didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but “I like it” was the answer my therapist told me to give. So I gave it. It was the truth, after all.

Then came the moment I painted those two nails red. I know this is a pink story but the red came first so just stick with me. I painted those two nails red and they shined. My inner queer felt like he was channelling a 1950s movie star or maybe even Joan Crawford in The Women. I quickly noticed, however that I was hiding those two nails more than I was letting them bask in the light. I was embarrassed. I couldn’t figure it out. Blue nail polish didn’t bother me. Neither did brown or gray or green. Even a dark crimson red didn't affect me. But the bright red shade I had chosen shined a spotlight on me with an illumination that I just couldn’t handle.

I thought maybe it was a red thing without bothering to explore why it was a red thing. So I decided to give pink a try. (I told you to stick with me and I’d get back to pink.) I had the same reaction. I loved the color, felt fabulous with it on my nails, but only in private or around friends. I was hiding those two pink nails the same way I had hidden the red ones.
What was I so afraid of? It was just a color. But pink, like red, commanded too much attention. For some reason I felt exposed…and ashamed.

Then it hit me, pink (and red) is a feminine color. At least in my mind when it came to nail polish. So this went much deeper than exposure. It went much deeper than being ashamed of being a man with painted fingernails. It was about my feminine shame.

Oh shit.

I had to face it.

But not immediately. That’s not my way. I hid from it just like I hid those two nails from those prying eyes and enquiring minds.

Sometimes we’re afraid of the things we want the most. I was. I wanted all ten nails painted and wanted them to be painted red or pink. But I didn’t want to be exposed that fully. I had hidden myself most of my life. Too much exposure allowed too many people to see the truth. Different is nice, but…

Finally, I felt courageous enough to do something that I hadn’t known I really wanted to do back in 2011, the first time I got that one nail painted. I got all ten of my fingernails painted. It was September 12, 2019. It was a major step for me. One that had been building for more than eight years. The shade of color I chose was a deep slate gray. It had to be a dark shade for me at that time. A dark shade I could handle. I had to ease myself into it. But it was amazing. I loved having all ten of my nails painted. It was freeing, if that makes sense. As if by not painting them, or by only painting two of them, I was holding my other fingers at bay, keeping them prisoners devoid of the joy that color can bring.

As with anything one does repeatedly, having painted nails got easier to flaunt, to the point that I felt naked if they weren’t painted. During the COVID-19 pandemic, when the theatre industry in NYC—my industry—was shut down for 18 months, I even learned how to polish my own nails. As a right handed person, I even got pretty good at polishing the right hand with my left if I do say so myself.

I have been on a journey of self-discovery for so many years that I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t trying to give myself permission to take a step forward and be myself. There is freedom to be found in expressing your true self, exposing, if you will, the person that you might hide from the world.

The true me is feminine. I have always been feminine. I have loved that about myself in private and hated it about myself in public for way too long. I shouldn’t fear my femininity, yet sometimes I still do. But just like everyone else, I am a work in progress.

I have now added so much pink to my life that I rarely go a day without it. It’s an unconsciously conscious choice. My nails are almost always pink. I alternate between three or four varying shades every two weeks, much to the dismay of the owner of the nail salon where I get them done. She often questions why my color is always pink. The truth is, I love it. It makes me happy. 

Pink is feminine. Pink is masculine. Pink is me.

The medium to deeper shades of pink that I like are vibrantly beautiful and alive with energy. I have found confidence and power in their hues. I have found vitality.
It amazes me to think back on the fear I once had about two pink nails when I now see how fabulous I feel with ten.

So, what was I so afraid of? The simple answer is: the truth. More specifically, I was afraid of my reaction to me being myself and that of others to me revealing myself. I have always loved being a feminine person when it didn’t cost me anything: no hateful words, no threat of physical violence. But if the truth does actually set you free it can only do so when you admit it.

I love my pink nails, my pink clothes, my pink earrings, my pink rings, my pink shoes, my pink lipstick, etc. 

The color pink is important to me. Whether it has become the signature color in my life, I don’t know. It certainly has become a signature color. But all signature color talk aside, it has definitely become my empowerment color.

I may not be Shelby Eatenton, but we are definitely kin.

From The Land of Tethered to the Land of Un: A Journey of Truth Toward Freedom

I can’t believe I’m starting off this piece with a biblical reference, but it seems apropos as most of us have heard the phrase, “The truth will set you free” (John 8:32, KJV). That might actually be true. The truth can certainly have a positive effect on people. It can also hurt like hell. But let me focus on the clarity-providing positive aspects of the truth.

