I Am Closed

I am closed.
The ache is real

I long to be loved,
But it's loneliness I feel

The trumpet is sad.
The trumpeter dead.

Melancholia;
Blue tinted sadness and dread

My heart is heavy:
Aching, lonely, cold

Openness is fear
Laced with winks of old.

Is this my making?
I'm stuck...fully exposed.

I can't find the key.
I am closed.

When?

When is enough enough?

When do I discover the cause?

When is the truth laid bare?

When does the lying take a pause?

When will these questions stop?

When will the answers come?

When do I discover my worth?

When am I enough, just because?

When will mirth fill the void?

When will sadness seek less applause?

When will my anger eat me alive?

When will I forgive, find freedom?

When?

When?

When?

Wasted

Wasted

I wasted away the day today.

A melancholy wake, 

I fought to hold on. 

Yet still, it slipped away.

The sun set. 

The colors faded. 

Youth disappeared.

I hesitated.  

Life, by time, is but a day. 

A moment to breathe,

A second to play. 

I wasted away the day today

Listless, gripping,

Waiting, longing

My moment, my moment, slipped away

The Time I Realized It’s Me Who’s Ashamed Of My Femininity

“Another round of bullets hits my skin.” 

That lyric from the song “This Is Me” from the film The Greatest Showman is really resonating with me at the moment.

I’ve come to believe that the bullets hitting my skin are from a gun being held in my own hand. I’m pulling the trigger. The question is: Am I trying to commit emotional suicide or am I trying to keep myself just wounded enough so that I don’t have to face the reality of my own emotional prison. 

I rarely give myself the permission or the freedom to do all the things that I want to do in my life. Instead, I give myself fear, anger, frustration, shame, and regret.

I’ve spent many years thinking that it was other people who were ashamed of me for being homosexual or feminine or whatever other disparaging word one could use when belittling. But honestly, it’s me who’s ashamed...of me. I hadn’t even realized how stagnant and toxic my internalized shame had become? 

Lady Gaga reminds me that I was “Born This Way,” and I know that’s true. I’ve been a homo since I can remember. But it’s my bend toward femininity, which in terms of outward expression I like to call gender-expansive, that brings with it a special cloak of shame that I can’t seem to fully abandon no matter how much I grow and change and understand about myself.

I’m so tired of being afraid of the reaction of others at my outward feminine expression. I believe this fear is the root of my shame. I’m embarrassed to be the fabulous, stylish, flamboyant, feminine man that I am. 

I recently published the piece My Father & Me: An Examination Of A Relationship And Its Effect On My Life. In it I pointed out that I have always felt like I was my father’s biggest disappointment, his shame. That examination, and the questions I posed in that piece, have led to more questions, but also a deeper understanding that it’s me who is ashamed. I love who I am in the safety of my own home. But when I leave the confines of that sanctuary, my joy goes to hell. 

A few days ago I found myself in exactly that state of mind. I was in my living room applying a finishing swipe of lipstick before leaving for work. I took in my reflection. I loved what I saw: black jeans double rolled to fully reveal my silver Louis Vuitton boots with 4.5” heel, which I had never worn so exposed before; the green, gray, and black patterned short-sleeved jacket with a pink, jeweled set of lips dangling from the zipper pull. My eye makeup was bangin’; my jewelry the right amount of sparkle and pop. That man reflected in that mirror felt fabulous, was happy. 

Then I walked out my door. As I was turning the key in the lock I could feel a change coming over me. Literally feel it. My chest felt heavy, my face fixed itself into resting bitch. By the time I'd walked down the short hallway and through the two doors separating me from the sidewalk my joy was gone. It had been replaced by a heaviness that I soon realized was anger. I was angry. Mere moments before I had been happy and joyous and basically singing, "Ooh, don't lemme start lovin' myself!” from Bette Midler's “I'm Beautiful.” Damn it! I still looked fabulous but the bliss was gone. 

