My Granddaddy

Memories are an interesting thing. They come back to you when you least expect them. Sometimes something you haven’t thought about in years can appear in your mind with a picture so clear that you’d think it had just happened. Could that be what Memories, light the corners of my mind means in “The Way We Were”?

My earliest memory of him comes from a time when I was no more than 3-years old. I know this because I was three when we moved from our trailer, in the lot that adjoined that of my maternal grandparents, to a house in the next town over.

It was Halloween 1973 or ’74. He showed up at the door in plain clothes and a bag over his head. There were eye holes cut out so he could see. He said nothing. He stood on the step. Just stood there, unmoving. I stood staring at him. I can only assume my mom or dad answered the door and knowing who it was called me over. I don't recall if I was scared of the man standing in front of me with a brown paper bag over his face, those empty eye socket cut outs allowing him to see me but preventing me from seeing his eyes. I looked down. It seems natural to me that I would look down as being a toddler I was closer to the floor than his height of more than 5'8”. And let’s face it, I wasn’t getting anything from the brown paper bag in the way of recognition. Looking down though, I recognized his work boots immediately. I knew the man with the bag covering his head standing in front of me was my granddaddy.

As his life winds toward an end I'm struck by the fact that I knew him even when I couldn't see his face. I've take for granted that he is present in my life even when I'm here and he's there. I never reach out enough, but I love him.

My granddaddy is a gentle, generous, compassionate man who loves his family and has always taken care of all of us. Whatever "taking care" entailed. 

As I began to think about him and to write this story I remembered that in 2007 my mom wanted to give my granddaddy a scrapbook for Father’s Day. She asked her siblings, their spouses and children to write a letter to granddaddy to be included in that scrapbook. I was convinced I still had mine and sure enough there in my sent email was the letter I wrote to my granddaddy. Funny how it starts with the same story as this blog.

Dear Granddaddy,

One of my first and fondest memories of you is when we lived in the

trailer and you came over for Halloween with a brown paper bag over

your head. I knew it was you because of your work boots. Everybody

laughed. We should have known then that I had a gift for comedy and

making people laugh.

All my life you have been on my side and made sure I knew I was

welcome in your house and loved--always. I appreciate that you and

Grandmother always listened to me when I was having problems with Dad.

You are a wonderful grandfather. I love you and I am truly blessed

that you are part of my life.

I am very happy that you have found happiness again in your own life. Happiness is so important.

You are surrounded by so much love in our family. It's the love you

have always given. It's the love I have always felt. To look for an

example of loving, compassion, and strength we only need to look at

you.

I love you, Granddaddy.  Thank you for all that you are.

Happy Father's Day!!

Michael

I’m the oldest grandchild. Seven-and-a-half years before the next one. There’s roughly the same distance between my mom’s youngest brother and me as there is between my sister and me. I’m the grandchild who's known him the longest. Then I think about how much I really don’t know about him. I’ve asked him questions about people in our family, but don’t know that I really ever asked him about his life. I think I was too intimidated to have a one-on-one conversation with him. Those are my own issues and nothing that came from him. But the fact remains that as the end nears I wish I knew what it had been like to work the projector at the Arlington movie theater, the Arly. I wish I knew when he knew he’d fallen in love with my grandmother and wanted to marry her. Sometimes I even wish I knew how it felt to become a grandfather under the circumstances in which he did. Maybe I will never know these answers, but I know that I love him and cherish what I do know.

For instance, I remember him always squeezing foot powder into his white socks before putting them on and then putting on his work boots. Knowing me I questioned what it was. I don’t remember that part. I just remember watching granddaddy do it and the small cloud of foot powder dust that would float from the opening of his sock. Of course, as you age you acquire the knowledge that the foot powder is to keep your feet dry and from smelling bad. Smart move, Granddaddy.

As more of granddaddy’s children had children of their own and our little town of Arlington acquired a convenience store, my granddaddy would take the smaller grandkids to “the little store” (his name for said convenience store) where they could fill their small brown bags with penny and nickel candy. That convenience store will always be “the little store” for all of us. I was too old to be bothered with those bags of candy, but now I can look back on that as something he loved to do for his grandkids and something that each grandkid looked forward to in turn. Interesting way to bring the brown bag back into play, Granddaddy.

He thinks Garth Brooks ruined country music. Hey, music tastes are subjective. He’s allowed his opinion and will still voice this one if you ask him.

My most recent visit home had us sitting down to a dinner of chili and cornbread one evening. There were also baked taco shells for those who might want to use the chili for a taco salad. Granddaddy wanted a hot dog. So there on his plate lying next to the bowl of chili was a plain hot dog, fresh from the boiling water. Another memory flashed across my mind. When my grandmother was still alive and they were both still working, Friday night had always been hot dog night. No one questioned it. It just was. My grandmother would cook the other nights of the week, but on Friday it was easy-breezy-boil-some-water-we’re-having-hot-dogs. So on that night of chili and fixin’s, my mother boiled that hot dog and my granddaddy treated it like the comfort food that it is.

