Gunning For A Compromise: Questioning Guns & Society

I grew up in a house with guns in it. My dad is a hunter.

I remember as an adolescent: shooting a rifle, a shotgun, and a pistol at a stationary target, practicing to be the hunter I was never going to be. I remember the kick of the shotgun, the recoil of the pistol. I remember the fear. I remember the dislike. Even lying on the floor completely taken apart post cleaning, guns were not my thing.

I grew up in a small southern town in Kentucky. I remember the back windows of many a pickup truck parked in my high school parking lot covered by racks, hung with guns. It wasn’t odd. It was an everyday part of life. However, it never crossed my mind that anyone would take the rifle or shotgun out of their truck and enter the school with it, intent on killing any of us.

So here I am, nearly 30 years since I graduated and left that parking lot for the last time as a student, and school is no longer a safe place. Sure, there was always the chance a fight might break out. And bullying was an issue even then. Hell, getting your car keyed was even a possibility. Been there, lived that...dad paid the repair bill. But those situations are completely different than sitting in a classroom studying algebra one minute and dodging bullets the next. 

I have family members who work in the school system. I have family members who are currently students. Some of them live close enough to the recent Marshall County, Kentucky, school shooting that anxiety must be palpable. I doubt they are even aware of the anxiety it gives me from afar.

I’ve seen many discussions via Facebook and Twitter since the most recent mass shooting occurred in Parkland, Florida—the most recent in a long American line. One of the ideas bandied about is that stricter gun laws won’t work to stop the gun violence; that it is society that needs to change.

Okay, so let’s take all the onus off stricter gun laws and place it all on society. The question still remains: shouldn’t we try something? 

I keep thinking about how as a child my parents tried different things to get me to behave in a certain way e.g. stop throwing tantrums, stop talking back, clean my room, stop cheating at the board game Sorry!, etc. They took Sorry! away from me for a week once, and I was grounded FROM my bedroom due to its lack of tidiness on more than one occasion. I learned my lessons. But not without my parents' penalties instigating the change.

I realize the above situations are trivial compared to gun violence but they are examples of how we can change, how we can adapt to new or different situations. (We do all take our shoes off at the airport before going through security now.) Society is not going to change on its own. If all the previous mass shootings haven’t made us change then we have to try something else.

In order to change the way society behaves (for this piece: in respect to guns) maybe what’s causing the behavior needs to be modified. So how do we modify it? That question should kick off a conversation. Now is the time to talk about it.

I find myself more than ever conversing with people on the subject, always clear to state that I don’t know what the answer is but that something has to change. I hate the conflict that comes with our differing opinions, but I have found that I’m trying to listen and see their point of view, hoping in return that they are listening and seeing mine.

I keep seeing the argument that bans have worked in virtually every country that has chosen to ban guns. Okay. But here in America, we will be up against major push back from Second Amendment devotees and card-carrying supporters of the NRA before the word “ban” can even be heard by people sitting in the back row of a town hall meeting. But what if...? What if there was a ban on automatic and semi-automatic weapons that prevented civilians from purchasing them? Why would that be such a horrible idea? Of course, that question opens up the floor for debate about those already purchased AR-15’s (or any other gun like it), and plants my foot firmly in the sticky goo of criticism by those who don’t want to buy an AR-15 but want the right nonetheless. I don’t have an answer, just a lack of understanding as to why any civilian needs one.  

Reaching back into my southern roots as a former churchgoer I recall that a pastor is supposed to help his congregation stay on the straight and narrow, right? There are leaders and there are followers but there are followers who need to find their courage to lead. Our country is much divided right now—on more than this one issue. I don’t know what the compromise is. But there has to be one. Maybe honest conversations like the ones I’ve been having, where we are disagreeing, but not arguing, merely speaking civilly to each other, sharing our thoughts, ideas, and points-of-view, are the way to start. You may think I’m being naive and that’s your prerogative. But sometimes the simple answer is the right answer.

This situation is not black and white. It is the grayest of grays. The process will not be simple. But we have to be willing to meet each other halfway and listen to each other without the current, all too typically immediate deterioration into name-calling and finger-pointing. (Guilty.) It has to start with a conversation and with listening.

