I Dared To Be Me And I Feel Like A Bird Set Free

"The hardest part is being afraid. Afraid that people are going to find out the truth. [But] once you stop being afraid you're free." Steven Carrington, Dynasty circa 1987

It's amazing what a little honesty and eyeliner can do for one's psyche. I'm not talking about covering my face up "with lots of MAC makeup" as Jennifer Hudson sings in "All Dressed In Love." That’s not my thing (but if it’s yours…do it!). I’m talking about a little eyeliner to accentuate the eye, add a pop of color, help me express myself.
 
Since publishing “The Woman In Me” a little over seven weeks ago, my courage and confidence has grown by leaps and bounds. Admitting my truth and embracing myself has been so powerful. It's freedom. Being brave enough to be myself on the street when I'd only previously done so (without fear of judgment or retribution) behind closed doors has been life changing; liberating. I've noticed that I face my life differently. It's as if I take a breath and react in a more grounded less frustrated manner than previous. If you can believe it (because sometimes I still can’t) I'm less hard on myself.
 
I don't think any of us realize how much trauma we cause ourselves with our secrets.

When I embraced myself and started wearing eyeliner in public it was scary. That first step outside the door I would compare myself to a cat whose hackles are raised in a posture of defense. I was on guard -- prepared for even the slightest negative reaction -- even with sunglasses on to hide the liner. But the glasses had to come off and the eyeliner had to be exposed. I'm not Anna Wintour. Sunglasses are not an acceptable accessory at work. Within days of little to no reaction it began to not matter when I stepped outside of my apartment whether I was wearing sunglasses or not. I became less self conscious about wearing the eyeliner. It was merely a little paint on the canvas, an expression accentuating my style. The ease of incorporating a feminine bracelet, ring, boot, etc., followed immediately. And I become less self conscious of those items also.

I soon became aware that I was happier with me; less critical of me. Don't be fooled: I'm still my harshest critic, but I accept that I'm not perfect and never will be. That's hard for a perfectionist. I just have to be the best me I can be. What I've realized is that my courage to show myself with confidence has changed the way I face the challenges that life presents on a daily basis.
 
I first began to notice this difference by the way I reacted to the corrections my personal trainer would give me at the end of an exercise. I have long carried a pot of anger inside of me that boils over any time I feel vulnerable. And let’s face it, doing something new can be a very vulnerable situation. Before "outing" my authentic self in public I would get so angry because I wasn't able to execute an exercise perfectly. Even if i’d never done it before. That pot would boil over, and I would be angry, almost always, for the rest of the training session. Now I seem to accept his assessments less as failure's and more as challenges. Then I attempt again to execute properly a kettle bell swing, a single-arm press with squat, or the ever challenging Turkish Get-Up. It was a shock to me the day I realized I wasn’t getting angry in a situation when I would normally get angry. It began to sink in that by accepting, embracing, and exposing my true self to the world I had become more relaxed in navigating the ups, downs, twists, and turns of my life.
 
I had released myself from my self-made prison of fear and shame. Gilded as it may have been inside with all its pretty things (art, champagne, high heels, and shiny pieces of jewelry) it was still a prison. I had to get out of my own way, spread my wings, fly. I could no longer be contained behind the wall of my home.

On a recent Friday I paid a visit to the Gucci store on Fifth Avenue. It proved to be quite a positive experience. I don't know how many of you have seen the new studded leather navy (or red) and white striped platform pumps from Gucci's SS16 collection, but I have personally been obsessed with them since I first laid eyes on them in the pages of Harper's Bazaar and Vogue. They’re art -- sculptural; stunning. Said visit was about seeing the shoes in person in all their beautiful, full-color, 3-D glory.

When I stepped off the top step, having arrived at the third floor of the Gucci store, I saw them sitting on a table. All the available color options from tan to green to silver & black to the aforementioned striped, which has pointed studs and a feline head detail. They were inviting me to come over and look at them, touch them. Never one to be content with admiring beautiful things from a distance I walked myself straight to that table and all but Carrie Bradshaw'd a "Hello Lover" at them all. Is it cheating if you've got hearts where your eyes should be and you've yet to truly commit to loving one more than the others even if you already know you like one more than the others?
 