The best way I can describe this anger that came over me is thus: it was the guard I so often pull up around me for protection mixed with my frustration at being afraid of expressing myself.

Two days later it finally sank in: I’m ashamed of my femininity! 

Christ! I’ve been blaming—or trying to blame—other people and specific situations for my fears when it comes to expressing myself for longer than I care to say. But it’s me. I’m the one. I knew I was firing the bullets. I just didn’t realize how deeply I was wounding myself.

But you know what? Just because I can more clearly see my own self-sabotage doesn’t change the fact that being bullied in my youth fed my fear and stunted my growth. Just because I more clearly understand the huge part I play in my own shame doesn’t change that fact that my father did indeed point out what he perceived were my flaws (mostly my feminine traits) as I mentioned in the above referenced piece. The seeds were sown.

When we’re young we are so susceptible to the words and actions of others. Not that we aren’t susceptible as adults. But in our youth we are still forming and becoming. We often aren’t yet mature enough to form our own opinions. We don’t often understand what we’re feeling or why something brings us joy. We just know we like it or we’re happy. My life seemed rife with mockery, from my love of singing to the way I walked to my fashion choices. It wasn’t a constant barrage of negativity, but it was often enough that I went inward, felt ashamed of what brought me joy, found safety behind closed doors.

My shame was instilled in me but that makes it no less my shame. I let that negativity take root in me and flourish into the gnarliest tree, which continues to thrive on my self-doubt and self-hate…products of my shame. That tree has a far-reaching canopy of leaves that represent my fear. And those leaves don’t provide shade as much as they block my light. Every time I was mocked, laughed at, ridiculed, I internalized my shame and gave the roots of that tree the nourishment they needed to get stronger and to more deeply anchor themselves. That tree must be riddled with bullets.

I’m damaged. But I survived my youth. And I continue to survive every day.

I have a co-worker who unknowingly gives me strength every time I see him. He’s gay, paints all ten fingernails, wears makeup, wears dangling earrings, has pink hair. I don’t know if anxiety overtakes him as he leaves his apartment. I don’t know if he’s afraid as he walks to the subway station. To me he appears happy and alive in his gender-expansive expression of femininity. Seeing him nourishes me and fills me with the desire to get over my shame of being who I am, loving what I love, and just BE. He inspires me to be the brave and courageous person that others think I am. 

My mom has always said I march to my own drummer. She’s right. Nobody else marched in time with me where I’m from. But the little feminine boy inside of me has always been afraid to just BE. Even still, there are those who see me as brave and courageous while I see myself as holding my breath until I reach safety. 

I recently heard Rupaul say, “To watch a boy play with feminine things, in a society that is so masculine, and come through it, and find their fire and their own voice is a very powerful thing.” 

I have not come through it, but I have definitely found my voice, and a shard of power. I am replacing that gun with lipstick and putting on a fabulous pair of heels to pour positive poison on the roots of that tree.

“Well, fire away 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in.” I’m working on it.

My journey continues…

My Father & Me: An Examination Of A Relationship And Its Effect On My Life

Hindsight can provide so much clarity but only if you allow yourself to see.

My father was young. A few months shy of 19. I have no idea what life was like for him before me. He doesn’t really talk about it much. Then again, I never really ask him. 

I have no idea what he felt upon learning the news that he was going to be a father. He was an unwed senior in high school. I don’t know how mature he was. I don’t know if he felt shame. I don’t know if he was afraid. Again, he doesn’t talk about it, and I don’t ask. 

He told me once that he wasn’t very present in my life at its beginning. He blames that on his youth. He regrets it. I don’t think I hold that against him. 

I didn't connect with him. He didn't connect with me. I have a vague awareness—a muscle memory if you will—that exists in my core, suggesting to me that I was uncomfortable around him from an early age. I wasn’t like him. I was different and didn’t yet know how. I was always afraid he was going to see this difference and point it out. My uncomfortableness, I soon realized, extended to the other men in my life—cousins, uncles, grandfathers. 