I still don’t like guns. They make me uncomfortable. But I don’t think I have the right to tell someone else whether or not guns should play a part in their life. I do believe, however, that semi-automatic and automatic weapons do not belong in mainstream society. Let’s talk about it.

Mad Dash To Terminal F

I wanted a glass of wine. That had been the plan all along: get through airport security, find my gate, buy a single serving bottle of Pinot Noir, enjoy.

That didn’t happen. It seems that LaGuardia Airport, unlike JFK, doesn’t have small kiosks near the gates that sell individual bottles of wine along with their sandwich boxes and protein bars. Maybe it has to do with international flights as opposed to domestic. Obviously, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a United Airlines thing. Maybe I just missed it. I convinced myself that as hot as it was in the waiting area, a bottle of wine would’ve probably put me to sleep. I changed my plan to having a glass in flight.

With an on-time departure from NYC to Chicago's O’Hare (connecting on to Paducah, KY), I was finally starting my vacation; my first since July 2017, and boy did I need a break from NYC. I don’t often enjoy the waiting or the traveling. I’m more of a hurry-up-and-get-there kind of person. But one can’t really hurry when he is at the mercy of the airline and the flight time. 

The flight was smooth and actually arrived early into Chicago. I was annoyed (surprise!) by one of the flight attendants so I didn’t bother with that glass of wine. 

Good ol’ Chicago, where winter weather in January threatens to derail my plans every time I travel through it during that month. And this particular day was no exception as the clouds discharged their wintery goodness gracefully and steadily onto the ground.  

I turned off airplane mode on my iPhone as soon as we landed and was immediately greeted by the text:

Your flight to Paducah is cancelled. 

Of course! I should have bothered to have that glass of wine. Hindsight's 20/20.

I didn’t so much process this information as feel my face heat up with anger…then contort with frustration and disappointment. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck in Chicago for a night (been there, done that, didn’t have a toothbrush or clean underwear). I had booked this particular flight on a Sunday evening so that I could wake up at my mom and dad’s house on Monday morning, starting the vacation without a travel day. If I was going to have to spend the night in Chicago then I would be on the same flight to Paducah on Monday that I would have been originally been on had I departed from NYC on Monday as I had initially planned. However, the best laid plans are out of our control when Mother Nature decides to get involved. Don’t be fooled. I’m not that zen.

I could see from my updated electronic boarding pass that I had already been rebooked on the next flight into Paducah, which was scheduled for departure the next day after 2pm. I went directly to Customer Service to see if there was an earlier flight. If I had to stay in Chicago, I at least wanted to get out of her as early as possible the next day. The customer service representative told me that the flight on which I had been rebooked was the first flight departing for Paducah the next day. Then he said something interesting. 

“We have a couple of flights to other locations tonight. Are either of them close to you?”

He mentioned a town in Missouri that I hadn’t heard of before and a town in Indiana. I knew the Indiana option was out of the question but when he turned his computer screen around so that I could see the destinations, my heart leapt in excitement. The Missouri town was Cape Girardeau. He didn’t know how to say it, or at least not the way I’d grown up saying it, so it didn't register until I saw the words.  I knew Cape Girardeau was close to where my parents lived. I called my mom immediately.

Mom: “Hi,” she said, her voice colored with disappointment .

Me: “How far is Cape Girardeau from your house?” I asked with no preamble.

Mom: “About an hour and 15 minutes,” she responded with no real change in her voice.

Me: “Can you pick me up there?”

Mom: “Yes.” The color now tinged with excitement.

Me: “I might be able to get on a flight tonight to Cape. I’ll call you back.”

The flight was already boarding and was scheduled for departure in 30 minutes. You know that joke book title: Fifty Yards To The Outhouse by Willy Makit and Betty Won’t? Well, my joke book title that night was Mad Dash To Terminal F written by Will Power and D. Termination.  

