“Oh, look! We can have a swim after breakfast.” This, the observation and half-serious suggestion of Leslie, my friend and the conspirator of this surreal adventure. She is referring to the pool of gray-green, murky water occupying the entirety of the gravel parking lot behind the one-story, rusted brown wood paneled building. It appears to be as naturally formed as the Dead Sea, if only a little less awe-inspiring. So large in fact, is this holy sea that it has its own gentle tide and looked to reach a depth of several feet at its center. It appears also to have existed eternally in this location—the cool breeze blowing over the waters and the luminous reflection of the early morning sun upon the surface such a sacrosanct presence that the proprietors and patrons did not consider it an inconvenience but rather a gift from the divine bestowed on this diner as reward for the deed of serving sausage gravy to the weak and weary. The pool was testimony of its righteousness.
For me, the appeal of country biscuits and a live bluegrass band was instant. Having to arrive at the diner at 9 a.m. was not. A Saturday meal schedule, for me, ideally goes like this: breakfast—consisting of a cup (or 7) of coffee and something hearty (eggs, toast, potatoes shaved and fried)—between 11 and 1, when sane people begin the day. Lunch is simple—a turkey sandwich, or an orange, some cashews—something easily prepared after a 4 hour post-breakfast nap. Dinner is not so much a meal but a causal grazing—a few saltines, left-over cake, cereal straight from the box—a hodge-podge of flavors and ingredients that necessitate another nap afterward; this siesta leading into a full night’s sleep by 10:30. A 9 a.m. breakfast completely disrupts this otherwise natural schedule.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Flower Boys and Ring Girls
“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.”
–Audre Lorde
“The birds all sing as if they knew, today’s the day we’ll say “I do,” and we’ll never be lonely anymore.”
--The Shirelles
I imagined myself taking a nap at the altar, my head resting on the white satin pillow, divine light illuminating my olive complexion and cherub face. At five years-old I was the ring-bearer in the wedding of an older cousin. The traditions involved in a Catholic wedding ceremony—the long version, not the modern abbreviated one—perplexed me. Months before, while being fitted for my miniature white tuxedo, my mother explained to me the solemn responsibilities of my job, “Well, you’ll follow the flower girl down the aisle; you’ll carry a pillow on which rest the wedding rings; when you get to the altar the groom will take one, place it on the finger of the bride, she in turn, will do the same.”
“Will I have to wear a bear costume under this tuxedo?”
“No, Austin. It’s not that kind of bear.”
“What about a bear mask?”
“No, Austin.”
This was the first conversation my mother and I shared before the wedding, where I, confused by my own half imagined, half reasoned conclusions, would be set straight by my mother’s mature knowledge on the subject.
The afternoon my mother told me that the following Saturday she would be attending a bridal shower, that it was only for women, and that I would be left under the watch of my brother, my incredulity and protests began immediately and continued until the afternoon of the shower.
“What are you and Aunt Leenie and those other ladies going to do in the shower?”
“It’s not that kind of shower, Austin. We are going to give gifts to the bride and have tea and chat.”
“But won’t the gifts get wet?”
“No, Austin.”
I pictured my mother in her two-piece bathing suit, holding a cup and saucer from the china my Aunt Leenie washed every week and never used. I imagined my slim, fair-skinned, permed mother chatting in a crowded shower with other ladies, with stacks of presents, and all of them trying not to get their hair wet. “Why can’t I go?”
“It’s not for little boys, Austin.”
“I won’t look I promise.”
“No, Austin.”
I sulked the whole afternoon. When my mother returned I made her pick me up and sit me on her hip so that I could examine her hair for dampness. Her hair was as perfectly set as when she had left; although she did bring back a pink bag filled with soaps and perfumes and other ladies frivolities. My confusion overwhelmed me.
When the day of the wedding came, I was still baffled by the traditions of marriage, but as we arrived at St. Anthony’s Cathedral—the St. Paul’s of Des Moines, Iowa—I resigned myself to decorum and a perfunctory performance of my duties. I followed the flower girl in timed steps, presented two gold bands on a white satin pillow, and didn’t lie down for a nap.
The epic ceremony was complete, but I was not relieved of my obligations. “After the wedding there will be a reception,” my mother had previously warned me. “And the ring-bearer dances with the flower girl,” horror crept across my face as she continued to reveal my awful fate.