As I crossed the bridge from childhood into adolescence, I realized that to be left on my own with him filled me with anxiety. I didn’t know then that it was anxiety, but that feeling is something that I now recognize as an adult. I now wonder if he felt as uncomfortable alone with me as I did with him. The truth is, we had nothing in common other than blood.

He was the first male relationship in my life, the first male I was ashamed to be myself around. He was the first person to point out what he perceived were my flaws. He was the first person to make me feel ashamed of some of the things I enjoyed. 

To this day I am convinced that the relationship I have with my father is the reason I won’t let myself be vulnerable enough to connect with other men. They who I long to hold me, kiss me, love me. I'm scared to be myself around them; to reveal myself to them. I was scared to reveal myself to him. I feared the punishment. I still am scared in some respects—of his reaction, his disappointment. I won’t let myself be vulnerable in front of other men because I couldn't be vulnerable in front of him. Shame and fear walk hand in hand.

I don’t remember of time when I didn’t feel like I was a disappointment to him. Because of that feeling, I feel I’m in constant need of his approval, and by extension, everyone else’s. My need for approval fucks me up to this day, e.g., pleasing my boss, appeasing my landlady, low Instagram likes. My desire for approval points back to wanting his. I know it. It’s as if I was never able to validate myself enough.

When Lady Bird, in the eponymously titled film, says to her mother, “I wish you liked me.” Her mother responds, “Of course I love you.” Lady Bird then asks, “But do you like me?”

I’ve never felt like my father was proud to call me his son. I’ve always felt like he was ashamed of me; that I was his biggest, well, disappointment. I’ve convinced myself that he doesn’t really like me very much—his feminine son who would rather pursue musical theatre than hunt, watch soap operas than play outside, paint his nails than get them dirty. I realize that my possibly imagined thoughts have led to self-inflicted wounds and presumptive allegations. But the thoughts exist nonetheless.

I believe that my lack of self-esteem stems largely from the fact that I was, and continue to be, afraid that my homosexuality—and feminine mannerisms—brings him shame. Then again, maybe the shame is all my own and has nothing to do with him. Since I’m already emotionally cutting I might as well cut a little deeper and get it all out there, right? Scars are scars.

I do my best to convince myself that I don’t live in his shadow. But his shadow threatens me from time to time, lurking at the edge of my light. Why? Maybe it’s because his shadow carries with it the testimony of a Christian man who is respected in his community. Maybe it’s because his shadow’s essence holds what I perceive a man is supposed to be? Ouch! But aren’t I too a man? Yes, I am. I often forget that I too cast a shadow informed by the courage of a man who does his best to fight against his own fears to live his truth. My father has always been so concerned with his reputation, and by sheer proximity as his child, I too am concerned with what people think about me. I hate it. We both need to trust ourselves and let that go. Easier said than done. My father is a good man, but so am I. 

I can no longer regret the relationship that we don’t have; that of shared experiences and Norman Rockwell imagery. The responsibility of a relationship falls on both people in it to nurture it and make it grow. I have shouldered the blame for the lack of our closeness for the majority of my life. I am his son and he is my father, but a relationship with him is not, nor has it ever been, solely my responsibility.

It is not my fault that I am gay. It is not his fault. There is no fault. He responded to learning that truth from me more positively than I expected. But I believe it is the wall that divides us. My reason for waiting so long to come out to him was that I feared I would no longer be welcomed in his home. The third thing out of his mouth during that coming out conversation was, “You will always be welcome in my home.” I wept with the relief of a weight lifted. He did, however, respond exactly how I expected in one specific way. He said he believes what the Bible says in regard to homosexuality. Homosexuality and religion: a great divide.

I long to be held in the arms of a man who makes me feel safe and protected, in the arms of a man that I trust. I love him, but my dad doesn’t make me feel safe. I don't have a memory of feeling safe in his arms, merely anxious. I do remember feeling comforted in his embrace when each of his parents died. But those were special circumstances, with heightened emotions, not life’s every day situations. 