I ran. I ran like Rhoda Morgenstern running through the streets of New York City on her wedding day back in 1974 on an episode of the sitcom, Rhoda. I had a carryon bag in my right hand and I was holding my winter scarf in my left. I didn’t start out holding that scarf, but it’s so long, and kept getting tangled between my legs, that I had a vision of Carrie Bradshaw on the Sex and the City episode where Carrie slips on water that has dripped from a wet umbrella and goes splat! right in the middle of Dior in Paris. I couldn’t have that! Falling and embarrassing myself was not an option.

So, carry on bag filled with laptop and magazines in the right hand (praying the handle didn’t break ‘cause that shit was heavy) and scarf pulled across my body held tightly in the left, I flew past the people strolling along to their gates--or toward that glass of wine I so wanted. I was a vision leaving a gray and blue streak in my wake. 

I was running like my life depended on it. I’m in fairly good shape and yet still I was gasping. I made a right then a left then another right. I was looking for the escalator. Found it. Took it down. Ran past all the people letting themselves be glacially-paced along on the moving sidewalk. People looked over their shoulders as I approached. Peripherally, I could see them watching me as I passed. I stepped on to the up the escalator on the other side of that long space, taking a moment to catch my breath before starting to climb its moving stairs because they weren't moving fast enough. To the right then the left then hugging the curve connecting me to another terminal. All the while looking at the overhead signage for Terminal F. Was I getting closer? It didn’t feel that way. 

I was a man on a mission; determined to make it from Terminal C to Terminal F with breath-catching time to spare. 

As I approached the gate the customer service representative had told me the flight to Cape Girardeau would be departing from I noticed it said Quincy, IL instead of Cape Girardeau, MO. Two lovely women confirmed that this was indeed the flight to Cape but that it made a small layover in Quincy first. I couldn’t have cared less about the layover. I was just glad to be in that line.

I could barely breath. Gasping for air, trying slow my heart rate, I called my mom and told her I was going to be on the flight, providing her with the pertinent flight information. I was euphoric even as I panted. I had made it to the gate with a moment (though not breath-catching) to spare before scanning my boarding pass. The gate attendant marveled that I was in “good shape” as she hadn't thought I would make it from C to F. I showed her, wheezing and coughing, trying to keep composed.

All of those who had been on the receiving end of my disgruntled-passenger-with-a-cancelled-flight texts received the following from me…

I ran from terminal C to terminal F. I made a flight that goes to Quincy IL then on to Cape Girardeau MO. Hope my luggage gets on board. I’m a sweaty mess but I’m on the plane.

…as I sat, sounding asthmatic, buckled-in to my seat on the airplane. Relief was beginning to calm my anxiety. We hadn't taken off but we were supposed to. I was still apprehensive.  Then I realized the plane I was sitting on was the same size as the one that flies to Paducah. The same size plane for the flight that had been cancelled because of "weather" before I had even had a chance to connect to it. The same size plane that was about to take off, in the same weather, toward Cape Girardeau. And it did take off and land and take off and land again. In the weather. I still don’t (and may never) understand why the plane heading toward Paducah couldn't fly in the weather, but I digress.

My gasping cum wheezing had turned into a cough. As my heart rate slowed back to normal my breath kept catching in the back of my throat. I felt as if I had dislodged something. I felt like an undiagnosed upper respiratory problem had chosen that moment to present itself. I could not stop coughing. I was seated on the aisle in the 11th out of 13 rows and we were just sitting on the tarmac while the plane was being de-iced. I had to have some water. I unbuckled the seat belt and made my way to the front of the plane.

“I am so sorry" I began, speaking to the flight attendant who eyes widened in shock at my standing in front of her, "but I just ran from terminal C to terminal F and I can’t seem to stop coughing. May I have some water?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes remaining wide with shock, her voice stern as she continued, “but you need to sit back down.”

I get it. The doors were already closed. Okay. But were weren’t moving. We didn’t even have an estimated time for departure at that moment. But I sat back down, assuaging her fear that (even though the plane was sitting still except for rocking of the high-pressure wash of the de-icing fluid), I wouldn’t be knocked down by the “turbulence.” She brought me a glass of water. The cough persisted.