I have long avoided asking questions to which I feared the answers. Answers that I suspected I knew but didn’t officially know. In recent weeks, however, I asked some of those questions of my family, and I was graced with a bit of truth in their answers.

Imagine wandering aimlessly down a path cracked with uncertainty, overgrown with weeds of assumption, constantly trying to evade being ensnared by snaking vines of suspicion. This path is in the Land of Tethered and I’ve been walking it for a long time. Avoiding. It’s exhausting. I thought knowing the truth would hurt too much, so I avoided it. I trudged along, believing the “truth” in my head. I let the unspoken “truth” weigh me down. I’ve been rambling down the path wearing concrete shoes.

Turns out I was right about the answers. I know my family loves me. But being loved is different from being supported. Love might allow one to throw out the welcome mat but that doesn’t mean it will open all the doors. There is silence between us. Conversations, when they happen, have moved into the zone of politesse. There is no depth, no revealing honesty. We tiptoe around each other, avoiding topics like religion, politics, anything LGBTQ. We’re on different sides. What I didn’t know is there’s a perception that I am selfish and self-absorbed. Those thorny words pricked my skin. Yet, I know I can be both. But so can we all at times. It was expressed to me that I am the cause of heartbreak, which is never my intention. But sometimes our actions and choices break the hearts of those we love. Sometimes even the questions we ask. My heart has definitely been in a state of break due to the choices made by my family based on a religious moral code. But the most surprising disclosure of this truth-telling delivery was the anger. I was on the receiving end of anger that I didn’t know existed. I’m usually the angry one.

We are not entitled to know what other people think about us. And we would all probably be better served not knowing. But learning the truth, in a way, released me. I was relieved to know that what I had always thought was the truth was actually the truth. I began to accept it. I began to process the fact that I will (likely) never have the relationship with my family that I long for or the type of support from them that I desire.

I was recently speaking with a gallery associate at the Bowersock Gallery in Provincetown, Massachusetts, about the artist/owner’s series of hot air balloon paintings. I had first seen a few of the paintings in the series in June 2021, when I was there to celebrate my 50th birthday. I was so drawn to them. Initially I thought it was because in October 2010, my best friend, on the occasion of his turning 40, had planned a hot air balloon ride in the Berkshires as part of the celebration. However, the weather didn’t cooperate. The winds were too strong that day. The hot air balloon ride was cancelled.

It was nearly eleven years later that I first laid eyes on Steve Bowersock‘s hot air balloons. Set against ominous skies, these colorful hot air balloons were floating toward something, away from something, through and above. They hovered in their dreamscape world, frozen but not. Were they carrying the rider into danger or transporting him to freedom? One painting in particular continues to fascinate me. In it, a rope dangles freely from the basket of the balloon, a body clinging to it. I can’t help but wonder if the person is trying to climb aboard or trying to escape?

(I want in.)

My best friend was on that trip but not in the gallery with me on the day of discovery. I wanted him to see those beautiful hot air balloons. I found him and brought him to the gallery. I hoped he would love them as much as I did. I hoped he would buy one and then by proximity I would be able to view it and contemplate its strange surreal beauty every time I was at his home. Alas, he did not buy one. And while he liked them, he wasn’t actually as drawn to them as I.

I’ve been to Provincetown a few times since that trip. Each time I’ve stopped in the Bowersock Gallery to see if any of the hot air balloon paintings remained. There’s always been one or two available. I’ve always gotten to see them. Ponder them. Wonder what was happening in their world. But on my most recent visit in October 2023, they hung in the gallery no more. Sold. All of them. And it was during that visit, and the aforementioned conversation with the gallery associate, that I began to think more deeply about the hot air balloons.

They’re untethered. They’re free. They can float aimlessly but they can also soar with direction. I want that. I want to leave the path.

Admitting the truth that I am non-binary gave me a sense of freedom. Learning what I feared was true is true gave me a sense of freedom. What am I doing? Why do I keep trying? I want to be accepted for who I am in all of my queer, non-binary fabulousness. Not despite who I am. I’m not sure I even want to keep pushing and trying to educate. I’m kind of tired. And that’s not a bad thing. I think my family is just as stuck as I’ve been but I don’t have to be. I can soar.

I’ve found a clearing at this juncture in the path and I’ve stepped into it. The clouds might be ominous but there’s a sliver of sun shining through. There’s a balloon. It’s beautiful: pink and teal blue patterned in yellow and purple, sage and red. I feel hesitant but I also feel the thrill. I want to untie the rope and get in the basket. I want to soar upward and float freely away to the Land of Un, knowing that even if a major wind blows me off course, I will be fine because just like the balloon I can right the course or even change direction.