I never really had anything in common with him except our blood, but I knew he loved me. Back in 1994 after I’d graduated from college I was in the process of moving to Nashville, Tennessee. My friend Billy had come with me to Kentucky to help me move my things. I took him to my grandparents’ house. 

My granddaddy said, “Are you the reason Michael’s moving to Nashville?” 

I felt the heat rise to my face. I didn’t know how to proceed. My mind was reeling with the idea that granddaddy was questioning if Billy was my boyfriend. He wasn’t my boyfriend. He was merely a friend who happened to be gay. Without giving Billy a chance to answer I jumped in with the explanation that Billy was choreographing a dance number for the First Night Awards--Nashville’s answer to the Tony Awards--and had asked me to be in it. The time needed for rehearsals, the friend network that already existed there, and the desire to get on with my life post college made Nashville seem like the perfect place to start. We never spoke of it again, but to this day I believe that my granddaddy knew I was gay and whether he approved or not, never made me feel uncomfortable or unwelcome in his home.

When my grandmother died, I burned a CD for my mom and her sisters. Music that  ran the gambit from emotional to uplifting--music that would allow you to cry, but would also make you smile. I recently decided that I wanted to listen to that playlist again. It had been a while. Of course I’m one who is constantly in touch with his emotions and it wasn’t long before the tears welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. Partly is was the muscle memory of my heart’s loss of grandmother, but partly it was because it occurred to me the he was going to see her again. Maybe sooner than I wanted. It was that sudden realization that increased the stream of tears. It was the first time I’d allowed the thought of him dying to penetrate the armor of denial around my brain.

As for memories, granddaddy still has them, but the short term ones are fleeting. He’s not getting enough oxygen to his brain due to a severe decrease in heart function, so he doesn’t remember the most recent things anymore. Thankfully, my family has created a lifetime of memories, that, even though they are old, can still bring a smile to his face when he recalls them. 

I know he’s tired. It takes more energy to get out of bed, or walk from the bedroom to the living room, than he has to exert. I’m trying to understand his desire for the big sleep and how that might be the most welcome respite from the daily struggle that has become his life. It’s selfish of me to want him to fight to stay with us. That is me being human. 

My heart breaks for my mom who is watching the decline of her remaining parent. My heart breaks for my niece and nephew whose memories will be touched by this kind of loss for the first time. My heart breaks for me as the inevitable passage of time that takes with it my last grandparent.

The cool thing is that since 1971 he’s been my granddaddy. He always will be. Nobody can take that away from me.

Breathe deep, Granddaddy
Godspeed as this journey ends
And your next one begins

I will always smile, Granddaddy
Because one-eyed Jacks will always remove
And you’ll always be one step ahead

Thank you for loving me, Granddaddy
Try not to be too scared
And I’ll try not to be too sad

Into her arms you’ll fly, Granddaddy
But until that journey's day
Our strength will be yours

My granddaddy (and grandmother for that matter) gave me money for no reason. He listened to me when I was having a conflict with my dad; he listened and gave constructive advice. He attended my high school and college graduations. He comes to see me every time I’m in Arlington for a visit. He still plays a mean game of Sequence and will do everything he can to kick your butt in Dominoes. You just have to make sure he plays on the right train now. He’s proud of me. I’m proud of him. I’m thankful for the kindness, understanding, and respect that I learned from watching him.

I wonder if grandmother is waiting for the right moment to call him to the dinner table. I can hear her calling “Jimmy” in the distant memory of my childhood mind. Again, I know it’s selfish, but I hope she keeps everything on simmer for just a little while longer. 

Return to Winthrop St. - Part 9

Atwood couldn’t go back to his dormitory; couldn’t go back inside his room. He walked back to campus and wandered around for about an hour before deciding he would go to his fraternity house. He guessed somebody would be awake. Somebody was always awake. Even if no one was he knew where the key was hidden and would let himself in. The refrigerator wouldn’t care who was awake or asleep, it would freely divulge its contents of beer to anyone who opened its door. Atwood knew that’s what he needed, a cold beer in a welcoming place. A place where there was no essence of nightmare lurking in every shadowy corner. The fraternity house was a place of laughter and brotherhood and friendship. He would be safe there.

Alternating between pools of streetlight and shadow he wove his way to the Delta Sigma Phi house. Three of his fraternity brothers were awake when he arrived. They weren’t only awake, they were sitting around drinking. He was a welcomed addition to their circle jerk of alcohol consumption and shit talk.

Before long the beer began to take its toll on him. He had a good buzz going and had already decided subconsciously that he was skipping class the next day. Pete, Steve, and Ronnie, his comrades in too many beers and too many laughs, had peeled away one by one until Atwood was the lone drinker left to his thoughts and phone on the couch in the Delta Sig living room.

Atwood: I wish I could kiss you right now.

Kinlin: What?