There would be no beverage service other than water on the first leg of that flight due to its short duration. No wine for me. There would be no beverage service at all on the second leg of the even shorter flight. One should always take advantage of his opportunities for wine when he has them because as Cinderella says in the musical Into The Woods, "Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor." 

I finally made it to Cape Girardeau after midnight and found the welcoming arms and smiles of family members waiting for me, happy at my arrival...at last.

It took until Tuesday evening for my luggage to arrive. And it took until Wednesday evening for me to finally get that glass of wine I had so desired at the beginning of this scenario…before it turned into the adventure it became. 

The cough lingered for about three days.

thoughts on THE SHAPE OF WATER

SPOILER ALERT

The Shape of Water is a visually beautiful film; the colors vibrant yet somehow muted--a watercolor painting pulsing with life. It’s a film that almost looks as if it could’ve been made in the period in which it's set--almost. 

The cast is superb. 

Sally Hawkins is amazing as Elisa, giving me so much without saying a word (!!!). Octavia Spencer is as strong as always, breathing life into Zelda and creating yet another woman I would like to have the pleasure of knowing.

I didn’t know much about the story other than what the preview dictated, which seemed to prepare me for a romance between a mute cleaning woman and the sea creature she discovers in the lab she cleans. But it’s so much more. 

I didn’t know about the military presence (maybe the lab should have been a tip off) with Michael Shannon its representative bully. His Richard Strickland is a rigid, unflinching man unable to waiver from his goals, unwilling to compromise; a harsh antidote to the romance and the humaneness at the story’s center. And don’t get me started on his desire for silence while fucking his wife (I know what you're doing) or his stagnant love for his favorite childhood candy. He’s intolerant; stuck in time; unwilling to change. (He's on the Straight & Narrow and god damn those curves.) #TimesUp

Nor did I know of the Russian storyline centered on Michael Stuhlbarg's (so good in Call Me By Your Name as well as here) Dr. Robert Hoffstetler. Dr. Hoffstetler not only has his own secret to protect but an urgent objective to protect the creature. With empathy and a desire to understand different, but not at the expense of life, he betrays those who could do him the most harm.

Then there’s Elisa's gay neighbor, Giles, so beautifully yet quietly played by Richard Jenkins. His change of heart toward the creature is in itself a representation of the acceptance and tolerance he himself desires. 

When Elisa points out to Giles her similarity to the creature, questioning if HE is a monster then isn’t SHE, I began to question humanity and who has the right to define what constitutes the connection we feel with another person. And if the creature has a soul is he less of a person because he’s not “human?” And isn’t Elisa actually just like him? She was found on the river bank. Washed up, perhaps? Spat out? Rejected? The scars on her neck the remnants of the gills that sealed as she adapted to her new surroundings?

The Shape of Water is fantasy, so the romance is plausible. It’s also magic because the romance blossoms into something more when Elisa has the courage to let herself be seen and then gives herself over to what she’s feeling. But to that mix I must add horror because there are people in the world, much like Mr. Strickland, who wish to humiliate, belittle, and destroy anything--or anyone--different from what they perceive as right; normal. He sees the hurting of the creature as his right since he sees the creature as nothing more than a thing.

Shouldn’t we all be so lucky to be able to look beyond what we see in front of us, like Elisa, and embrace the differences that might, just might, change our lives forever? 

The creature (imbued with more than enough courage, vulnerability, desire, and yes, humanity by Doug Jones) will show Elisa a whole new world. One I believe she was born to know. But without her vulnerability, acceptance, and tolerance that would never have happened.

This Is Me Without The Not

Anyone who's seen the trailer for The Greatest Showman has heard the song "This Is Me." If you've paid any attention to the lyrics you know that it's a veritable anthem for anyone who is different. Being a man who is gay that seems to still include me.

I latched on to the empowering song about not making apologies, being seen, and being who I'm meant to be, the minute I heard it. But recently I've been catching myself incorrectly singing this lyric: "I'm not scared to be seen, I make no apologies, this is me." I've been leaving out the word "not." Therefore, singing, "I am scared to be seen..." I began to ponder if this was less mental snafu and more subconscious admission--yet more proof that I'm not really comfortable being seen.