Anyway, there I was in Gucci and a sales associate, Sherice, was asking me if she could be of assistance. Instead of just admiring the shoes I told her I wanted to try on a pair. She didn't blink an eye as she asked me what size I wear.
 
"I wear an 8 in men's," I responded.

"That's a 10," she replied quickly, which translates to a European 40.
 
I told her I was particularly drawn to the navy and white striped platforms. She promptly went to the back in search of my size.

Sadly, they didn't have the navy and white striped in a 40, but they did have the red and white striped. From the display we took the shoe for my right foot. I tried it on while she went in search of its mate. It fit perfectly. I was Cinderella...without the prince (as I’d put the shoe on my own foot). I bobbed up and down around the shoe salon admiring the reflection of my foot in that shoe in all the mirrors. Then I noticed that all the sales associates in the room were admiring too. They began to remark overwhelmingly with positive comments. Not "to-make-a-sale" comments either. Just positive, uplifting, judgement-free, comments.
 
Ava, another sales associate, chatted me up while Sherice was in the back searching for the mate to the shoe I had on my foot. I began to tell her about my current journey, about the above mentioned piece I had written and the favorable response to it. She listened with total interest then told me if I decided to buy the shoes I had to wear them out into the world. She applauded my co-workers for their support and applauded me for doing that little ol' thing of finally being myself in public.

Those shoes nearly screamed "I belong on your feet! Buy me!" Every sales associate I encountered in Gucci that day was so supportive of me and thrilled when I chose to make the purchase. I couldn't have felt more at ease in a group of strangers.
 
Even more interesting was the fact that I initially wanted the navy and white striped (which was more subdued), but it was the red and white striped that truly made a statement. There was no other option. The navy and white striped could have been ordered for me, but I knew, as did everyone else watching me walk and smile and laugh, that it had to be the red.
 
Ava was right about wearing them out into the world. They're too beautiful to keep hidden behind the walls of my apartment. I didn’t know when I’d find the courage, but I knew I would, just as I’d found the courage to walk out into the world wearing eyeliner. I had to. I wanted to.

Two days later I was wearing those shoes at work.

It was a beautiful spring-like winter Sunday. I wore those shoes for every hour of my 6 hour shift. I opened myself up to the possibility of stares and laughter and even name calling. My hackles were up. I was prepared…and I wasn’t.

What I received was a generous outpouring of positive support. Comments ranging from, “Beautiful” to "How can you walk in those?” to "You are giving me life right now!" resulted in a dialogue of sorts, with no conversation or question shaded negatively. I knew I had chosen a safe space in which to experience my grand initiation of wearing unmistakably women’s shoes in public, but I wasn’t prepared for the feeling of joy that flooded my heart. I received hugs of encouragement and watched as faces masked with astonishment transformed into smiles. I can't begin to express my gratitude for the support of my co-workers. I thankfully work in an industry that embraces all of us -- human beings. And I have a set of core friends who support me no matter what. I basked in that encouragement and support; breathed it in; let it fill me up.
 

There were a couple of obvious (to me) straight men that I passed while walking through the building. I heard them laughing behind me. I'm not sure if the laughter was about seeing a grown man in a pair of women’s platform shoes or if it had nothing to do with me at all. I wasn’t necessarily the punchline to a joke. I just presumed I was. Regardless, I kept my shoulders back, my head held high, and walked, with nary a teeter, back to my office. If they were laughing at me then that's their own insecure shit rearing its ugly head. I rocked those shoes with ease, grace, and style.

I don't need to tell you how important it is to surround yourself with supportive people. What I may need to remind you of though is how important it is to be supportive. We're all in this life together. We have a choice: stand together or tear each other down. "United we stand, divided we fall."

The title of this piece comes partially from the song “Bird Set Free” from Sia’s new album This Is Acting. The album is filled with songs and lyrics that empower me, feed my courage, and make me want to be even more brave. It has become the soundtrack to my current journey. My walk has become a strut of confidence and her album is punctuating every step with positivity.

I’m still afraid but my fears are weakening. I'm freer. I’m supported. I dared to be me and it’s paying off. I’m surviving my own demons. You might even say I'm kicking them in the ass. I love myself more.

