This past weekend was my 3rd experience of DC's annual Gay Pride celebration (well, not just Gay -- really it was the Pride of the GLBTQQA community ... I'm proposing we add the acronym 'WTHE' to the long string of letters, signifying "Who The Hell Else?"). And although I have been a member of the GLBTQQAWTHE community for a short 4 years, this small amount of time really accounts for the bulk of my 'life'; the previous 24 seeming like a forgotten dream.
Yes that's right, I said it -- FOUR years ago. I was 24 when I officially came out -- and I took my sweet-assed time doing it, too. Circumstances being what they were growing up, there was no fertile ground in which to tend this delicate flower. But hell -- listening to Christina Auguilera's "I Am Beautiful" enough times can compel anyone to come to bizarre and dramatic revelations ... and disclosures.
So now, 4 years into my personal renaissance, I feel that the myriad of gay experiences packed into my brief history has brought me full circle; I have come back to analyze that previous thrust of pride in myself that was necessary to finally come out of the closet.
Coming out to friends and family requires a paradigm shift, and a braveness to stare into a vast unknown and say "Eh ... screw it, I'm moving forward!". Despite our personal doubts, and those quiet voices inside our heads that say "AH! Be careful, this might not be safe!" ... we leap ...
... and hit the ground running, a whole new world to explore. What interests me is that the personal doubts and often problematic negative self-talk do not go away with coming out; there is an entirely new set of problems that challenge how we view ourselves. Namely dating.
I find that the internal conflict which postponed my coming out is somewhat similar to my current struggle in identifying a place in the world of male relationships. Will I be rejected? Will I lose my dignity, will someone care (sing it girl)? Isn't it better to never show my feelings? Isn't it easier just to keep everything inside? Won't I avoid pain if I never connect with someone else ... again?
This pattern of thinking has led me down the slippery slope of cynicism. It is the fear that things won't turn out right in the end, and then becoming disenchanted with the dating process altogether.
In opening the closet door, gay people become vulnerable. We cannot control what others think or how they will react to us. Similarly, opening the 'relationship door' brings its own trials of dealing with people who do not treat us the way we want to be treated -- and sometimes that stings.
I've been trying to talk down that cranky cynic in my interior monologue by reinstating the pride it took to finally come out to friends and family. Coming out came with a price: stress, difficulty, some pain, and an opening of self that required a genuineness which was sometimes hard to swallow.
Relationships come with a similar price; I have to sacrifice myself to the occasional sting of the beehive to finally reach the honey. Accepting this as the way of things continues to give me the pride to open that relationship door just a bit further. It is an affirmation of self that says, "I'm a good person, even though people don't always treat me that way."
... and I'm pretty damn proud of that ...
Showing posts with label psychology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychology. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Roller coaster weekend
Drama: it is a word that has truly come to embody my entire existence over the past few years. Drama is synonymous with several key aspects of my life-- Gallaudet, relationships, housemate situations, employment -- everything coming with a significant second-helping of heaping portion-proportions, all wedged and packed tightly into an emotional architecture that is buckling under the strain.
So on this, a most dizzying weekend of ups and downs, we can see just how high that roller coaster climbs- only to watch it move steeply down from time to time while I cling to the bar and squeal.
Friday:
My grandfather died. And, as with any death, the immediate family ties are put to the test in a delicate tug-of-war battle (How hard should I pull? When do I finally let go? How can I see the line to cross in all of this damned mud!). He and I weren't very close, so the situation is a bit awkward for me. I haven't talked about it much with others because most people expect a grandfather's death to be horrifically devastating- I think the fact that it isn't traumatic makes me even sadder.
Friday night:
Deaf Professional Happy Hour. As with any DPHH event, there is a swirling social cacophony(wink) of spinning hands and fantastic fingers. Old friends, catching up, sharing news, quick hellos and hugs, spilling drinks, feeling connected- the more times you say hello, the more you feel a sense of community and warmth. Ahhhh ....
Saturday:
EggSpectations is a cute restaurant in downtown Silver Spring which plays on words that begin with an "egg" sound, and thus is perfect for a dork like me who thinks he's clever every time he tells his waitress his omelet is "egg-cellent" ... *cough*. The door handles for the main entrance and the bathroom are egg beaters (for the bathroom??? Hmm, my right hand IS tired from all this repetitive whipping action). There was consumption of delicious eats and comforting times with friends.