Atwood: I wish I could feel your arms around me. 

Kinlin: Atwood!

Atwood: I know it’s stupid but I wish I could kiss you right now.

Kinlin: It’s not stupid, but it’s not what I want and it’s not going to happen.

Atwood: Don’t be mad.

Kinlin: I’m not mad. I’m glad you’re talking to me.

Atwood: I’m not really talking to you.

Kinlin: Yes, you are. These are your words.

Atwood: I’ve been drinking. I shouldn’t have texted. I’m being stupid.

Kinlin: It’s okay. I’m glad you did.

Atwood: really?

Kinlin: Yes. I’m glad you did.

Atwood: Don’t be mad that I want to make out with you. I’m so lonely. 

Kinlin: I’m not mad. We can’t do that again. You know it. I’m sorry you’re lonely.

Atwood: It’s my own fault. You didn’t do it. I gotta go.

Kinlin: Don’t go.

Atwood looked at his phone. He didn’t respond. He put the phone on vibrate. He was sitting on the couch looking at the thread of conversation between himself and Kinlin. He started to sob. Beer and loneliness can do that to a man. He couldn’t stop himself. What was happening? How could he be this person? He had his act relatively together back in high school. His best friend lived across the street from him. They were inseparable. Everyone knew that where Kinlin was, Atwood couldn’t be far behind. 

And then it dawned on him. He had had feelings for Kinlin. He hadn’t realized it because Kinlin had always been there. He took him for granted. They were always together. Atwood would rather hang out with Kinlin than any girl or other person for that matter. The beer and the text messages and the realization swirled in his mind like a twister, like the water spout from his nightmare. His lids were heavy and he allowed himself to succumb to the darkness of sleep.

The next morning it was Ronnie who shook him awake.

“Atwood.” Ronnie gently shook Atwood’s shoulder.

He tried again.

“Atwood.” This time he shook with more force. He saw the muscles in Atwood’s face begin to twitch and waken. Slowly Atwood opened his eyes.

“Hey, buddy,” Ronnie said sitting down on the beer can littered coffee table that fronted the couch.

“Ronnie?” Atwood replied. “Where am I?”

“You’re on the couch in the living room of the frat house.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after 9am.”

Atwood groaned.

“Do you have a class?” Ronnie asked, more to be asking than out of real concern.

“Yeah, but I’m not going.”

“That’s cool, man,” Ronnie replied. “Listen, why don’t you head into the bathroom and wash your face then go try and get some more sleep in your dorm.” 

Atwood look at Ronnie like he might look at his mother telling him he should be sure to wipe his butt after taking a dump. Ronnie picked up on the look.

“Some of the guys took advantage of you being passed out on the sofa.”

Atwood didn’t know what that meant, but his eyes widened to reveal his blood shot whites.

“Don’t worry. They just wrote on your face. I don’t think it’s permanent marker. Just scrub it with some soap and water.” Ronnie stood. “I got a class in a few. Gotta head out. It was cool hanging with you last night, Atwood.” He started toward the door. “Who’s Kinlin? He’s sent you a bunch a texts.”

Atwood grabbed his phone from the coffee table. He breathed a sigh of relief that it was still there and that it was locked so the texts couldn’t be read. Now to the bathroom to assess the creative prowess of his fraternity brothers on his face.

Once locked inside the privacy of the bathroom he made the choice to read Kinlin’s texts before looking at his face.

Kinlin: Are you okay?
Kinlin: Atwood?
Kinlin: Atwood, I’m worried about you.
Kinlin: Are you okay?
Kinlin: Please let me know you’re okay.

Five text messages and three missed calls. He hadn’t been this popular with Kinlin since before he’d arrived in California. 

Now for his face. They had done the clichéd Hitler mustache on his upper lip. They had also written, “I kiss boys” on his forehead and “cock” on the right side of his mouth with “sucker” written on the left. Someone had gone so far as to draw an arrow from his chin to his bottom lip. He felt the heat redden his marked face as he watched the color change under the words. He didn’t think any of his fraternity brothers knew of his sexual exploits and wasn’t sure that many of them would even care, but he knew and seeing those words on his face was deeply embarrassing to him. He knew that the guys were just being guys and picking on him as a new brother, but his knowledge of his own truth clouded the comedy of the situation. 

Atwood scrubbed his face raw erasing all traces that the words, and other markings, had ever been there. When he exited the bathroom the house was quiet and seemed empty. He slipped out and began the walk back to his dormitory.

©Michael Rohrer 2013

Segregation (We Can Never Go Back To Before)

When I saw the television news clip of Diana Medley, a special education teacher in Indiana saying that she doesn’t think anyone is born gay and when asked if she thinks gays have a purpose in life responding, "No I honestly don't. Sorry, but I don't. I don't understand it," I just wanted to scream at the top of my lungs--EDUCATE YOURSELF. You’re a teacher for God’s sake.