Using hindsight, one can always connect the dots of a past experience to that of his present, finding greater meaning in something from then when applying it to now. Maybe the meaning is something he couldn’t see at the time. It’s possible the hot air balloon paintings were simply something I loved because they made me think about my best friend and his canceled hot air balloon ride. But maybe they represented something that I longed for even before I understood fully what that was and how desperately I needed it.

Funny thing about this truth: it wasn’t as heavy as I’d feared. None of it. The fear itself is what was heavy. The fear is what choked the path, kept me tethered to the ground. I don’t believe the truth has fully set me free. Not yet. My fear did not magically disappear. But I know it has helped me feel freer. And while I will probably continue to fear the truth, even after knowing and understanding its benefits (it’s my pattern), my hope is that I will spend less time limiting myself in the Land of Tethered and more time soaring free among the clouds in the Land of Un.

It’s More Than Just A Little Lipstick, It’s About Identity

Oddly, I didn’t feel scared. This was different for me. There was a bit of anxiety pulsing in my chest, but it felt different than normal. The pulsing might have even been more from excitement than fear.

The day after I officially came out as non-binary, I went to the Chanel beauty boutique at Saks Fifth Avenue with the sole purpose of buying a new lipstick. I am not new to lipstick or lip gloss, but my chosen colors tend to be pinks and nudes that are similar in color to my lips and therefore don’t stand out as much as they enhance the already existing color. These lipsticks don’t announce themselves to the world yet still give me the pleasure of feminine expression.

If you’ve read my previous post, you know how pink and red shades of polish on my nails once made me uncomfortable. The same can be said of lipstick. A bold shade that proclaims itself before the lips wearing it are determined to be mine is something that I have been unwilling to do. The culprits are fear and shame. Those two hateful siblings allow me to feel more uncomfortable in my skin than anything else.

But, just like my desire to wear the pink or red nail polish, I truly desire to adorn my lips with color. And so here I am.

 

I knew that I had to face my fear of being seen and what better time than the present? The eyes were done. The clothes were chosen. The earrings were in place. The final step before departing my house was to swipe that color on my lips. And as you can see from the above photo, swipe it I did.

As I said above, I was oddly calm when it was time to leave my apartment. I was ready to step outside of their protecting walls.

And you know what, nothing happened. No one said anything. The negative reaction I feared was not expressed. As one prone to holding onto the negativity provided because of other people’s insecurities, I know how important it is to hold onto the positive ones. I’m working on that.

I also know that no matter how small the steps, forward is forward. I am supported and loved by the people that I have chosen to share my life with.

Courage comes from within. But surrounding myself with people who encourage me and lift me up and push me forward makes being brave a little easier. And with bravery comes confidence.

Today I confidently wore Chanel Mystérieuse lipstick. A bold and vibrant choice for a (hopefully) bold and vibrant new me.

The Conditioning of My Gay Anxiety

Nick is walking down the street. The camera shot is a close-up of his face. He’s beaming. Filled with joy. His smile encompasses his mouth, his eyes, his hair. He is happy. It’s obvious.

I find myself anxious. I expect the camera to pull back and reveal impending doom.

(Spoiler alert: this is the final scene of season two, episode one of the endearingly sweet Netflix series, Heartstopper, created and written by Alice Oseman, based on her graphic novel.)

The more I thought about the anxiety I was experiencing, the more I realized I’ve been conditioned to expect shame, tragedy, and sadness. At least where gay stories are concerned. I expected there to be a bully. I felt my body tense as I prepared for a verbal attack of faggot or queer. My heartbeat sped up as I feared a fist would invade the frame of the shot and punch the smile off Nick’s face.

But nothing happened to Nick. His smile remained. His joy was uninterrupted.

I, however, had to take a pause.

Upon sharing my experience with two of my gay coworkers, who also watch the series, they too admitted a feeling of anxiety in that same moment. We have not been conditioned to sit back and watch an LGBTQ story play out in film or television that is set in a world of pure gay joy. We’ve been conditioned to expect adversity.

How thrilling it would be to live in a world without this homophobic bully-induced anxiety. As a queer fem human, who is still questioning where he fits on the gender spectrum, I think I would thrive.

