The Cap and the Silence

I was confronted with a symbol of hate, deception, and racism last week on a vacation trip to Kentucky. A red "Make America Great Again" cap practically throbbed like a caution light on the head of a member of my family as he walked into the room where I was sitting. To say that I was shocked and unprepared is an understatement. My heart began to pound. The space around it became weighted with anxiety.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to react. I felt the flush of heat burn my cheeks. I felt sick. 

The person wearing the cap doesn’t know what it represents to me. I honestly believe there was no malice intended. Yet I couldn't help but wonder why those with more knowledge weren't more attentive to their surroundings. Then again, I was the outsider, the guest. I was in their environment.

As I sat on the sofa at my parents’ house I was very aware that I was wearing mascara that day. I was also aware that I fully expected acceptance from everyone around me while wearing it. Mascara is not a MAGA cap, but it is a potential button pusher when worn by a male in a family of gun-toting, sports-playing, Southern Baptists. No one said a word about my mascara the entire trip. Just like no one mentions the bracelet with rainbow beads that I sometimes wear while there. Is it avoidance or acceptance? Rainbows and MAGA caps send completely different messages, but I digress.

Additionally, while relaxing inside this household of Trump supporters, I was never hesitant to discuss Michelle Obama’s memoir, Becoming, which I was openly reading at the time.

I tried to put myself on the other side of the Party line, trying to provide the acceptance that I was expecting. How could I expect it yet not give it in return? Aren’t we all human beings, co-mingling with differing opinions? Yet providing that acceptance was hard for me. I sat in silence trying to ignore the rage that was bubbling inside me, just below the surface. 

I was hurt. That cap (and those words) will go down in history as the symbol of a very dark and divided time in America. I will never be able to see it with eyes that don't register negativity.

I may be a Kentuckian by birth, but I am a New Yorker by choice. I knew at an early age that I had to get out of Kentucky. I had to get out of my small town. I knew there was a bigger world out there where I could find the freedom to be myself. Where I could find the freedom to question. I knew there were bigger ideals than what I was taught in Sunday service. 

I am gay, and feminine. I am a believer that Freedom of Religion also means Freedom from. In Trump’s Divided States of America, I am a liberal. I am for progress. I am for gay rights. I am for women’s rights. I am for trans rights. I am for human rights. I am for TRUTH! I believe America was already great.

That cap makes me angry. What it stands for makes me angry. I can’t believe I have family members who believe the huckster who pushes its message. I love the wearer so much, but with caution was the only way I felt I could proceed. I've never been one to rush head-on into conflict. In order to keep the peace, I kept my mouth shut. For this, I am disgusted with myself as much as I am with the cap.

As I sat writing about how this incident affected me, I couldn't help but ponder: does writing about it, rather than confronting it in the moment, make me cowardly or intelligent?

I was the lone blue in a room full of red.  

My Day at Dior: A Liaison Between Desire and Jouy

The champagne may have been joyful with bubbles, but it was I who was bursting with effervescence. 

It happened on December 30, 2018. I bought my first piece of Dior. A bag, of course. Specifically, the Dior book tote in canvas embroidered with a burgundy Toile de Jouy motif. Happy New Year to me!

I’d been thinking about that Dior book tote for days. To be honest, the book tote in general had been on my mind since it premiered as part of the Spring/Summer 2018 collection: a new bag with style to spare using a vintage pattern--the Oblique--culled from the House of Dior’s archives and reintroduced by current creative director, Maria Grazia Chiuri, for a new generation. I was enamored. So were a lot of other people. The Dior Oblique book tote was immediately sold out with a waiting list on which I did not wish to put my name. 

Fast forward to late fall and the release of the Dior Cruise 2019 collection. Once again the archives of the House had been culled. But this time inspiration was found in a toile that had originally been created for the walls of Monsieur Dior’s boutique in 1947. 

For those who don’t know, toile can refer to the fabric or the pattern on the fabric. A toile pattern is usually a pastoral scene repeated over and over. But Maria Grazia Chiuri updated this toile with lions, snakes, monkeys, tigers, giraffes. Those quiet pastoral scenes are now dotted with danger and the allurement of adventure.  

The Toile de Jouy book tote--which takes its name from the French town of Jouy-en-Josas, where toile has been produced since 1759--arrived just before Christmas. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The pattern and the color had woven themselves together so completely in my brain that no matter how I tried I could not release myself from their grip. I checked dior.com almost daily to see if the availability at the 57th Street boutique in New York City had changed from “in stock” to “limited stock” or worse, the dreaded “out of stock.” 

I was a man obsessed. I even dreamt about it…twice. I woke from that first dream remembering the joy I felt from owning it. Every person I encountered as I walked down that dream street admired its beauty. Even awake, I could still feel the joy in my chest. Upon waking from the second dream I was left with no memories just a feeling of happiness.