I would never want to put myself in the shoes of a gay student who needed to take a problem to her. That student is prejudged before he gets into her office or classroom. She doesn’t understand. Oh my God. She is also quoted saying, “We don't agree with it (homosexuality), and it's offensive to us. Homosexual students come to me with their problems, and I don't agree with them, but I care about them. It's the same thing with my special needs kids. I think God puts everyone in our lives for a reason."

Is she saying that she doesn’t agree with her special needs kids either? Are they offensive to her? I’m assuming no, but if you read the quote it’s easy to mistake her statement. So, Ms. Medley, thinks everyone is put into her life for a reason, but she doesn’t think gays have a purpose in life. Very interesting I must say. Maybe the purpose for gays in her life is to educate her on the fact that we’re all people, and to help her understand our similarities out way our differences.

The reason Diana Medley has even entered the realm of my life is because a group of students at nearby Sullivan High School, as well as, parents and religious leaders in Sullivan, Indiana want to ban the gay kids from attending prom. Ban. The. Gay. Kids. BAN!! Diana Medley doesn’t even teach there, but she was very vocal in supporting the ban.

What year is this?

According to the story published on theindychannel.com (Where Ms. Medley's quotes were obtained) one student (whose name was withheld) says, “We want to make the public see that we love the homosexuals, but we don’t think it’s right nor should it be accepted.” Kynon Johnson, another student, says, “If we can get a good prom, then we can convince more people to come and follow what they believe.”

These students are the voices of those looking for a “traditional prom.” Nothing like keeping up with the traditions of making those that are different feel less than. The KKK has traditions, too.

High School is hard enough, and I realize this in one fucking dance, but come on. All the kids deserve to attend their prom. ALL of them. Do you think the gay kids are going to look at you twice when you dance with your boyfriend or kiss your girlfriend? Get over yourself. This is about your own insecurity and it’s hidden behind Bible verses. Prom is about having fun. It’s a night to dress up and listen to music and share a few laughs and make new memories before the school year ends.

I was a student who was hiding the secret of being gay. I know how difficult it is to not be able to talk to a parent, a teacher, a pastor, a friend--anyone--about what’s going on inside of me. I was always afraid of the same reaction that many of these people interviewed for this story had. A reaction that was captured for a television news broadcast. Putting the face to the quote is worse than just the quote. We can see your hate and condescension. 

Diana Medley stirred such anger inside me that I could do nothing but sit down in front of my laptop and type as fast as my fingers could hit the keys to compose the sentences forming in my brain.

Why do some Christians feel they are so much more superior than others? There are Christian people in Sullivan County where Sullivan High is located that don’t feel the same way as Diana Medley or the other professed Christians. I find it so interesting that we can all read the same Bible and believe in the same God yet be so divided on what the text means and what God wants.

Don’t try to tell me that I woke up one day and decided this life of fear, new segregation, social ostracization, and daily fight-for-rights was something that I chose, Ms. Medley. Hell no!! Life would be infinitely easier if I was a heterosexual man. I may have the same hang ups that I do now, but the fact that I would be a man attracted to women would make my daily life less stressful than being a man attracted to men.

I had to take a deep breath and remember that I live in New York City where there may still be bigots and haters, but where there is also acceptance and understanding.

I may not feel represented by the drag queens, go go boys, leather men, twinks, or porn stars in the NYC Gay Pride Parade, but damn it at least I live in a place that allows all of us to be who we are. 

I struggle enough with my own worthiness. These kids in high school today who aren’t afraid to stand up and speak out about who they are elate and terrify me. I’m elated that they have the courage I did not have, but I’m terrified for those who live in places where the good Christians ban together to fight against them.

So if you choose to segregate us don't ask to attend our more fabulous parties or drink from our much cleaner water fountains. Don’t ask us to arrange your flowers in beautiful vases or pick design your clothes. Don’t ask us to cut your hair. Don’t ask us to sing for your charity event. Don’t enjoy a moment of us dancing on stage. Don’t watch the television shows or movies we write, produce, or star in. The list could go on. I know. I’m kind of adopting a holier-than-though attitude. It’s hard not to. Much like a parent is supposed to calm down before punishing a child I should have calmed down before writing. Oh well, anger, much the same as alcohol, is a truth serum.

I was reminded today of the song “Back To Before” from the musical Ragtime. The story of Ragtime, based on the novel by E. L. Doctorow, is set just past the turn of the 20th Century. Times were changing and people where realizing they had to change with them or they would be left behind as relics of the past. 

There are people out there
Unafraid of revealing
That they might have a feeling
Or they might have been wrong
There are people out there
Unafraid to feel sorrow,
Unafraid of tomorrow,
Unafraid to be weak...
Unafraid to be strong!

The above lyrics represent to me the new crop of gay kids coming into their own in this, the 21st Century. They’re unafraid to reveal themselves, they’re unafraid of tomorrow, and they unafraid to be strong. Lets hope that the good Christians who want to segregate the gays become unafraid to admit that they might have been wrong.