“What kind of dancing? Do we have to touch hands?”
“Yes, Austin, you have to touch hands.”
A kind of dread I had never before been aware of overtook me. Ladies in the shower might have seemed weird, but this new revelation was just cruel.
After the dinner, I listed out my futile excuses. “Austin, I think it’s time for the dance,” my mother said to me from across the table with a naturalness that made it sound as if she wasn’t sending me to my hanging.
“I think I’m sick from the cake.”
“Austin.”
“My foot’s broken.”
“Austin.”
I hid behind my father; I asked my brother (age 18) to take my place.
“Austin, now.” My mother took my trembling hand and lead me to awaiting misery in the form of a brown-haired, blue-eyed, five year-old girl.
As I approached her on the wood laminate dance floor, the lights of the disco ball overhead danced in her eyes like a kaleidoscope—she was a woman possessed. My mother placed my hand in the girl’s and then abandoned me to my executioner. This girl was from the groom’s side, but to me she was from Pluto. She smiled with nervous excitement. I scowled with nervous fear. Quickly, I scanned the room and sunk in horror upon seeing every eye focused on the two of us locked in this death dance. I began to get the sense that this girl believed that this was her wedding or at least a practice run for the one she would one day have.
Without warning, she moved in and laid her head on my shoulder. My feet stopped; I recoiled as if a bucket of hot puke had been set there instead—I wanted it off, immediately. With great force I pulled her upright again. I noticed my mother with sipping champagne, my father laughing too loudly with his uncles, and my brother flirting with a girl who was probably our second cousin. How unfair it was that they could enjoy themselves while I was being eaten alive by this forty-pound beast.
When my despair could take no more, it happened. The creature in white and lace and satin closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and made a lunge for mine. My reaction was instantaneous; I locked my arms straight out and threw my head back with my lips resolutely sealed. Possessed by the passion of her delusions, the girl tried to fight her way around my defense. With the determination and superhuman strength particular to females in satin white dresses, she succeeded in getting her wish. Her cherry smacked lips stung mine and in her moment of bliss she relaxed her iron will. I being a young gentleman pushed her and ran. I ran past my father who had missed the scene, too engaged in his conversations. I ran past my brother who laughed and teased me as I continued by. I ran past my mother who in her crème colored knee-length dress with lace embroidery offered a hand in consolation. I ran to the table and hid below it until the dancing was done and it was time to go home.
When my mother told me within a year of that scarring day that my cousin and her husband were divorcing, I was irate. Had I suffered through all of those bizarre traditions for nothing? Did I sweat to exhaustion in that stupid white suit in the July heat for no reason? Did I have to live with the residual taste of cherry chapstick on my lips forever while the bride and groom just got to call it quits so easily? My opinion of marriage was decidedly set in the negative.
As a young gay man, my opinion of marriage remained largely unchanged: it was a series of empty traditions that ended in false promises and was shaded by pretended morality. I believed that gays and lesbians, instead of seeking the legal right to marry, should seek their own practice and traditions—something separate from the exclusionary and destructive hetero-normative ceremony. To me, marriage was a quickly crumbling institution and we gays and lesbians should be glad to be free of its walls when the roof fell. The rejection of archaic practices was the best means of progressive action.
The morning that the State of Iowa Supreme Court ruled unanimously to end the constitutional amendment that limited marriage to one man and one woman, legalizing marriage for gay and lesbian couples, I read the news from my computer, at my desk, with a cup of coffee. I was ecstatic. A new reasoning had been developing inside me for the previous year or so. While equality under the law was not the end of the fight for understanding and acceptance, it was a major and necessary step along the way.
It is absolutely important for progress that changes are made to the fundamental laws and systems that unjustly and immorally limit individual freedom to whole classes of people. Marriage does not work for every straight individual or couple and certainly, it won’t for every gay and lesbian person or couple. By removing the false pretenses from the institution of marriage we begin to reinvent an out-dated tradition to fit our own time. It is time that marriage is defined by what individuals expect of it, not by what marriage expects of them.
At my wedding, whatever form the ceremony takes, no little boy will have to dance with a little girl if he doesn’t want to.
–Audre Lorde
“The birds all sing as if they knew, today’s the day we’ll say “I do,” and we’ll never be lonely anymore.”