A Dior bag does not come cheap. And it was an expense that I could not expend blindly. It's an investment. I mulled it over. I weighed my options. I talked to friends. I longed. I obsessed. I annoyed myself. 

In 1946, mere weeks shy of turning 42, Monsieur Dior founded his famed, and fabled, fashion house. He wasn’t a man in the midst of youth. He was a man 41 years wise and determined. World War II had ended. It was his time. He’d spent many years honing his skills in the French fashion Houses of Robert Piguet and Lucien Lelong. He even turned down an offer to breathe new life into the waning House of Philippe et Gaston. He knew what he wanted: his own House, his own name, his own rules, his own designs. 

Christian Dior is synonymous with glamour, beauty, style, strength, courage, and fearlessness.

I have long admired the man that I became aware of through my love of his gorgeously realized creative imagination. And the fact that he was 42 years old when he launched his first line only strengthens my admiration. It has long given me hope that anything is possible at any age. I’m 47, and while some see me as courageous, I’ve let fear get the better of me for more years than I care to think about. In Christian Dior, I see a man possessed with courage to start something new and a fearlessness that boldly transformed fashion. 

It was my time to engage with the glamour, beauty, and style. I was determined if not fearless.

As I walked east on 57th Street toward 5th Avenue, the awning, lighted in brilliant white illuminating the bold black name Dior, came into view. My pulse quickened. I was excited. I was nervous. I knew I didn’t have to buy the bag in order to step inside the boutique and see it. But I also knew I wanted the bag. My love affair with Dior goes way back.

As I stepped in front of the display window to the left of the entrance, I found myself relieved to see the mannequin I had seen on Christmas Eve still gracefully clutching the curved handles of the burgundy Toile de Jouy book tote. I felt an immediate sense of relief, as if I knew there would be a bag waiting for me inside, and that I would have no remorse in purchasing it. I walked through the glass doors.

Into the gleaming brightness I stepped, and there, past the towering red toile-covered giraffe, I saw the object of my desire. There were four of them beautifully displayed on a rack. I made a beeline. I asked the nearest sales associate if I could take one from the rack and was given permission. It was the first time I had admired its beauty up close. I already knew that each tote required more than 1,600,000 stitches and took over 42 hours to create, but as I held it in my hands I could see the artistry, and it was spectacular. 

I made my way to a woman standing at a display case behind me to inquire about some things of which I had questions.

There’s a certain expectation of bonhomie that comes with shopping in a high-end boutique like Christian Dior. But I never take that for granted. Probably because I don’t feel like I deserve it. I’m still a bit stuck in that stale mindset. However, I do deserve it as much as anyone else who desires that experience. So I proceeded, believing, if hesitantly, that I belonged.

That woman was Lauren, and it was serendipitous that she be my sales associate. You see, I had called the boutique the previous Friday to inquire about the bag. It was Lauren who had answered my questions. It was meant to be. 

Lauren was kind and so easy to talk to that she heard more about me than she probably wanted to hear. But she never let on that it was an imposition, choosing instead to participate with her own stories. She was generous with her time and attention. I felt like a queen. Say what you will about this being the sales associates job, I know when someone connects with me. I felt that she and I existed in our own little Dior world most of the time while I was there. 

A major desire of mine is to own my own “Bar” jacket. Introduced in Dior's inaugural collection of 1947, the “Bar” has been updated throughout the years by various creative directors during their tenure. It remains an iconic staple of the House. I felt comfortable enough with Lauren to ask her if she would help me figure out my size and fit. 

Up the stairs we went, past walls in motion with the Cruise 2019 fashion show. I took the bag with me. I barely put it down. Limited quantities and fear of loss can make one ridiculously possessive. 

Lauren indulged me in all things “Bar,” knowing that I wasn’t planning to buy the jacket, without a flicker of irritation. I’ve experienced that reaction before in an upscale boutique. It’s so disheartening. But on this day, the stars aligned to create for me the most exciting Dior experience I’ve had since my first trip to Paris when I stepped inside the Dior boutique at 30 Avenue Montaigne and breathed the air.

While my bag was being placed in its box--a piece of art itself--Lauren asked me if I wanted anything to drink: water, champagne? For a split second I thought “No.” I was feeling unworthy and undeserving; a waste of time. I quickly realized it, and that negative thought, of which I am so prone to default, was replaced with, “You’re in Dior! Have the champagne!” Lauren basically voiced that sentiment aloud.

Jouy directly translates to joy, and the liaison between my desire and the Jouy brought me nothing but. 

With my head swimming in champagne, I stepped into the chilled December air of a New York City evening and took my bag home.

Le reste c'est la beauté.

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...