The article on theindychannel.com ends with Southwest School Corporation Superintendent Chris Stitzle saying the school plans to go on with its prom April 27 as planned.

"We're planning on having our prom just like we always have. We encourage all students to participate," he said. "We treat all students with respect and dignity."

We can never go back to before. Change is hard and growing pains hurt, but if a child is gay they deserve all the same privileges, rewards, discipline, and experiences of a non gay child. They deserve a human experience. We deserve a human experience. We can NEVER go back to before.

lyrics from "Back To Before" by Lynn Ahrens reprinted without permission

video of Christiane Noll from the 2010 Tony Awards telecast

Unexpected Inspiration

I had no idea what I was getting myself into. It was a normal Friday morning. I had slept amazingly well through the night which was a welcomed change from the previous two. I made my coffee and settled on my sofa to finally watch CBS Sunday Morning from January 13.

That’s when I met Nick Vujicic in the segment titled AGAINST ALL ODDS. Nick was born without arms or legs. It’s a rare birth defect called Phocomelia. No arms. No legs. Yet there he was smiling, happy, appearing unafraid, not discouraged, and profoundly moving as he shared part of his life’s journey with us, the viewing audience. I watched as he balanced a golf club between his neck and shoulder like we with arms might cradle a telephone. I watched as he swung the club and landed a whole-in-one. I watched as he propelled his torso body from a diving board into the waiting pool of water below. I watched as he surfaced, breaking through the top of the water, treading in place by moving his pelvis in the mode of a dolphin tale then swimming on his back. Both of those challenges were accepted by a person I would never have thought would have attempted either. And you know what? After watching the clip, it doesn’t surprise me that he accomplishes whatever he sets his mind to.

Here’s the reason: Nick said he embraces what he does have instead of being angry at what he doesn’t have. What a lesson. Think about that.  How often are we truly thankful for what we have? I personally have a good job, a beautiful home, my health, my senses, my family, my friends, my creativity, etc. Yet when things don’t go my way I forget all about what I do have and dwell on what I don’t have (or didn’t get, or screwed up). Let me repeat this: Nick said he embraces what he does have instead of being angry at what he doesn’t have. Instead of asking you to think about that, I have to think about that. This is a man who faces the challenge of living his life every day without the arms and legs that I take for granted. And not only can he swing a golf club and swim, he can cook and type. Yes, type. He has two toes on what appears to be a partial foot. I bemoan the lack of inspiration sometimes to sit down and type with my 10 fingers, while this man has written two books and types 60 words a minute with those two toes. Who do I think I am? 

I had to question would I be able to find that kind of joy in my life had I been born like Nick? My immediate response was: no. Knowing myself as I currently am, I think I would be depressed and unhappy and constantly asking why I wasn’t born normal. Nick is normal. His life is his normal. What I see as someone extraordinary is someone who sees himself as a person living the life he was blessed enough to be given. Oh that I could see that in myself every day. I am blessed to be alive. I am blessed to have been given everything that I’ve been given. What am I doing with my life?

This man who was born with no limbs has created an outreach program lifewithoutlimbs.org to help others with their own problems whatever those problems may be. His tag line: From No Limbs To No Limits. This man, who once as an adolescent gave up for just a second. He allowed himself to sink under the water in his bathtub. He couldn't go on with the stares and bullying at school anymore. Thankfully, for me and the others who are inspired by his story, he couldn't do it. He now invites the stares that pushed him so close to that despairing end by being a dynamic speaker who draws crowds with his message of faith, hope, and courage.

 He can’t shake your hand, but he can ask for a hug. He invites the embrace of anyone, everyone.

He is an inspiring, uplifting human being who in the greatest of all odds faced the challenges of life and grew into the man that isn’t afraid to sky dive, surf, get married, and, you guessed it, become a father. He doesn’t let anything stop him or hold him back. My wish for myself is to have a small portion of his courage and then to see how I might multiply that courage if only I’d get out of my own way and stop with the occasional pity parties that I throw for myself. Nick says he owes everything in his life to his faith. Many of you may know faith is something I’m struggling with right now. I believe that I saw this segment on a day when it was going to do me the most good--the day I was going to be the most receptive to its message. I may still be scared of God, but there’s no denying that he works in mysterious ways and none of us can truly know how.

As if Nick’s story wasn’t inspiring enough it was followed by SNOWFLAKES FOR NEWTOWN which is part of the “On The Road” series from CBS news. In the wake of the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, the Connecticut PTSA requested hand made snowflakes so they could decorate the new school where the displaced children would now be attending. What they didn’t expect was an outpouring of support shown by the influx of snowflakes from all over our country and even from other countries. Children just like those lost in the devastating tragedy gave a part of themselves as they created the snowflakes for their fellow compatriots who survived. Children reaching out to fellow children to show support and love. Children who might not know the full extent of what happened in Sandy Hook, but haven’t lost their innocence or ability to love unconditionally. We forget sometimes that children do know how to share, do know how to support, do know how to love one another.