Saturday afternoon:
BAKING !!! 5 hours in the kitchen, singing along to showtunes with a dear friend. Nothing is better! But wait, there's more!!! I got the call that I'd been accepted to do peer counseling for the Whitman Walker Clinic- OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday evening:
Gay prom. Yes, you heard me right- GAY PROM. Dolled up with my lady date (yes, a lady- there are still some things I can't get straight ... oh wait ...) and ready to shake it uninhibited with the boys ... life was rocketing skyward past Cloud 7, Cloud 8, Cloud 8-and-a-half ...
BOOM ... shards of rocket shatter and give in to gravity, falling uncontrollably to the ground. I had reached my 3-drink limit, and had progressed on to my fourth. After 3 drinks, any emotion is magnified 100-fold, and that filter which controls, suppresses, and obscures the external masquerade of emotions suddenly becomes void, and there are no flood gates to hold back the unforgiving surge that follows.
Sunday morning:
Hosting a nasty hangover (with all that water, you'd think I wouldn't be dehydrated the following morning!), and cursing daylight savings time with a mad passion (4 hours sleep is NOT enough), I dragged myself to church at 9:00 to prepare for the 11:00 service. By the time 12:30 had rolled around, I had interpreted an inspirational sermon about affordable housing in the District, and I had shaken hands with Mayor Fenty and interpreted his 10-minute speech about the government's current efforts to improve the lives of DC citizens.
Sunday afternoon:
In a somewhat drowsy daze, I proceeded to Mt. Pleasant with 2 friends to eat at a charming and cheap El Salvadorian restaurant and chat the afternoon away. After a Sticky Fingers Bakery run, I returned home to the inviting cushioning of 2 pillows and a mattress that seemed to envelope me like a spoon being pushed into a bowl of thick pudding. 4 hours of disconnected bliss ...
Sunday night:
Swing dancing at a straight bar. wha Wha WHAT? The gays took to the floor and showed the breeders how to really swing their hips and sweep the floor at McGinty's in Silver Spring. Laughter, pictures galore, some tasty french fries, and testing the societal rules of a straight locale- lovely :-)
Monday morning:
Sleeping through the alarm, late for work, mad and panicked dash to get to my desk before 9:00a.m., with only seconds to spare and with somewhat frazzled hair. And so, the work week begins all over again.
*steps off roller coaster, slightly giddy, slightly nauseous*
Drama, indeed. Perhaps I shouldn't wait in line for the ride.
So on this, a most dizzying weekend of ups and downs, we can see just how high that roller coaster climbs- only to watch it move steeply down from time to time while I cling to the bar and squeal.
Friday:
My grandfather died. And, as with any death, the immediate family ties are put to the test in a delicate tug-of-war battle (How hard should I pull? When do I finally let go? How can I see the line to cross in all of this damned mud!). He and I weren't very close, so the situation is a bit awkward for me. I haven't talked about it much with others because most people expect a grandfather's death to be horrifically devastating- I think the fact that it isn't traumatic makes me even sadder.
Friday night:
Deaf Professional Happy Hour. As with any DPHH event, there is a swirling social cacophony(wink) of spinning hands and fantastic fingers. Old friends, catching up, sharing news, quick hellos and hugs, spilling drinks, feeling connected- the more times you say hello, the more you feel a sense of community and warmth. Ahhhh ....
Saturday:
EggSpectations is a cute restaurant in downtown Silver Spring which plays on words that begin with an "egg" sound, and thus is perfect for a dork like me who thinks he's clever every time he tells his waitress his omelet is "egg-cellent" ... *cough*. The door handles for the main entrance and the bathroom are egg beaters (for the bathroom??? Hmm, my right hand IS tired from all this repetitive whipping action). There was consumption of delicious eats and comforting times with friends.
Saturday afternoon:
BAKING !!! 5 hours in the kitchen, singing along to showtunes with a dear friend. Nothing is better! But wait, there's more!!! I got the call that I'd been accepted to do peer counseling for the Whitman Walker Clinic- OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday evening:
Gay prom. Yes, you heard me right- GAY PROM. Dolled up with my lady date (yes, a lady- there are still some things I can't get straight ... oh wait ...) and ready to shake it uninhibited with the boys ... life was rocketing skyward past Cloud 7, Cloud 8, Cloud 8-and-a-half ...