--The Shirelles
I imagined myself taking a nap at the altar, my head resting on the white satin pillow, divine light illuminating my olive complexion and cherub face. At five years-old I was the ring-bearer in the wedding of an older cousin. The traditions involved in a Catholic wedding ceremony—the long version, not the modern abbreviated one—perplexed me. Months before, while being fitted for my miniature white tuxedo, my mother explained to me the solemn responsibilities of my job, “Well, you’ll follow the flower girl down the aisle; you’ll carry a pillow on which rest the wedding rings; when you get to the altar the groom will take one, place it on the finger of the bride, she in turn, will do the same.”
“Will I have to wear a bear costume under this tuxedo?”
“No, Austin. It’s not that kind of bear.”
“What about a bear mask?”
“No, Austin.”
This was the first conversation my mother and I shared before the wedding, where I, confused by my own half imagined, half reasoned conclusions, would be set straight by my mother’s mature knowledge on the subject.
The afternoon my mother told me that the following Saturday she would be attending a bridal shower, that it was only for women, and that I would be left under the watch of my brother, my incredulity and protests began immediately and continued until the afternoon of the shower.
“What are you and Aunt Leenie and those other ladies going to do in the shower?”
“It’s not that kind of shower, Austin. We are going to give gifts to the bride and have tea and chat.”
“But won’t the gifts get wet?”
“No, Austin.”
I pictured my mother in her two-piece bathing suit, holding a cup and saucer from the china my Aunt Leenie washed every week and never used. I imagined my slim, fair-skinned, permed mother chatting in a crowded shower with other ladies, with stacks of presents, and all of them trying not to get their hair wet. “Why can’t I go?”
“It’s not for little boys, Austin.”
“I won’t look I promise.”
“No, Austin.”
I sulked the whole afternoon. When my mother returned I made her pick me up and sit me on her hip so that I could examine her hair for dampness. Her hair was as perfectly set as when she had left; although she did bring back a pink bag filled with soaps and perfumes and other ladies frivolities. My confusion overwhelmed me.
When the day of the wedding came, I was still baffled by the traditions of marriage, but as we arrived at St. Anthony’s Cathedral—the St. Paul’s of Des Moines, Iowa—I resigned myself to decorum and a perfunctory performance of my duties. I followed the flower girl in timed steps, presented two gold bands on a white satin pillow, and didn’t lie down for a nap.
The epic ceremony was complete, but I was not relieved of my obligations. “After the wedding there will be a reception,” my mother had previously warned me. “And the ring-bearer dances with the flower girl,” horror crept across my face as she continued to reveal my awful fate.
“What kind of dancing? Do we have to touch hands?”
“Yes, Austin, you have to touch hands.”
A kind of dread I had never before been aware of overtook me. Ladies in the shower might have seemed weird, but this new revelation was just cruel.
After the dinner, I listed out my futile excuses. “Austin, I think it’s time for the dance,” my mother said to me from across the table with a naturalness that made it sound as if she wasn’t sending me to my hanging.
“I think I’m sick from the cake.”
“Austin.”
“My foot’s broken.”
“Austin.”
I hid behind my father; I asked my brother (age 18) to take my place.
“Austin, now.” My mother took my trembling hand and lead me to awaiting misery in the form of a brown-haired, blue-eyed, five year-old girl.
As I approached her on the wood laminate dance floor, the lights of the disco ball overhead danced in her eyes like a kaleidoscope—she was a woman possessed. My mother placed my hand in the girl’s and then abandoned me to my executioner. This girl was from the groom’s side, but to me she was from Pluto. She smiled with nervous excitement. I scowled with nervous fear. Quickly, I scanned the room and sunk in horror upon seeing every eye focused on the two of us locked in this death dance. I began to get the sense that this girl believed that this was her wedding or at least a practice run for the one she would one day have.
Without warning, she moved in and laid her head on my shoulder. My feet stopped; I recoiled as if a bucket of hot puke had been set there instead—I wanted it off, immediately. With great force I pulled her upright again. I noticed my mother with sipping champagne, my father laughing too loudly with his uncles, and my brother flirting with a girl who was probably our second cousin. How unfair it was that they could enjoy themselves while I was being eaten alive by this forty-pound beast.