So much innocence was lost in Sandy Hook. The snowflakes to me represent the wonder and beauty of childhood and show how creativity brings out the best in all of us. We never know how even the smallest gesture can affect a life in the profoundest of ways.

Watching these two stories made every problem I think I have seem inconsequential. As tears fell down my cheeks I realized how blessed I am. I’m working through some stuff in my life and it tends to materialize in this blog. Sometimes I’m afraid it comes across as complaining. I don’t intend it that way. As I sat there, eyes blurry from the tears that wouldn’t stop, I saw hope, possibility and inspiration on the television screen in front of me. I felt a renewed desire to be an inspiration and to experience all of my possibilities.

Wanted Versus Needed

I kept waiting. I kept waiting and watching for something I could latch onto; something that would make me want to write. It never came. At least not in the guise of the spiritual journey I was craving. I’m speaking of watching Life of Pi, the new film directed by Ang Lee. A friend’s response to my disappointment helped me see that maybe what I needed to write about was that disappointment.

I read the novel Life of Pi by Yann Martel many years ago. I remembered enjoying it and from the first moment I saw the trailer for the film version I knew it would be visually stunning. In that department it didn’t let me down. What I’d hoped was that my heart would be filled with some kind of joy at Pi’s spiritual journey on the sea. I wanted to watch his journey because I’m on one of my own and I wanted to see how his played out. Unable to fully remember much more than the essence of the novel, I was prepared to be enlightened on how he saw God.

The thing is: I wanted to take his journey because I don’t know what my journey is. My quest is not like taking the ring to Mordor. I don’t know where I’m going. I was hoping to use this fictional character’s journey as an example, a road map, inspiration.

I’m afraid of God. I always have been. Growing up, God was always presented as a father figure; one that would punish you, like your human father, for your wrong doings--you know...your sins. The punishment from an omnipotent life force, however, is much more daunting than getting spanked or grounded. The punishment from God could be extreme loss (i.e. a job, a loved one, your home). Punishments that carry greater weight and teach a vital lesson of the importance of towing the line, living a good life.

To paraphrase something my father used to say to my sister and me from the front seat of the car as we argued in the back, “If you two don’t stop it God’s going to take one of you away from the other.” Holy shit!! That’s a scary thought. How mean and vengeful is this God I’m supposed to love and serve but can’t help being afraid of? I realize that what he was saying falls into the same category as, “Don’t make me pull this car over.” Both are threats to achieve the ultimate goal of calming the arguing children, but the choice of words used in his threat (more than once on me) helps one understand some of the fear I have of God.

There is a part of me that still believes God will take away my health, job, happiness, life, family member’s lives, etc., if I don’t tow his line.

The ultimate punishment is Hell. I’m terrified of Hell and of spending eternity there. There is a part of me that has not fully accepted the idea that my being gay is not an eternal sentence to the lake of fire. I can’t imagine a God who would allow people to be born with inherent feelings that are already wrong and then punish us for the feelings he allowed us to be born with. I can’t believe that’s true, but at the same time because of my religious past I can’t turn my back on it either. These conflicting feeling are constantly duking it out in my heart. It makes for a disquieting life to be sure.

I want to be able to find my own personal relationship with God--the creator, the universe, etc. I feel like I’m turning my back on God by turning my back on the teachings I learned as a child, though.

I have to find a way to integrate my belief in God--the creator of all life and love--with who I am, separating out the human element of organized religion and how God’s words to us through the Bible have been clouded and made murky by the humans who interpret them the way they see fit.

Back to Life of Pi. Piscine Molitor “Pi” Patel, believes everything is possible instead of believing in one thing. Maybe that is the way to believe. That would mean I have to be open to the possibilities that all teachings regarding the God figure have some truth and that no one knows the full extent of what that truth is.

In going to the film, I wanted to gain some kind of incite into Pi’s ability to survive his dilemma. I wanted to gain incite into his belief in a higher power helping him through his days lost at sea. What I took away was imagery that was more beautiful than some of the most beautiful images in Avatar, but I wanted more than imagery. I didn’t take away a feeling of recommendation. I enjoyed myself and was glad I had seen the film, but I didn’t feel the need to rush out and tell my friends and family they must see it. Argo, on the other hand, I couldn’t stop talking about and have recommended many times.

Maybe I need to see Life of Pi again. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe a second viewing would open my eyes to possibilities of faith and believing that I missed the first time because I was searching too hard.

I struggle with faith--in God, in myself, in my friends, in my coworkers. I don’t trust that I might actually be good at my job and that making the wrong choice one day doesn’t mean I’m not making 100 right ones the next. It doesn’t mean that I’m not good at my job. It doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. Questioning my life in respect to God and how I perceive him and the relationship I have with him is not wrong either. Humans are wired to question. I started questioning when I left home for college in 1989 and nearly 24 years later, I still wonder if I’m doing the wrong thing by questioning even though I know I would be a fool not to question. 