BOOM ... shards of rocket shatter and give in to gravity, falling uncontrollably to the ground. I had reached my 3-drink limit, and had progressed on to my fourth. After 3 drinks, any emotion is magnified 100-fold, and that filter which controls, suppresses, and obscures the external masquerade of emotions suddenly becomes void, and there are no flood gates to hold back the unforgiving surge that follows.
Sunday morning:
Hosting a nasty hangover (with all that water, you'd think I wouldn't be dehydrated the following morning!), and cursing daylight savings time with a mad passion (4 hours sleep is NOT enough), I dragged myself to church at 9:00 to prepare for the 11:00 service. By the time 12:30 had rolled around, I had interpreted an inspirational sermon about affordable housing in the District, and I had shaken hands with Mayor Fenty and interpreted his 10-minute speech about the government's current efforts to improve the lives of DC citizens.
Sunday afternoon:
In a somewhat drowsy daze, I proceeded to Mt. Pleasant with 2 friends to eat at a charming and cheap El Salvadorian restaurant and chat the afternoon away. After a Sticky Fingers Bakery run, I returned home to the inviting cushioning of 2 pillows and a mattress that seemed to envelope me like a spoon being pushed into a bowl of thick pudding. 4 hours of disconnected bliss ...
Sunday night:
Swing dancing at a straight bar. wha Wha WHAT? The gays took to the floor and showed the breeders how to really swing their hips and sweep the floor at McGinty's in Silver Spring. Laughter, pictures galore, some tasty french fries, and testing the societal rules of a straight locale- lovely :-)
Monday morning:
Sleeping through the alarm, late for work, mad and panicked dash to get to my desk before 9:00a.m., with only seconds to spare and with somewhat frazzled hair. And so, the work week begins all over again.
*steps off roller coaster, slightly giddy, slightly nauseous*
Drama, indeed. Perhaps I shouldn't wait in line for the ride.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
No Cussing??? What the #&%#?!?!?
The pursuit for an adequate definition of "cuss":
cuss: to curse or curse at
curse: to swear
swear: to use profane oaths
profane: to treat with irreverence
irreverence: lack of reverence or due respect
respect: willingness to show consideration or appreciation
OK -- putting this all together, I would propose that "cussing" could be tediously defined as "a lack of due consideration and appreciation in the form of an oath".
Jimminy-Christmas, it is so difficult to get a friggin' handle on what in the tarnation they are talking about! Golly gee!
Well Christmas on a cracker, leave it to the nation's friggin' youth to try and save this gosh darn planet from the viles of freaking cuss words. It means these kids actually give a poopoo about how others are treated! Holy shishkebab!
The No Cussing Club was founded by a 14-year-old son of a biscuit eater in California. The "No Cuss Challenge", necessary to obtain membership in this dang group, states::: "I won't cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!"
The Internet is full of suggestions on how to clean up our foul potty mouths. My personal favorite: "Instead of ahhh, ****, use "ahhh shuggy duggy quack quack." -- Aside from being hilarious, this quote comes from an ex-military person, which made me think for a minute ... As conservative as the military is (don't ask, don't tell, and burn at the stake), isn't it interesting that expressions like "curse like a sailor" exist? And probably for a good reason?
Research indicates that swear words are "special" in the brain; they are not processed like other words in our vocabulary. Swear words are strongly associated with the limbic system and basal ganglia, which regulate emotions, impulse control, basic behavior, plus a whole lot of other shizzle. They are "lower" brain functions.
As a result, some people who suffer from aphasia (the inability to speak or pronounce words due to brain damage) are still fully able to cuss it up till the cows come home ("Yes, Priscilla, your son is such a handsome young man- such a shame that he is mute." -- "Fucking bitch!!!" -- "Oh dear...").
It's almost like cussing fulfills a basic and instinctual need in the brain. It arouses emotions, effects behavior- and it is almost always the first thing you want to learn about another language. Asking for cuss words in French or Italian isn't offensive to the language- we're trying to build our vocabulary from the bottom up!
Weird- I never speak Italian anymore on a regular basis, but if I'm driving in traffic and some A-hole pulls a crappy maneuver in front of me ... Italian cuss words fly out of my mouth like a bat out of Hades.
So cuss words pack quite an emotional punch! Because they are so powerful, should their use be encouraged because swearing can successfully articulate the depth of emotion in our language? Or should they be saved, used sparingly and held only for the times we really mean what we are saying?