I didn't trust him with my truth for so many years because I couldn't face what I feared would be a negative reaction. It didn’t turn out that way, but I still don't trust him. To this day I don’t fully relax alone in his presence. I'm always on guard, waiting for whatever probing question he may ask. It's exhausting. I want him to see me—accept me—but at the same time, I won’t let him. I fear his reaction. So, I don't let any man who might find me handsome, kind, funny, smart, sexy, whatever, see me. I'm always protected, always on guard. 

Why does approval and acceptance of my father matter more than my own validation? Why is the joy that I find in wearing makeup, high heels, and spectacular jewelry not enough? Why is fear mingling with the joy I feel at having my toenails painted? Why do I diminish myself in his presence when I’m at his house for a visit? Am I ashamed of what makes me happy? Why do I snuff out my light? Am I protecting me…or am I protecting him? Would the joy be more delicious if I had his approval or didn’t fear his reaction? I don’t know. I won’t give it a chance. And where my gender expansive expressions are concerned, I constantly think that the men I find handsome, the one’s I’m attracted to, are going to be so turned off by my outward expression that I make sure the key to the gate in my wall of protection is securely out of reach so that I don’t give in to the temptation of happiness beyond the door. Vulnerability is a naked journey.

I’ve spent most of my life protecting myself and now I don't know any other way to live. Days have become years and now I'm 47 and nearly bursting with desires that I won't act upon because I won't let myself be vulnerable. I wear my heels and my makeup and my jewelry out into the world, but I’m on guard. I want to be seen but I also hope that I blend in with the background noise.

He was 19, and I was an accident. Hindsight definitely shows me that our relationship is the root of my self-worth issues and my fears where men are concerned. I am blocked, stuck. I can’t seem to move forward, at least not at the pace I would like. He is not solely to blame. He is merely a factor. This examination is the same shit different day…with a little more clarity and a lot more honesty.

My journey continues...

Freedom, Bravery, and Boycotting in America

San Fransisco 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick kneeled during the national anthem. We all know this. What seems to be missing for many is the why. He kneeled, instead of standing, in response to police brutality in America. Specifically against people of color. It was a form of non-violent protest that continues to divide and incite outrage.

"I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color. To me, this is bigger than football and it would be selfish on my part to look the other way. There are bodies in the street and people getting paid leave and getting away with murder."

These are the words of Colin Kaepernick. This is the why.

Now I have my own why: Why is anyone offended?

This was never about disrespecting the national anthem. (It's merely a song for Christ's sake.) It was never about disrespecting the country. It was never about disrespecting the military. It was always about protesting the abuse of fellow Americans during a song that is supposed to represent America and elicit pride in the hearts of those of us living in the "land of the free and the home of the brave!"

So again I ask: Why is anyone offended?

The unfortunate election of Donald Trump to our nation's highest office, and his childish, petty, bullying rhetoric (the campaign, tweets, rallies), has clouded the judgement of so many in this country. He has shined a light on the hate, that up until his campaign started, had remained at the edge of the shadows. Yes, I know that bigotry and hate surfaced on a daily basis in this country. But nothing like what we are now seeing. Donald Trump does nothing but incite his base with a white power entitlement that has, I believe, legitimized their racism, bigotry, and hate. At least in their own minds.

I saw an image on Twitter last night of country singer John Rich's sound man holding the Nike swoosh symbol from the top of a pair of socks. This sound man had cut them off. This is because Nike has made Colin Kaepernick the face of their 30th anniversary "Just Do It" campaign. This sound man is not the only person offended and angry at Nike. I've seen videos of people burning their Nike sneakers and cutting the swoosh off of their shorts. It's amazing. The #NikeBoycott is happening.