When my despair could take no more, it happened. The creature in white and lace and satin closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and made a lunge for mine. My reaction was instantaneous; I locked my arms straight out and threw my head back with my lips resolutely sealed. Possessed by the passion of her delusions, the girl tried to fight her way around my defense. With the determination and superhuman strength particular to females in satin white dresses, she succeeded in getting her wish. Her cherry smacked lips stung mine and in her moment of bliss she relaxed her iron will. I being a young gentleman pushed her and ran. I ran past my father who had missed the scene, too engaged in his conversations. I ran past my brother who laughed and teased me as I continued by. I ran past my mother who in her crème colored knee-length dress with lace embroidery offered a hand in consolation. I ran to the table and hid below it until the dancing was done and it was time to go home.
When my mother told me within a year of that scarring day that my cousin and her husband were divorcing, I was irate. Had I suffered through all of those bizarre traditions for nothing? Did I sweat to exhaustion in that stupid white suit in the July heat for no reason? Did I have to live with the residual taste of cherry chapstick on my lips forever while the bride and groom just got to call it quits so easily? My opinion of marriage was decidedly set in the negative.
As a young gay man, my opinion of marriage remained largely unchanged: it was a series of empty traditions that ended in false promises and was shaded by pretended morality. I believed that gays and lesbians, instead of seeking the legal right to marry, should seek their own practice and traditions—something separate from the exclusionary and destructive hetero-normative ceremony. To me, marriage was a quickly crumbling institution and we gays and lesbians should be glad to be free of its walls when the roof fell. The rejection of archaic practices was the best means of progressive action.
The morning that the State of Iowa Supreme Court ruled unanimously to end the constitutional amendment that limited marriage to one man and one woman, legalizing marriage for gay and lesbian couples, I read the news from my computer, at my desk, with a cup of coffee. I was ecstatic. A new reasoning had been developing inside me for the previous year or so. While equality under the law was not the end of the fight for understanding and acceptance, it was a major and necessary step along the way.
It is absolutely important for progress that changes are made to the fundamental laws and systems that unjustly and immorally limit individual freedom to whole classes of people. Marriage does not work for every straight individual or couple and certainly, it won’t for every gay and lesbian person or couple. By removing the false pretenses from the institution of marriage we begin to reinvent an out-dated tradition to fit our own time. It is time that marriage is defined by what individuals expect of it, not by what marriage expects of them.
At my wedding, whatever form the ceremony takes, no little boy will have to dance with a little girl if he doesn’t want to.
Monday, April 20, 2009
"Suicides of Bridgend County" Response
Again, my apologies for choosing such a morbid piece. I selected this article from Vanity Fair because I think it provides an interesting perspective in profiling a particular place and people. Also, there are things about the writing style to both praise and critique. I think Alex Shoumatoff does a nice job of giving the reader a varied scope that narrowly focuses on the stories of individuals and more broadly addresses the issue of of suicide and young people. The author describes the physical place well- situating the reader in the environment where this epidemic is occurring. In a strategically placed order, the history and current state of this place--Bridgend county--is revealed as to provide context and circumstantial evidence for this tragedy. Shoumatoff gives us statistics and facts as well as his personal observations and sentiments, informing and engaging the reader. He makes connections and draws comparisons between each of the individuals and at the same time regards them as individuals with unique stories; to me, the balance between these two depictions is the aim of narrative journalism.
I think Shoumatoff does well to include the voices of those he interviews to provide the reader with the words in which the those most affected speak of these circumstances. Also, contextualizing this situation within the tradition of domestic and social institutions in Britain as a whole provides the reader a lens with which to view the scene.
While I think the piece is comprehensive, I wonder how structural adjustments could change the narration. If the author began with the story of one of the victims instead of his introduction to the geography of the place, would the reader feel more connected from the beginning or more detached? There is a point in the narration where Shoumatoff lists in rapid succession a number of the suicide victims. While this approach increases the sense the reader gets about how suddenly these events began and how frequently they continued, does it also desensitize and depersonalize?
I think, overall, Shoumatoff distances himself well enough to write objectively and yet, still is able to connect to these people and relate personal inflections that humanize the story.
I think Shoumatoff does well to include the voices of those he interviews to provide the reader with the words in which the those most affected speak of these circumstances. Also, contextualizing this situation within the tradition of domestic and social institutions in Britain as a whole provides the reader a lens with which to view the scene.