Remember that line from The Goonies, "It's our time down here."? Well, “down here” is right now, and it’s my time right now. It's all of our time right now. Be yourself...confidently. I dare you!

I'm here. I'm queer. I'm gay. I'm homosexual. I'm gender expansive. I'm feminine. I'm masculine. I’m pretty. I’m handsome. I'm alive. I'm a bird set free. I'm unstoppable. I'm me.
 
My journey continues.

The Woman in Me

I want you to take a second and look at yourself in the mirror. You may be thinking: I do that everyday what’s different about today? Well, today I want you to really look at yourself. Who do you see staring back at you? Is it the real you or the mask of you, which you hide behind? Are you brave enough to be who you really are?

I was standing on the platform of my subway stop in New York City waiting for the train to take me to work. I remember feeling fabulous that day--to use an overused word. I was wearing a pair of camel-colored, wide-legged corduroy pants with vertical stripes in black, charcoal, blue, and teal; frayed edges where there should have been hems. The pants were a throwback to the 70s from the first time the 70s made a resurgence in fashion. I was wearing a jewel-toned teal button up with a wide brown belt and brown Frye boots. It was a bit chilly that day so I was also wearing my I-Feel-Like-Olivia-Pope-From-Scandal-when-I-wear-it charcoal gray trench and carrying a brown distressed Marc by Marc Jacobs tote. I was boldly and happily expressing myself in my personal style. I felt pretty.

My mind was adrift as I waited. I was listening to my iPod--lyrics running through my head, drum beats pounding in my ears, thoughts of “Where is the train” beginning to frustrate me. While my mind was wandering down its own path untethered, my subconscious took over. When mind and body reconnected I honed in on that word “pretty.” I didn’t feel handsome. I felt pretty. (I know there are men who are more pretty than handsome but societal gender rules tend to leave no room to call a man pretty.) This wasn’t the first time I’ve felt this womanly feeling. But as I'm finding myself more introspective about who I am, I became very aware that I was thinking of myself presenting more female than male. Everything about my clothing was decidedly male, but I wasn’t thinking of myself as male. It was a very strange moment to realize, connect with, and acknowledge that feeling. No one around me knew what was happening to me on the inside, but clarity was washing over me. 

Growing up in a small town I became aware very quickly that my appearance was very important to the adults around me. I remember a time specifically in the 80s when highlighted hair for men was very popular. I wanted highlights so badly I took the hydrogen peroxide bottle from the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink, poured the clear liquid into my hands, slicked it through my hair, then waited for my brunette strands to lighten. They didn’t lighten, of course. Wrong kind of peroxide. But hey, give me some credit for trying to be resourceful. 

When I asked permission to get the highlights done by a professional I was met with a response that still annoys me to this day: “What will the older ladies at church think when you get up to sing?” That question wasn’t so much about me as about the asker, but it was the spark that ignited my flame of apprehension. It wasn’t even my spark and yet it has consumed me for most of my life. For too long I have feared what other people think about me—what I’m wearing, what I’m doing, what I’m saying, how I live--and their response if they object. 

"In all our lives what we believe colors how we feel about ourselves..." Deepak Chopra.

I believed I had to act, dress, and present myself in society’s idea of a man because of the people around me. I struggled to do it, only presenting my authentic self behind closed doors because I was afraid and ashamed. All because I didn’t fit the mold someone else wanted me to fit into. 

My self-confidence, self-esteem, and self-worth were colored for years by the ideals of other people. As an adult, I have often stepped outside the expected boundaries but not without fear of rejection, retaliation, humiliation, and/or punishment. If I experienced none of those things from outsiders, then I’ve been known to heap one or more of them upon myself. The seeds of being ashamed of myself were planted so long ago in the garden of my youth, that no matter how much preening I’ve done there remain thorns sharper than ever in the landscape of my adulthood.

I had an epiphany that day on the subway platform. I don’t know why it took so long. I know I’ve always been more feminine than masculine. It’s in my mannerisms and style choices. Since the day I discovered fashion magazines I’ve been more drawn to the creativity and beauty of women’s fashion. To this day, I read Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue, and W to be inspired by what’s new in women’s fashion. I then take that inspiration and apply it to my own male based wardrobe: a color here, a ring there, a brooch on a lapel, a shoe with more of a heel; mixing masculine and feminine. This is not new information, but it was an Aha Moment--a turning point if you will--toward fully accepting who I am as a person and expressing who I am as a person with more courage and confidence than ever before. 