Before I step outside my apartment building, I typically feel fabulous, proud, and joyous in my flourishes of nail polish or a cocktail-style ring or high heels or eye makeup. But the minute I step out into the world, I am on guard. Preparing. No matter how many times nothing negative happens to me, I am always on guard. I have been conditioned to be so. Having an awareness of one’s surroundings isn’t a bad thing. But expecting strife is.

It’s disquieting that I can more easily recall the pain and shame I felt when a group of men called me a faggot (for no other reason than they could) as I passed them to enter the building where I work than, say, the positive reinforcement from people who go out of their way to complement my nails or eyes or whatever it is. That’s because the negative moments are more traumatic. They carve out a place in my memories and live there in a darkened corner waiting to remind me why joy is more fleeting than heartache. I wish I knew how to store all the positive experiences the same way. Why do I give more credence to being called a faggot than to being complemented on my choice of nail color…by a straight man no less?

For the record, Heartstopper has proven itself to be nothing but gay joy. That isn’t to say that there aren’t negative experiences within its episodes. But overall, there was no reason for me to anticipate that expected adversity. That’s not the world Nick lives in. I wish I could live in his world.

Gay joy is something I strive to hold on to. And even though I haven’t found that easy, I am grateful for the pure joy of Heartstopper as reference.

In my world, I think it’s time to recondition my condition.

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...

Enough Is Enough: Christians, Homosexuality, And The Casting Of Stones

This piece first appeared on HuffPost

I am so tired of hate speech spewing Christians. They of the holier-than-though contingent who seem to think their shit doesn’t stink. 

I am tired of my homosexuality being labeled a sin. 

I am tired of my acting upon my sexual desires being labeled a sin.

John 8:7 (KJV): “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone…” 

Ever notice how many of those stones are being cast by Christians? 

Enough with the sin talk already.

Heterosexuals do not corner the market on sex. Because let’s face it, it’s all about the sex isn’t it? That “nasty,” “disgusting,” hurts-so-good butt sex that many people can’t seem to wrap their heads around? What does it matter how two (or more) people express their love for one another? I can even take love out of the sentence and put it even more bluntly. What does it matter how two (or more) people choose to get off? There are even heterosexuals who enjoy a visit to Butt Town.

Homosexuals are not perverse as some are wont to think. And enough with the desire to round us up and kill us. Would you have another holocaust? This time on American soil? From some of the statements I read from Christian leaders in this country, I’m thinking a rainbow holocaust of epic proportions is exactly what some want. I get the feeling there would be much joy from some after an LGBTQ elimination.

I doubt that anyone who hates gay people enough to wish death upon us cares, but I’m a human being. And living with that kind of hate on the periphery for my entire life is challenging to say the least. 

What I find so interesting about hate is the part choice plays in it. Think about this. I’m the gay man. Who could possibly know better than I what I feel and who I’m attracted to? Do you know better than I what I feel because you’re a conservative, a Christian, a whatever else you claim to be? You’re wrong. But here’s what I know. You make a choice. You have chosen to hate something you can’t accept. You have chosen to believe the words of the Bible without question. You have chosen to follow the doctrine of a religion that picks and chooses what is sin. You have made a choice. I did not. 

I was born gay just as I was born with a crossed left eye and blond hair that eventually turned brown. I didn’t have a choice in those matters. It’s that simple.

If people would stop casting their stones for just one second—one second—and look, they would be able to see the LGBTQ people—the human beings—in front of them. But our country—America—is filled with pious people who think they’re doing the “right” thing, but have merely consumed the Kool-Aid laid out for them on the silver platter of self-righteousness.

Who I love, fuck, or get off with is no one’s business unless I share the details. A non-heterosexual couple who wants to get married does not affect negatively the institution of marriage. It’s time to get over that notion. That belief is nothing more than irrational delusion.

It fills me with anger when I see a video like the one posted by Theodore Shoebat calling my homosexuality a perversion worthy of death. Are you kidding me? The professed ‘Christian Militant’ (Christian Militant??) is pious indeed. This man is so drunk on the power of his religious superiority that he believes that people should be put to death merely because they are homosexual. Look in the mirror, sir. You’ve got a little bit of shit dribble on your face.

I grew up in a small town in Kentucky filled with fear and shame because I was gay. (Thank you religion.) I continue to fight against those fears and that shame every day to be the person I want to be and to fully live my life. 

Hate is taught; it is learned. Love comes naturally. I, and my LGBTQ brothers and sisters, deserve to live, to thrive, to love. I know that attitudes toward LGBTQ are more positive and accepting than ever, but I also know that hate has carved out its place in this country. 

I’m not casting a stone but…isn’t hate and the wishing of death a sin?