Eh ... I don't really give a shit.
cuss: to curse or curse at
curse: to swear
swear: to use profane oaths
profane: to treat with irreverence
irreverence: lack of reverence or due respect
respect: willingness to show consideration or appreciation
OK -- putting this all together, I would propose that "cussing" could be tediously defined as "a lack of due consideration and appreciation in the form of an oath".
Jimminy-Christmas, it is so difficult to get a friggin' handle on what in the tarnation they are talking about! Golly gee!
Well Christmas on a cracker, leave it to the nation's friggin' youth to try and save this gosh darn planet from the viles of freaking cuss words. It means these kids actually give a poopoo about how others are treated! Holy shishkebab!
The No Cussing Club was founded by a 14-year-old son of a biscuit eater in California. The "No Cuss Challenge", necessary to obtain membership in this dang group, states::: "I won't cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!"
The Internet is full of suggestions on how to clean up our foul potty mouths. My personal favorite: "Instead of ahhh, ****, use "ahhh shuggy duggy quack quack." -- Aside from being hilarious, this quote comes from an ex-military person, which made me think for a minute ... As conservative as the military is (don't ask, don't tell, and burn at the stake), isn't it interesting that expressions like "curse like a sailor" exist? And probably for a good reason?
Research indicates that swear words are "special" in the brain; they are not processed like other words in our vocabulary. Swear words are strongly associated with the limbic system and basal ganglia, which regulate emotions, impulse control, basic behavior, plus a whole lot of other shizzle. They are "lower" brain functions.
As a result, some people who suffer from aphasia (the inability to speak or pronounce words due to brain damage) are still fully able to cuss it up till the cows come home ("Yes, Priscilla, your son is such a handsome young man- such a shame that he is mute." -- "Fucking bitch!!!" -- "Oh dear...").
It's almost like cussing fulfills a basic and instinctual need in the brain. It arouses emotions, effects behavior- and it is almost always the first thing you want to learn about another language. Asking for cuss words in French or Italian isn't offensive to the language- we're trying to build our vocabulary from the bottom up!
Weird- I never speak Italian anymore on a regular basis, but if I'm driving in traffic and some A-hole pulls a crappy maneuver in front of me ... Italian cuss words fly out of my mouth like a bat out of Hades.
So cuss words pack quite an emotional punch! Because they are so powerful, should their use be encouraged because swearing can successfully articulate the depth of emotion in our language? Or should they be saved, used sparingly and held only for the times we really mean what we are saying?
Eh ... I don't really give a shit.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Musicals
You know those times when you suddenly realize there's the most random song stuck in your head (like "It's a Small World"), and then someone tells you that 5 minutes ago they had been whistling that tune? Somehow we pick up a song, bypass our consciousness, and slowly re-introduce it into our current reality. So what's going on underneath our cerebral awareness? What tunes, thoughts, and feelings are circling around like a synchronized swimmer's legs, while maintaining a composed shape on the water's surface?
I think the grey matter in my noggin creates a subconscious imagery that could hardly be described as grey; there are vibrant colors, sounds, explosions of dancing and improvised (yet harmonized) singing, outbursts of song and shimmering costumes, emotional twists and turns that transcend to a reality that is not, but should be ... in essence, a musical.
My first musical, The Sound of Music, was brought to my attention when I was 8 years old (please note that at age 6 I had already noticed that boys were cuter than girls, and so my gayness cannot be blamed on Julie Andrews- which actually is quite a shame). Before that time, I was always puzzled at why my family was so obsessed with music- my mom plays the piano, my dad the clarinet, and they were both music ed majors in college. Blah blah blah yay music ok where's my Nintendo?
In a 2nd grader's mind there is absolutely nothing unusual about 7 children and a pseudo-nun frolicking in the hills of Austria while singing about "bright copper kettles" and "warm woollen mittens". So as a child when I sat and watched these spontaneous eruptions of song and yodeling, I believe my subconscious had finally connected with a satisfying realization of my most instinctual desires. The obsession had begun.
I received poorer marks in school that year. Apparently the teachers didn't like me humming "I am sixteen going on seventeen" on loop 3 hours a day, followed by an afternoon session of "yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-hee-whoo". Fortunately this behavior did not incur the ridicule of my naive classmates, but I'm sure the Lutheran teachers were constant in devout prayers that this big-gay-train would hopefully derail.
I was "inattentive" and "off-task"- two qualities that I am proud to uphold to this very day. Sure, all those people on DC's public transport see a blank face while I'm peaceably riding in the Metro car-- but in my mind's eye there are scenes from Moulin Rouge, Hairspray, Wicked, and others, all adapted to the scenery of a DC backdrop and in perfect sync with the tapping of my feet.
