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.

Shoes & Safety-Pins: Unexpected Symbols of Freedom

Sometimes a shoe is more than a shoe. 

Sometimes it's a piece of art that you wear for its beauty. But sometimes it’s a symbol you wear in defiance of all the prejudice, fear, and hate that is around you.

Sometimes a man needs to face himself in the mirror and apply a swipe of mascara, maybe a bit of eye shadow or eye liner, or both, then put on his heels and confidently (Oh how I've had to muster every ounce of courage to appear confident in the days since) walk out of the apartment.

In a country that has proven itself to be at least half (considering the voters in the recent election) full of racists, sexists, and phobes of some sort, it takes a lot for someone like me (a person who deviates from society’s idea of normal) to hold his head up and Just Be.

I am not alone in my fears. I am not alone in my devastation. I am not alone in my courage.  And I am thankfully no longer feeling alone in my sadness. I have friends who can help me be strong and who I hope I help be strong. Now more than ever I feel like we have to be there for each other. We have to support each other. We have to find support if we don’t have it. We have to help others who are hurting—friends and strangers alike. 

Yesterday, as I began to see images of vandalism; to read tweets and status updates of racism and homophobia—at a reprehensible low—I took a moment to breathe down the nausea. Then I took a moment to feel grateful that I live in progressive and generally accepting New York City and had not directly experienced that hate. Then I got angry.

Our President-elect incited this madding crowd during his entire campaign. He unearthed them; brought them into the light. His inability to hold his tongue and be diplomatic (EVER!) has given many of his supporters a sense of empowerment to now say and do whatever they want to anyone.

I want to do more than use my words. I’m stirred to act up; fight back. I want to get my hands dirty and help. I’ve donated to The Trevor Project and Planned Parenthood. That is not enough but it’s a start.

Our President-elect doesn’t have the backs of most of the people that he is set to starting leading in January 2017. It doesn’t seem as if he will surround himself with advisors that will have our backs either.

There are many of us that are angry. Many of us that are scared. Many of us that are grieving. Many of us trying to find a safe place to land.

There’s a new symbol that is being warn to show solidarity. It’s a simple safety pin. You’ve probably got several in the bottom of a drawer where you live. It’s in the name already—safety. It’s a symbol of support: an identifier marking an ally; a safe place for all of us humans who are targets of the Make America Great Again constituency to feel supported, respected, equal.

So as I enter the Third Morning After I’m reminded of a few lyrics from that good ol’ show tune, “A Little More Mascara” from La Cage Aux Folles: “When life is a real bitch again and my old sense of humor has up and gone…I put a little more mascara on.” To this I will add a fabulous pair of shoes and a safety pin.

I will be myself and be a safe place. I will support you and ask for your support in return. I ask that you help me stay strong and courageous and I in turn will help you.

Sometimes a shoe is more than a shoe. And sometimes a safety pin is more than a pin.

In The Wake of Orlando: How Uneasy I (Still) Feel

Is anybody else out there still anxious, uneasy, or just plain scared? I hate to admit it. I think I might even be ashamed to admit it. But uneasy is exactly the way I've been feeling for the past few days. The tragedy in Orlando not only saddened me it angered me, frustrated me, and continues to leave me with my defenses up; an uneasy feeling, not just in the pit of my stomach, but pulsing through my entire body.

In the face of that unease I have to admit my truth one more time: I am homosexual.

It was June 22, 1993. North Carolina (of all places). I was performing in summer stock for the first time. I was at the pool. The water was crystal clear as the sun glinted off its translucent ripples. The sounds of laughter and music from that day are still present in my memory. Friends -- both gay and straight -- basked in the sun's rays. It was on this day 23 years ago that I quietly, yet bravely, opened my closet door and walked out into the world.

I celebrate the anniversary of that day every year as another birthday. For that's exactly what it is. Coming out was scary but necessary. It was the only way I could live. Staying in the closet could only continue to propagate loneliness, fear, and confinement. It was suffocating. I was dying. I needed to be set free. I was fortunate enough (as theatre people often are) to be surrounded by a gaggle of gay men who hugged me, loved me, welcomed me (even if some said, "It's about time"). That slap on the ass did not elicit crying it beget a laugh of elation. It was the first time I started being me. The relief far outweighed the trepidation of what my future might hold, i.e. coming out to my parents, revealing my true self to the world. That's reason enough to celebrate this day every year.