I'm taken right back to 2003, when Dixie Chicks lead vocalist, Natalie Maines told a British audience: "We don't want this war, this violence, and we're ashamed that the President of the United States (George W. Bush) is from Texas" 

The backlash was astonishing. Radio stations stopped playing their music. Images of people burning Dixie Chicks merchandise and rolling over Dixie Chicks CDs with a tractor emerged. 

And here we are again. 

Was the war in Iraq necessary? There were no weapons of mass destruction. Was the Dixies Chicks' statement really that far off the mark?

Do we really need to be shooting (often killing) men of color who are unarmed, with police officers found not guilty for the shooting? Is Colin Kaepernick's kneeling really that offensive? Or are people angry that their own prejudice is being served to them on one knee?

A friend of mine talks often about the swinging pendulum between Conservative and Liberal. How it swings one way and then back the other. He often talks about finding a middle ground. We don't seem to be able to find that middle ground these days. Partly because we don't talk to each other. We talk AT each other. We argue with and call each other names. Thanks to social media this unfortunately is very easy. I myself am guilty of it. 

We live in America...the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

We are free to kneel. We are free to stand. We are free to boycott. We are free to have our opinions. We are free to worship. We are free to NOT worship. We are free to love who with love and have sex with that person. We are free to vote for change.

But are we brave? There are many brave Americans doing brave things every day. In respect to this piece, I believe Colin Kaepernick to be a very brave individual. He stood up, or this case, kneeled, for what he believed in. He shined a light on injustice. Those that would try and diminish that light by destroying their Nike merchandise will never stop the movement he started.

The Dixie Chicks may not be recording currently but let's not forget that they recorded another album (Taking the Long Way) after that backlash that debuted at #1, sold 2.5 million copies in the U.S. alone, and won five Grammy Awards including Album, Record, and Song of the Year.

I think Nike will be okay. So boycott away. The kneeling will continue. Trump is "only for now." (Thank you Avenue Q.) Progress is not a bad thing. Racism and bigotry will never go away. And the divide between Conservative and Liberal may widen even more before that middle ground is met. 

Americans are, however, still Free to be as Brave as we want to be.  

When I Took My Heels On Vacation: A Redux

The current television ad for Pacifico Beer says, “Live life with anchors up.” 

Remember two years ago when I took my heels to Cherry Grove on Fire Island? I had all kinds of plans to just be my fabulous self—“strut, pout, put it out." But when I got there, intimidation cloaked itself around me like a 1950s Balenciaga opera coat. I was filled with anxiety. I couldn’t walk out of my cottage with them on. I was so afraid of being openly mocked or talked about behind my back. I couldn’t (or wouldn’t), and didn’t give any person there a chance to support me. I didn’t even support myself. 

I was so frustrated with my stuck-in-a-rut fear that I didn’t return the next season. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face myself. I was embarrassed.

So here I am, two years later, headed back to the boardwalks. Before I left my house for Cherry Grove, the two fingernails that I paint (I only paint two. It’s my thing) were perfectly painted hot pink. My eyes were shadowed, lined, and mascara’d. My lips sticked in my favorite Tom Ford pink, a sheer named “Ellie.” I was going to express myself even if the anxiety made me feel as if vomiting would be an easier alternative. But guess what? The anxiety was pretty low grade. My heart was pounding, yes, but from a little bit of anxiety and a whole lot of excitement. 

I knew this trip was going to be different because I was different from the last time I’d made it. I’m normally reserved and a bit shy at first around strangers. But as I waited for the ferry to take me to that Mecca of Freedom where it seems everyone except for me thrives, I decided to get out of my way. I heard the pop of a top on what turned out to be a can of Corona. I needed one. The desire was immediate. A cold beer was the only thing that would do in the moment. I hadn’t ordered a pre-ferry beverage before. Uptight?