For all of my #BeYourself hashtags, mascaraed lashes in public, and high-heeled shoes wearing moments on the subway, I'm still uncomfortable in my own skin. I don't love myself. I show up but I'm still afraid to be seen. Even as I defy you not to see me.

I am never more confident than when I'm safely inside the walls of my own apartment.

There are moments (beyond the walls) when my confidence rages within me like a fever consuming every cell. But the fever never burns for long. I sabotage my well-being, turning my own thoughts of self-loathing into an antibiotic; curing me of my "undeserved" happiness and leaving me a little more debilitated in the aftermath.

The more I begin to externally express my internal awareness, the sadder and lonelier I feel. How odd. I would have thought my life of secrets would have been a lonelier life to live. But no. I feel like an aging queen--hair coiffed, perfectly mascaraed lashes, clothes on point, fabulous bag--smiling and waving at the men, all the while convincing myself the men don't want the mascara and that the wave is just too limp wristed. I see them turn away,  averting their eyes so quickly that they appear to be afraid someone will catch them looking at me.

I don't know what man wants a man who likes nail polish, mascara, flamboyant jewelry, and high heels. I've convinced myself I'm undesirable number one. I feed my own self-contempt. I'm guarded. I don't want to get hurt. So I pretend I'm not interested so that when I get home, safe behind those walls, I can fall apart in private, not being seen. This is me.

I'm ashamed that I like makeup and high heels. I'm ashamed that I'm not more masculine. I'm ashamed that I'm ashamed. I've lost my way. I no longer know what my purpose is.

I risk nothing yet I risk myself every day when I express my true self. I'm wallowing in self-pity--almost drowning in it. I am Michael Rohrer yet I feel like I am nothing, no one; an invisible entity moving through life longing to be seen while fervently hoping no one will notice me. I'm trapped between worlds.

This can't be "who I'm meant to be." I am boldly rambling through my life right now. Not so much Rohrering as whimpering. I've got to add the "not" back to the lyric.

My journey continues...

Desire/Fear

As his ass begins to flatten, his biceps deflating from mountains to hills, he knows he only has himself to blame. The desire to keep his body lean and taut is greater than his fear of it becoming flabby. Yet still, he finds it easier to distract himself with other things like...sitting. That, instead of making his legs move in a forward motion toward a goal that, once a necessity, has now become a discardable challenge. Sitting. Avoiding. Why? Is there fear? He knows the place and its virtually unfriendly members. He knows a person will rarely say hello. But he craves the chummy atmosphere that he once took for granted. He’s convinced himself he’s too old to be desirable in this playground of youth and pretty bodies. He now feels self-conscious where he used to feel like he belonged. So he sits. And avoids. And his abs become slack. He becomes mentally self-destructive—harder on himself than any other person could possibly be. He’s taken the step forward before. He knows he can. He knows the feeling of satisfaction. He sits. His legs twitch, aching to move. Only he can change his situation. Only he can fuel his desire and defeat his fear.

Motivationally Inept

He awoke feeling rested. The day had its plans well before sleep had taken him into its embrace the night before. As he sat on the sofa reading the first of the day's many tweets and updates, the coffee filled his mouth with its bitter warmth that somehow always managed to taste pleasant. He read and sipped nestled into the sofa's corner: scrolling, flipping, content. Nearly four hours later, the morning had slipped away and those plans the day haf made...fallen by the wayside, discarded like last month's Vogue. As regret and failure began to set in he realized once again that he had become depressively inept at motivation.

Caught in the Apron

There was a knock on the door. I looked up and saw his face framed in its diamond-shaped window. I froze. My little hands clutched the apron I had tied around my waist. In my panic I tried to wad it up and remove it at the same time. He looked as if he was staring right at me; his eyes piercing through the glass and right into my own. But he wasn’t reacting. Could he see me? I was terrified. As we walked across the lawn toward my grandmother’s house my father said nothing.