While I think the piece is comprehensive, I wonder how structural adjustments could change the narration. If the author began with the story of one of the victims instead of his introduction to the geography of the place, would the reader feel more connected from the beginning or more detached? There is a point in the narration where Shoumatoff lists in rapid succession a number of the suicide victims. While this approach increases the sense the reader gets about how suddenly these events began and how frequently they continued, does it also desensitize and depersonalize?
I think, overall, Shoumatoff distances himself well enough to write objectively and yet, still is able to connect to these people and relate personal inflections that humanize the story.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Week 3 Profile Response
What I most enjoyed about the pieces selected by Jackie, Joseph, and Elizabeth for this week was that they all told the story of individual people framed in a larger context. In particular "Rajas and Rollers" and "Notes from Rio," describe the current climate of particular cities in relation to specific individuals who represent one side of the story. In this way we get a look at how persons interact within a larger environment and through their words and actions we get a sense of how the greater society operates. All three pieces weave personal stories into a larger and more significant context well.
In "Rajas and Rollers," A.A. Gill establishes authority in his writing and also (through the writing) shows the reader that he is a foreigner in a place that is always a little foreign no matter how often he visits. The author does a good job of setting us in a scene (a Bombay traffic jam) and relating this struggle to contemporary class issues in India--cars become a synecdoche for the larger issues of capitalism and shifts in class structure. The portrait that Gill paints of Pranlal Bhogilal depicts him as a symbol of the old, imperial India--aloof, unconscious of his own extravagance, and intentionally naive of the changes in the world around him. Gill has eloquently weaves the story of one out-dated individual into the story of the progress and struggle of an emerging middle class. The boy selling the Vogue magazine--the symbolic pinnacle of Western material culture-- to middle class motorists in Bombay juxtaposed with Bhogilal--the owner of more cars than he could count--brings together three classes of people and shows how each stands in relation to the others: with upward mobility the thread connecting the three.
"Notes from Rio" works similarly, I think. We see a picture of a place through the lens of the people who live there and the way that those people interact with each other and with outsiders. This approach to reveals some of the many layers that all at once are at play in any given location. It also enables American readers to see how our influence effects other places and people. It is a slice through a people and place rather than an overhead view.
In all three articles, quotations from the interviewees are used effectively to expose the personal and emotional impact of larger events; humanization makes the pieces relatable. This approach to narrative journalism provides the reader with both a general and narrow scope of individuals within a larger society--which is essentially what we all are.
In "Rajas and Rollers," A.A. Gill establishes authority in his writing and also (through the writing) shows the reader that he is a foreigner in a place that is always a little foreign no matter how often he visits. The author does a good job of setting us in a scene (a Bombay traffic jam) and relating this struggle to contemporary class issues in India--cars become a synecdoche for the larger issues of capitalism and shifts in class structure. The portrait that Gill paints of Pranlal Bhogilal depicts him as a symbol of the old, imperial India--aloof, unconscious of his own extravagance, and intentionally naive of the changes in the world around him. Gill has eloquently weaves the story of one out-dated individual into the story of the progress and struggle of an emerging middle class. The boy selling the Vogue magazine--the symbolic pinnacle of Western material culture-- to middle class motorists in Bombay juxtaposed with Bhogilal--the owner of more cars than he could count--brings together three classes of people and shows how each stands in relation to the others: with upward mobility the thread connecting the three.
"Notes from Rio" works similarly, I think. We see a picture of a place through the lens of the people who live there and the way that those people interact with each other and with outsiders. This approach to reveals some of the many layers that all at once are at play in any given location. It also enables American readers to see how our influence effects other places and people. It is a slice through a people and place rather than an overhead view.
In all three articles, quotations from the interviewees are used effectively to expose the personal and emotional impact of larger events; humanization makes the pieces relatable. This approach to narrative journalism provides the reader with both a general and narrow scope of individuals within a larger society--which is essentially what we all are.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Personal Essay (so far untitled)
I first went on a date with a guy when I was 16. Although I had already come out to my friends and had thoroughly homosexualized my wardrobe, being openly gay at school, or in most public settings, was not something I was comfortable with.