While waiting at the bar for my Montauk Summer Ale to arrive, I met Rick and David. Rick immediately fell in love with my hot pink t-shirt emblazoned with the likenesses of Alexis Carrington and Dominique Devereaux from the “It’s burned” scene from Dynasty circa 1984. He took a picture and from there a conversation flowed. It was easy. It should be easy. We’re all human beings. And those of us who frequent Cherry Grove have something in common. We’re either LGBTQ or an LGBTQ ally. Cue George Michael’s “Freedom 90” and play it loud. Lets all love and support each other. How about it? 

I took a deep breath of liberating air and boarded the ferry…beer in hand.

The category is: Fem Queer Living Life

I’m going to narrow this down to the “live” part of the word living. I had to live. No one was stopping me but me. I am an expressive, creative person, and I am fabulous. I’m not an abnormality. I’m as normal as any one else—and we’re all a little fucked up. And you know what? Heels are just shoes. And makeup is just pigment. Neither have power on their own. Only by my making either, or both, a big deal do they have power.  

I thought about putting my heels on the minute I dropped all my belonging off at my cottage. But I hesitated because, honestly, my fuchsia Chuck Taylor’s were too cute and the heels weren’t going to be as cute with that t-shirt. Looking back, I was probably having a relapse of my Fear of Expression and Vulnerability Syndrome. I feel like a femme fatale trapped by his own male insecurity. Move it or lose it girl!

I knew my deeply rooted fears weren’t going to magically vanish when my feet hit the boardwalk. I also knew that I was two years stronger into expressing myself. So, within the first 24 hours in Cherry Grove I wore those heels out and about three times. It was easier each time. No one said anything negative. There was no judgement, except me judging myself. I’m only slightly less exhausting than I was two years ago. But ultimately, I felt ebullient, excited, and dare I say, comfortable.

Then I damaged my right shoe. Can you believe it? On the inside where the Throat meets the Shank (shoe lingo), the shoe started to detach. There I was finally feeling liberated enough to let myself shine, and I damaged the damn shoe. Believe me when I tell you that I contemplated just feeling relieved at no longer having to challenge myself to wear the shoes. Old habits die hard. But, that contemplation was brief. In actuality, I was pissed off. The shoes were broken. I wanted to wear them. That option was taken away. I wasn’t in control. The more I looked at those shoes sitting dormant and unused, the more pissed off I got.

Two days later I had a flash of an image. I had seen black electrical tape in one of the junk drawers in the cottage. Eureka! I knew I would be able to use that tape to repair, if only temporarily, the damaged shoe. 

And temporarily it was. I only got to wear them one more time before the tape gave way to a detachment that was too damaged to repair. It’s ok. They were cheap. But their cork platforms were perfect for a beachy getaway where boardwalks exist instead of roads. And I had finally been excited, and somewhat secure, to be wearing them.

Two things happened that day though that proved to me how unfounded my fears had always been. In the final stroll that broke them, I encountered a man that said, “Nice shoes,” as he passed me, then he went back to his previous conversation because me wearing heels wasn’t a bit weird or unnatural. Hours later as I headed to the beach for a late afternoon sit, I encountered a woman who asked, “Where are your shoes?” I was slightly taken aback but completely confirmed. I told her about the irreparable damage. She suggested glue. I told her about the electrical tape. We had a chuckle. As I walked away she yelled, “You’re still glamorous.” 

The support of others goes a long way toward nurturing your courage. Dare I say the support of strangers can lift you even higher? I wouldn’t let the strangers support me two years ago.

Thinking back to the t-shirt I was wearing on the day I arrived, I realized I was wearing the image of two strong female characters. Alexis Carrington and Dominique Devereaux did not let anything, or anyone, stand in their way.

Why do I continue to limit myself? Why do I let myself be paralyzed by my own fears? I was once told in college to put razor blades on my elbows and run. There has never been a more right time for me personally to put those razor blades on and run. Maybe I need to put them on a pair of heels. Gucci produced a fabulous pair a few seasons ago with spikes. I should pull those back outta the box. Anchors up!

My journey continues...