Change doesn’t happen if we just let people tell us what to do without standing up and saying, “I don’t believe that’s the right course for me.” 

I have to find my faith. I have to believe it’s okay to question. I have to develop a relationship with God that is mine and no one else’s. I have to be strong enough to let no one stand in my way with said relationship, and I have to be strong enough in my faith that it can be questioned by someone else and I can know that my choice was the right one for me no matter what any one else thinks. (Validation rears its head)

I’m not there yet. I’ve been trying to get there for a long time. I think there’s still a certain amount of fear of disappointing my parents where all things religious are concerned. Imagine a boy who leaves home at 18 and at 41 is still struggling with disappointing his parents over the way he believes in God versus the way he thinks they want him to believe in God.

It should be as simple as I believe in God. Enough said. But in my head it’s not enough.

Pi was strong. He believed what he believed as a child and carried that with him into adulthood. He believed. He survived.

It’s interesting how a movie that I thought I got nothing spiritual from actually opened the door for me to admit my own spiritual desires and fears. I guess I did get something important from Life of Pi after all. Something more important than the copper-colored clouds hiding the sun beautifully reflected on the bluest of seas. 

I didn’t sit in the darkened movie theater crying and finding my heart overwhelmed with faith beyond my own. What I got, after the fact, was the questioning of why I struggle so hard with my faith and the desire to create my own personal relationship with God.

It is true: sometimes you get what you need instead of what you want. The trick is to see what it is that’s being presented and use it to your advantage. 

The journey continues...

Validation

Who am I kidding. I have a validation problem. I look for it everywhere. From strangers, from old friends, from acquaintances, from people I haven’t seen in 20 years. It doesn't’ matter who they are as long as they pat me on the cyberspace back.

My quest for validation: a desire to prove my worth from the responses I get from other people. Responses from people who tell me how much they like something I’ve written, or tell me how much they enjoyed the song I sang. I’m never in a better mood than when I am complimented for something I’ve created, performed, or dressed myself in that day. It makes me feel good about myself. That means I’m not finding that joy within me but relying on other people to create it for me. I’m at the mercy of someone else’s opinions and feelings. That sucks! Plain and simple. 

Lets go back a few years. I wasn’t popular in high school. I know, waaa! Poor me! But seriously, I wanted so to be. I wanted to be one of the desired crowd. I wanted to be one of those people who lifted other people’s spirits if I deigned to talk to them. I realize how horrible that sounds even as I type it. It was a long time ago in the age when high school meant everything. Instead, I was one of the people whose spirits got lifted when the “in” crowd spoke to him. Now, I’m not going to paint myself as a complete social outcast. I wasn’t. But I was fumbling along in the middle. I thought the one thing that set me apart was my voice--I was one of a handful of people in my tiny high school who sang everywhere and anywhere. That didn’t set me apart in a good way. It made me a target. It gave people (mostly my male classmates) a reason (or another reason) to call me names. And that, many of them did. 

I can’t believe that I’ve been out of high school for nearly 24 years and I am still striving for popularity. One of my coworkers says that I am adored at work. Says that people light up around me. They want to be my friend. They laugh at my actions, words, or reactions because the intention is to make them laugh. Or to shock them. These people are not laughing at me. There’s no finger pointing and snickering behind my back. The feeling that comes over me during these moments must be how the Grinch felt when his heart grew three sizes. I have a sense of joy and acceptance that makes my skin glow like that of a pregnant woman. I feel like Sally Field and I want to say, “...you like me, right now, you like me!” I am validated. Oops. There’s that word.

I have somehow connected validation and popularity. I notice it when my blog hasn’t gotten enough page views. I notice it when my tweets don’t get enough retweets or favorites. I notice it when my Facebook status doesn’t get enough “likes” or comments. I feel that no one cares, and that makes me want to slink away into the corner of some room, make myself really small, and wait and wonder if anyone will know that I’m missing. It’s a pattern. It’s a ridiculous pattern, but the good thing is I recognize it. That means I can address this action, ask myself why I do it, and then start stopping it in its tracks.

Mixed in with the popularity and validation issues is my subscription to low self-confidence. It surprises me that I have a lack of confidence. That person who used to sing all the time sometimes did so in front of crowds that numbered in the thousands. That person used to sing and dance in musicals. That person danced in dance concerts. I used the adrenaline kicked in by the nerves as power. I knew I could do it. I knew I could remember the words, the notes, the dance steps. I knew I could deliver the goods. Now, that kid from high school, who hated walking into a populated room of classmates is back, and fearful of the mockery that he thinks exists on everyone's lips where he's concerned.

Validation, popularity, and confidence.

• I know that I have to be proud of myself and step away from the need for validation by others.
• I know that popularity is a status I’ve concocted in my brain.
• I know that I have to find confidence within myself.