His name was David and he was in my zoology class; we were partners for the fetal pig dissection lab. David exemplified every gay stereotype to perfection (or as I saw it, imperfection). I did the grunt work of the dissection, as David “certainly wasn’t going to touch that thing.” He had just had a manicure. We were writing our lab report, when David asked me if I wanted to hang out sometime, go to a movie or something.
“Yeah, sure . . . .sometime,” I hesitated in response. While I wasn’t sure what kind of homosexual I was or wanted to be, I knew what kind I didn’t want to be or be with.
At 16, like at 22, I maintained exacting standards concerning the kind of guys I presumed I was compatible with. It was a list of qualities, characteristics, and idiosyncrasies absurdly specific and idealistic. In my imagination the perfect candidate would be no less than two inches shorter than me, and no more than 4 inches taller. He would be slim but not more so than me. God forbid. Mr. perfect would be well versed in the cult classics of literature, film, and music; would share my love of Capote, Heathers, and The Smiths. At the same time that he would be intelligent and confidently well spoken, he would be elusive, irreverent, and walk with a mysterious air. He would possess mannerisms that were gentle and smooth but not feminine. This god among mortals would dress casually chic; have an effortless, sleek style. He would wear threadbare vintage t-shirts that hugged his torso and when with arms raised, reveal a glimpse of pale midriff. His kiss would sting sweetly, would paralyze my lips when it fell away. His scent would be so subtle but so alluring that its intoxication would make the girls wish he were theirs’. He would be strong, impenetrable to slurs and slander; he would be his own protector and mine.
David possessed none of these qualities. While he was in reality only an inch or two taller than me, the ridiculous shiny black leather boots he wore (a disqualifier in their own right) put him well above my height limit. He was painfully thin, and intentionally so. His preferred Nsync to Robert Smith, was ignorant of Winona Ryder’s oeuvre, and didn’t really read much. His etiquette and mannerisms made Emily Post look like Jabba the Hut. David only wore black and, I believe, used the same facial crème that my great aunt did and that Avon had produced the entire quantity of in 1974 and now continues to sell the remaining supply to elderly olive-skinned ladies and homosexuals who both seek its firming and lifting properties. David was not the kind of homosexual I was, nor the kind I wanted to be with.
I reluctantly gave David my phone number and secretly hoped he’d never call. It was not entirely out of pity that I wrote down my number. I did want to move what was up until that point, my strictly theoretical homosexuality into a practicing approach.
David called that Friday night when I was hanging out with my friends. I didn’t answer. I didn’t answer his call the next night either.
“What happened to you this weekend?” he asked me in class on Monday. I gave him a poorly fabricated excuse about my parents taking my phone away. When he asked me again on Friday if I was free that weekend, I concocted the excuse of being out of town visiting relatives. My series of lies and excuses continued for several more weeks until once David called and one of my friends answered the phone before I could silence the call. She handed the phone to me suddenly and I had no time for excuses; we would go to a movie the next night.
(this is as much as I have so far)
His name was David and he was in my zoology class; we were partners for the fetal pig dissection lab. David exemplified every gay stereotype to perfection (or as I saw it, imperfection). I did the grunt work of the dissection, as David “certainly wasn’t going to touch that thing.” He had just had a manicure. We were writing our lab report, when David asked me if I wanted to hang out sometime, go to a movie or something.
“Yeah, sure . . . .sometime,” I hesitated in response. While I wasn’t sure what kind of homosexual I was or wanted to be, I knew what kind I didn’t want to be or be with.
At 16, like at 22, I maintained exacting standards concerning the kind of guys I presumed I was compatible with. It was a list of qualities, characteristics, and idiosyncrasies absurdly specific and idealistic. In my imagination the perfect candidate would be no less than two inches shorter than me, and no more than 4 inches taller. He would be slim but not more so than me. God forbid. Mr. perfect would be well versed in the cult classics of literature, film, and music; would share my love of Capote, Heathers, and The Smiths. At the same time that he would be intelligent and confidently well spoken, he would be elusive, irreverent, and walk with a mysterious air. He would possess mannerisms that were gentle and smooth but not feminine. This god among mortals would dress casually chic; have an effortless, sleek style. He would wear threadbare vintage t-shirts that hugged his torso and when with arms raised, reveal a glimpse of pale midriff. His kiss would sting sweetly, would paralyze my lips when it fell away. His scent would be so subtle but so alluring that its intoxication would make the girls wish he were theirs’. He would be strong, impenetrable to slurs and slander; he would be his own protector and mine.