This has been a very thought provoking few weeks for me. I began to wonder if I was gender-fluid (is that preposterousness?). I don’t feel I’m transgendered. I’m not a transvestite. I don’t want to be a drag queen. Some days I simply feel more female than male, but ultimately I believe my inner and outer genders are a match. This questioning, however, led to some research and a deeply honest conversation with my dear friend, MJ, who considers herself gender-fluid. MJ let me talk about what I was feeling and ask questions, then without fear of judgment revealed details of her own life’s journey to me. It was personal and eye opening. I’m proud of her and respect her. She is one of the brave ones courageous enough to live her life in the light instead of just the shadows. I was searching for a label; a group to identify with (I probably fall somewhere on the spectrum between Metrosexual and Dandy), but I didn’t need that at all. I just needed to be brave enough to be myself, show myself. MJ helped me see that.

I am a man--a homosexual man. I present as a man. I’m attracted to men. I just happen to like to mix the masculine and feminine aesthetics in my everyday presentation. And what of it? It’s simply about having the courage to express my personal style. 

If I want to wear eyeliner, I wear eyeliner. It looks good on me. I'm more confidently embracing the fashionable embellishments with which I choose to adorn myself. I’m also more confidently embracing myself and living as a more authentic me than ever before.

My courage grew three sizes that day on the subway platform when I turned the corner of acceptance and found my own arms open to welcome me. I’m now less worried about other people’s reactions to my trying on women’s shoes or testing nude lipsticks. What does any of it really matter? It’s my life. I own it. Courage and confidence are key factors for any of us attempting to be a self that deviates from society’s norm. 

There’s a newfound joy in my heart. It’s a joy I’ve found because no matter how often I said I was being my authentic self, I realize I wasn’t until now. My journey has taken a turn down a flower-lined path that I’ve honestly been afraid to walk down. Blurring the lines between masculinity and femininity (though not being androgynous) is something I think I’ve been searching for the courage to do since I became aware of fashion and style back in high school.

“Be brave. No one remembers a coward.” 

That quote came to my attention in a story about Marigay McKee in the November issue of Harper’s Bazaar--the Daring issue. Daring is an appropriate word to be swirling around in the mixed bag of descriptor words in my head right now. As an adjective it means “bold or courageous; fearless; adventurous.” I’ve never quite seen myself as any of those things. I often sell myself short though. We are our own worst enemy; harder on ourselves than anyone else could possibly be.

Now back to the that request that opened this piece. The reflection in my mirror has often been distorted by cloudy black spots of fear and self-loathing revealing a dysmorphic, shadowy, confused image. Is that my truth? I think not. But I’m only now beginning to fully accept my truth and have the courage to see the man--his beard and his curled lashes--staring back at me.

In one of her trademark voice overs, Meredith Grey of Grey's Anatomy spoke this kernel of wisdom: "They say shame controls every aspect of human behavior. It's about who we believe we are. But in the end you can't hide. The truth is right there for the world to see. Our shame can choke us, kill us...if we decide to let it. Don't let that happen to you.”

I refuse to be ashamed of or scared to be myself any longer.

The time is now to find the courage to be who you truly are. I, for one, have wasted too much time worrying about the opinion of others. I refuse to waste another minute. There are heroes and role models and pioneers out there for you to glean courage from. Or you can be a pioneer and forge your own path. The world needs you. 

I’m brave enough to be me, to show the world the real me! Are you? Embrace yourself. Accept yourself. Express yourself. Be yourself. If I can find the courage, you can find the courage. We’ve got to be who we are, people.

“Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit” E. E. Cummings.

(Here is where I end this chapter. It felt like the complete truth when I wrote it, yet somehow still feels less than fully honest. The journey (and the questioning) continues…)

Being My Own Man: Discovering What I Learned From My Father

This piece also appears on HuffPost Gay Voices

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a man. I mean, I've got a penis so biologically I’m a man, but what does it mean to be a man? My dad says a man knows he's a man by how he feels within himself. I don't feel particularly manly. I feel much more in tune with my feminine side than my masculine.