With those same embracing, accepting, welcoming men I went many times to the gay bar, Scandals, in Asheville, North Carolina. I enjoyed the unrestricted freedom of dancing the night away with my friends...and strangers alike. I watched with glee as the drag queens lip-synced the hell out of songs by Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, and Cher. I sang along at the top of my lungs. I laughed. I drank. I kissed boys. I pressed my body against other men, nary a slit wide enough for light between us. It was freedom. I wasn't scared. It was a place filled with people just like me, celebrating life, hurting no one.

I was a young 22-year old man; naive, excited, nervous, ready.

I'm now a 45-year old man who has seen the world change since that June day in North Carolina all those years ago -- change that I didn't think I would ever see. Personally, I've made tremendous strides in accepting myself and living my life authentically in public. And humankind has made tremendous strides toward equality and human rights.

Change is happening. Most of it positive. It's exciting. But it creates what a friend of mine described perfectly as "a false sense of comfort." We forget how many people merely tolerate us and in some cases simply wish we would shut up and go back inside our closets. There are haters out there and social media allows them to share their hate prolifically.

I live in New York City. And in my City I often feel we live in what I can only describe as a bubble. I don't regularly stop to wonder what life is like for people who don't live here. New York City is such a melting pot of races, cultures, religions. I doubt I'm alone in that bias. Do you think about the attitudes and opinions of people who live in upstate New York, the Midwest, or Deep South very often? Ask yourself. That imaginary bubble creates a sense of security that when truly pondered, especially in the wake of the devastating shooting at Pulse night club in Orlando, is misleading at best.

I don't want to be scared. I don't want to hide. I want to be defiant, vocal, unabashedly out and proud. But god damn it I am afraid. There are preachers who are happy about the massacre in Orlando. (I'm talking about you Steven Anderson, and you Roger Jimenez, and you Donnie Romero. Loving Christians indeed...NOT!) There are Republican leaders in the House of Representatives who block votes on amendments to protect LGBTQ people from discrimination. How could I not be afraid in an America (ok, a World) filled with so much phobia and hate? My fears get the better of me and I find myself cowering.

Gay bars should be a safe haven. We shouldn't have to fear for our lives when we're inside. There's enough to threaten us outside the door when homophobic people lie in wait for us to head home so they can hit us with their hateful slurs or, in some cases, their hateful fists. LGBTQ people should not have to worry about losing their jobs because of who they kiss, hold hands with, fuck, or marry. LGBTQ people should not have to worry that a member of one of the Baptist churches, pastored by one of the above mentioned men, will take to heart what their spiritual leader is saying and gun us down.

I have needed all my courage to throw my shoulders back, hold my head up, and walk down the street, completely visible -- vitally visible -- in the days since waking to the nightmare in Orlando. I understand that we, the LGBTQ community, cannot hide, must not hide. We have to be seen. We have to be louder. We. Have. To! That means no matter how uneasy I might still be feeling, I have to continue to be me -- gay, beautiful, fabulous, gender expansive, funny, creative, normal me.

And you, if you're LGBTQ, have to continue to be you.

"There are some wounds that can never heal. There are scars that make us who we are but without them we don't exist." Written by John Logan for the character of Lily on Penny Dreadful.

If you're feeling like me, reach out to the LGBTQ people in your life for support, strength, and courage. I have done that. I continue to do that. If you're the parent of an LGBTQ child or a straight ally, reach out to the LGBTQ people in your life and show them you support them, that you love them, that you're there for them.

"I love you, Michael!!" Those words came to me via text on the Monday following Orlando. They were from my mom. I knew that she was reaching out to her gay child to assure me in four simple words that she was thinking about me after the senseless attack on the LGBTQ community took the lives of 49 people who were merely enjoying their lives in what should have been a safe place to do just that -- enjoy their lives.

That text meant so much to me. You never know who is frightened, who is angry, who is suffering. But kindness and support and love goes a long way toward restoring calm...and healing.

"Openness may not completely disarm prejudice, but it's a good place to start."  Jason Collins