David possessed none of these qualities. While he was in reality only an inch or two taller than me, the ridiculous shiny black leather boots he wore (a disqualifier in their own right) put him well above my height limit. He was painfully thin, and intentionally so. His preferred Nsync to Robert Smith, was ignorant of Winona Ryder’s oeuvre, and didn’t really read much. His etiquette and mannerisms made Emily Post look like Jabba the Hut. David only wore black and, I believe, used the same facial crème that my great aunt did and that Avon had produced the entire quantity of in 1974 and now continues to sell the remaining supply to elderly olive-skinned ladies and homosexuals who both seek its firming and lifting properties. David was not the kind of homosexual I was, nor the kind I wanted to be with.
I reluctantly gave David my phone number and secretly hoped he’d never call. It was not entirely out of pity that I wrote down my number. I did want to move what was up until that point, my strictly theoretical homosexuality into a practicing approach.
David called that Friday night when I was hanging out with my friends. I didn’t answer. I didn’t answer his call the next night either.
“What happened to you this weekend?” he asked me in class on Monday. I gave him a poorly fabricated excuse about my parents taking my phone away. When he asked me again on Friday if I was free that weekend, I concocted the excuse of being out of town visiting relatives. My series of lies and excuses continued for several more weeks until once David called and one of my friends answered the phone before I could silence the call. She handed the phone to me suddenly and I had no time for excuses; we would go to a movie the next night.
(this is as much as I have so far)
The Personal Essay and the Writing Process
Pondering a topic to write about for the personal essay, I was immediately struck with (or by) an idea. Last Friday morning I was at my computer going through my morning routine of email, Facebook, and weather. I then went to the MSNBC website, feeling confident enough in my to-do list, social interactions, and the forecast for that day that I could handle whatever horrific events were occurring in the world concurrently. The main blurb at the top of the page was something predictably disheartening about the economy and I quickly scrolled down. When I came across the text-only lede I had to read it three times before I could comprehend what it said. The supreme court of the state of Iowa had ruled unanimously to overturn the state's restriction of marriage one man and one woman; finding that the law was in violation of the state's constitution that guarantees equal rights to all classes of citizens.
I then went to the Des Moines Register homepage where the news was confirmed and with much more attention. I remembered the brief attention the lawsuit filed to the state supreme court had garnered when it was filed some months ago. I also remembered thinking at the time that it would be another lifetime before anything became of it. I was utterly amazed and somewhat incredulous. I remembered past feelings of frustration over the ignorance and prejudice of others and feeling so bewildered that anyone could even think that there still needed to be a debate over the issue: that justice and equality were still rights that could be reserved and denied.
What I want to share in my essay is that as a gay man and as an Iowan, I have myself had prejudiced ideas about the gay and lesbian community and that I can understand how people can make judgments based not on reason but on their own personal beliefs (and often, their own ignorance). I want to get at the importance of everyone voicing their opinion and being comfortable with themselves to demonstrate the diversity within groups that are still seen as uniform and homogeneous. If we are to continue to make progress and to gain equal rights for everyone then we cannot be afraid to make share our commonalities with people from other groups. We can no longer (and this goes for the gay community as well) make distinctions between "us and them."
I then went to the Des Moines Register homepage where the news was confirmed and with much more attention. I remembered the brief attention the lawsuit filed to the state supreme court had garnered when it was filed some months ago. I also remembered thinking at the time that it would be another lifetime before anything became of it. I was utterly amazed and somewhat incredulous. I remembered past feelings of frustration over the ignorance and prejudice of others and feeling so bewildered that anyone could even think that there still needed to be a debate over the issue: that justice and equality were still rights that could be reserved and denied.
What I want to share in my essay is that as a gay man and as an Iowan, I have myself had prejudiced ideas about the gay and lesbian community and that I can understand how people can make judgments based not on reason but on their own personal beliefs (and often, their own ignorance). I want to get at the importance of everyone voicing their opinion and being comfortable with themselves to demonstrate the diversity within groups that are still seen as uniform and homogeneous. If we are to continue to make progress and to gain equal rights for everyone then we cannot be afraid to make share our commonalities with people from other groups. We can no longer (and this goes for the gay community as well) make distinctions between "us and them."
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