I grew up in a small southern town somewhere near the intersection of stop sign and caution light. It's a place I jokingly refer to as “Podunk” or “Population 600.” It’s a beautiful place. Country roads lined by fields of corn or soy beans. Homes with big front yards. The churches are many and the restaurants few. My male role models in this Shangri-la-of-the-Country were church-going, outdoorsy types that I had nothing in common with. They’re hunters and fishermen; blue-color workmen. In my family, the men mark the seasons, not by longer days or the changing of colors, but by what animal it’s legal to hunt. They almost all enjoy the solitary peace of casting a line out into the water and waiting for a fish to bite. Most of them can fix a carburetor and many even do their own home repairs. These are the ideals of what it meant to be a man as I saw it, growing up in my small town under the tutelage of a dad who enjoys and can do all of the above.

There are some boys as young as 7- or 8-years old that you can already tell are all boy. I was not one of them. There was nothing masculine about me. I did not enjoy hunting of any kind. I didn’t like shooting a gun. I couldn’t shoot the arrow straight from the bow. As for fishing, the endless hours of sitting in a boat on the glassy waters of some lake hoping and waiting for a fish to take the bait, well let’s just say that bored me to tears. Of course none of that stopped my dad from taking me on a few of his hunting/fishing excursions. He wanted to teach me. He wanted me to enjoy what he enjoyed. I hated it. We found no common ground. I can’t begin to imagine his frustration when he began to realize he might be raising a gay son.

Moving on to sports. Well, that was a no go too. I didn’t like playing sports, and I didn’t like watching sports. I played basketball in junior high (because my dad wanted me to), which translated to me warming the bench, keeping my uniform neat and clean. I watched as my older cousins ran up and down the basketball court, scoring points. I watched as everyone cheered for them and patted their backs. I was not one of them. Full confession, I would have been happier being a cheerleader, cheering their victory, than to be sitting on the bench hoping I never had to be put into the game.

I was the boy who would much rather be inside the air conditioned house in the summer. Given the choice between playing outside or watching television I would always choose the latter, especially if it meant watching Santa Barbara or Another World. I didn’t want to mess up my hair or my clothes. I didn’t want to get my hands dirty. Even when it came to mowing the lawn (my job as the son in the family), I wore clothes that were too nice for the task.

My dad is a good man. He’s strong. He’s a provider. He’s a fixer of broken things, a disciplinarian, a caretaker. I respect him, and am thankful for him, but I have always felt like I would never be the man he is. 

Note to Self: Change way of thinking. 

I may not like to do the things my dad does or be able to repair the things he can, but that doesn’t make me any less of a man. I realized during this quest for understanding that I’ve been trying to define what being a man is, but being a man is open to interpretation. It takes all kinds of us. I’ve spent most of my adult life feeling as if I’ve failed at being a man, but that’s simply untrue. This Badge of (self-proclaimed) Failure is something I gave myself.

One of my best friends gave me his thoughts on what it means to be a man. He said, “I think being a man means having the strength to take care of yourself, the generosity to take care of others, the wisdom to ask for help when you need it, and the humility to accept help when it is offered.”

His words resonated with me. They have nothing to do with the images I’ve carried in my head since boyhood. They’re more about integrity, courage and responsibility.

I will never be a butch man, I am much more feminine than that, but I am a man. I’m a son, a brother, an uncle, a friend. I am a collector of art, a theatre goer, a lover of pop music, a drinker of red wine. I still don’t like to get my hands too dirty, I prefer to call a repairman, and I still love Santa Barbara (gone now to soap opera heaven). I take my responsibilities seriously and like seeing the tasks associated with those responsibilities accomplished. I love my family and my friends. I can be trusted and counted on. I strive to live a good life and to have the courage to change things that aren’t working even though change is difficult. I admit that my pride often gets in the way when it comes to asking for help, but ultimately I’ve realized it is a stronger man who will ask for help and a weaker who thinks he doesn’t need it.  

So what did I learn from writing this piece? Hobbies and abilities don’t make the man. It is our actions. I’m not the same as my dad and that’s okay. I’m me. I’m my own kind of man. One that’s smart enough to realize where he learned to have integrity. Maybe it is as simple as what dad said, and it's all about how I feel within.