I know all of the above listed things. The problem is: knowing and believing are two different matters. I can say I know and understand the bulleted lines above over and over, but there are times when I’m drowning in my lack of self-confidence, grasping for validation from someone if only to prove that I’m doing the right thing, that I’m good at what I do. I can’t seem to keep a firm grip on my desires to be self-confident and to live my life for me, not for others. I can’t seem to hold on to the desire to live a life where other people’s opinions--good or bad--don’t matter.

My lack of self-confidence makes so many of my choices become questions instead of statements. I look to someone else to validate those choices. I haven’t been able to pinpoint what happens mentally, physically, on those days when I exude self-confidence, but I can usually tell you what happened that caused me to cower in the corner questioning every decision.

These are all things I’ve been talking about in therapy. They keep coming up because I realize they exist and I’m trying to understand how I got this way so that I can move forward with my life--trusting myself, having confidence in myself, needing no validation, being proud of who I am and the work I do.

I know it’s a process. I struggle with that. I like the quick result. This is not going to have a quick result. This is going to take time. I’m going to have to dig deep and come to terms with what I desired in my past and what I have in my present so that I can create the future I want.

This entry is not intended for gaining sympathy or pity from the reader. This entry is an attempt to put into words my feelings so that I may better understand how to move past them and move forward in my life. It is merely an admission--an effort to expose once again, my secrets, hangups, and flaws.

The journey continues...

A Blank Page...So Many Possibilities!

Dot: Are you working on something new?
George: No
Dot: That is not like you, George
George: I've nothing to say
Dot: You have many things
George: Well, nothing that's not been said
Dot: Said by you, though. George

This blank white page stares back at me as I stare at it. I have so many things that I want to write about and yet I won’t sit down in front of the computer and compose the story. I can’t seem to get the ideas and thoughts to flow from their murky bed of inception into the clear stream of clarity. Even now as I try to describe this situation, I erased the sentence five times and began again finally landing on the one you read.

I wrote in the summer about practicing and how I hate to do it. That is again my problem. There are seven blog entries about my life or experiences that have been started just sitting on my desktop waiting for me to complete them. There are two short stories of fiction that have been started and two that are still swirling in my brain. They call out to me daily and I ignore them. I feel an obligation to finish them yet I won’t do it. I can’t explain why. I want them to be finished. I want to feel the sense of excitement I feel every time I send a new piece I’ve written out into the cyber world that is blogger, twitter, and Facebook. I love seeing the numbers grow as people read what I’ve written. It’s exciting, and there’s nothing wrong with that. 

Part of my problem is that I don’t quiet my mind and focus on what I want to say. That quieting and focusing clears the path for the words to form at the end of my fingertips as they strike the keys on my computer.

There are times when I’m lying in bed at night and a thought will come to me. Usually it’s a thought about the fiction I’m working on. When I am in a relaxed state and those thoughts happen, I need only grab the notebook and pen that live beside my bed and beautiful descriptions of moments make their way to the page. I look at them the next day and feel a sense of pride in the fact that I wrote them. They may not be great sentences to everyone, but to me, if I’ve managed to describe the image or create the mood that was in my head then it’s a success.

I’ve plenty to say. I’ve even gotten better at saying it. I just don’t say it as often as I used to. I miss that, yet I still make no major effort to change it.

I hear my father’s voice in my head sometimes telling me as a child that I’m lazy. I don’t want to hear that voice because I don’t want him to be right, but somehow I think he is. If I apply that statement from my childhood (which irritated me then) to my current writing process I have to agree (and that irritates me now).

There is no fear in a blank white page. It is a blank canvas on which to create. I have such grand ideas in my head sometimes and I’m afraid I can’t write them the way I see them. Therefore I let the fear of failure-to-translate keep me from continuing my project. I’m a fool for doing that. I judge myself so harshly. I don’t give myself a chance to succeed because I’ve already deemed myself a failure without writing a word. Isn’t that amazing? Having written nothing I’ve already decided it’s not good enough.

Eureka! I think the above words clarify beautifully, and quite simply, the idea that I think I’m not good enough. Ouch! No murkiness there. Now we’re getting to the root of the problem. I don’t think I’m good enough and therefore nothing I do is going to be good enough. So I just brood on what might have been, or what could be, instead of living in the moment of what is...and writing. 

I published only 33 blog entries in 2012. That’s down from the 70 I published in 2009 when this blog was fresh and new and I was excited about it. Those numbers are a disappointment to me, and I’m the only one to blame.

Sometimes it only takes a moment to get what I’m thinking down on the page. This took less than half and hour.

There are no resolutions for the coming year, but there is a challenge to write more and fear less. There is a challenge to create and complete. I extend this challenge to myself. I hope to retire the hat of the fool, or at least stow it away in a dark corner to be brought out at times when I need of reminder of how far away from it I have gotten. 

George: White. A blank page of canvas. His favorite. So many possibilities...

(Dot and George are characters in the musical Sunday in the Park with George by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine. Dialogue reprinted without permission. No copyright infringement intended.)