When you take to that mythical stage, dim the house lights of reality, and belt out a passionate note that resonates twice around the world-- that is emotion in its purest form. It is joy, sorrow, lust, contempt, pride- or even love.
And so as I am sauntering down the street to work, iPod in hand, "Climb Every Mountain" booming dramatically in my ears amidst the jackhammers and exhaust fumes of everyday life- figuratively and literally- I am mellowly reminded that these pure emotions and unending musical performances have one true thing in common:
They're all in my head.
I think the grey matter in my noggin creates a subconscious imagery that could hardly be described as grey; there are vibrant colors, sounds, explosions of dancing and improvised (yet harmonized) singing, outbursts of song and shimmering costumes, emotional twists and turns that transcend to a reality that is not, but should be ... in essence, a musical.
My first musical, The Sound of Music, was brought to my attention when I was 8 years old (please note that at age 6 I had already noticed that boys were cuter than girls, and so my gayness cannot be blamed on Julie Andrews- which actually is quite a shame). Before that time, I was always puzzled at why my family was so obsessed with music- my mom plays the piano, my dad the clarinet, and they were both music ed majors in college. Blah blah blah yay music ok where's my Nintendo?
In a 2nd grader's mind there is absolutely nothing unusual about 7 children and a pseudo-nun frolicking in the hills of Austria while singing about "bright copper kettles" and "warm woollen mittens". So as a child when I sat and watched these spontaneous eruptions of song and yodeling, I believe my subconscious had finally connected with a satisfying realization of my most instinctual desires. The obsession had begun.
I received poorer marks in school that year. Apparently the teachers didn't like me humming "I am sixteen going on seventeen" on loop 3 hours a day, followed by an afternoon session of "yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-hee-whoo". Fortunately this behavior did not incur the ridicule of my naive classmates, but I'm sure the Lutheran teachers were constant in devout prayers that this big-gay-train would hopefully derail.
I was "inattentive" and "off-task"- two qualities that I am proud to uphold to this very day. Sure, all those people on DC's public transport see a blank face while I'm peaceably riding in the Metro car-- but in my mind's eye there are scenes from Moulin Rouge, Hairspray, Wicked, and others, all adapted to the scenery of a DC backdrop and in perfect sync with the tapping of my feet.
When you take to that mythical stage, dim the house lights of reality, and belt out a passionate note that resonates twice around the world-- that is emotion in its purest form. It is joy, sorrow, lust, contempt, pride- or even love.
And so as I am sauntering down the street to work, iPod in hand, "Climb Every Mountain" booming dramatically in my ears amidst the jackhammers and exhaust fumes of everyday life- figuratively and literally- I am mellowly reminded that these pure emotions and unending musical performances have one true thing in common:
They're all in my head.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Return to Gallaudet
It's been a while since I've had the chance to return to my soon-to-be-Alma-mater, right there on the magnificent Florida Avenue in NorthEast (excuse me, crack whore, but which way is the Metro?). I haven't had much reason to go back to campus since I finished my courses last May; my internship was off-site and most of my friends had graduated and cut loose.
And so there I was yesterday, 9 months later, back at a place which was so incredibly indescribable when I left it. My last dwindling moments at Gallaudet were tedious and disturbing ... like waiting for a relative in a coma to finally pass and be out of pain. That's exactly how I felt that final semester at Gallaudet- like I was in an emotional coma.
Yesterday there was the usual ritual of reuniting and catching up that always accompanies any event/location that involves Deaf people- within a half-hour I had already "bumped" into 6 people that I knew. I do miss that part of Gallaudet; there is always someone close at hand (wink) that you're connected to in some way. It's such a social place- like a dog park where you can fervently sniff all the crotches you want to and ignore the world just outside the park gates.
I went through the lines at "Gradfest", Gallaudet's one-stop shop for all of your graduation needs (4-hr long DVDs of identically-dressed persons taking fake diplomas, paying library fines, ordering rings that you'll never wear, cap and gown, etc.). And as I looked around, I realized how lonely it was to be the only person from my academic year not graduating with the rest of my class.
The problem with an institution that has left such a memorable mark in my emotional memory is that it's hard to separate the good from the bad-- like mixing a cup of cow manure into a batch of delicious cookie dough. No matter what you pull out of the oven, it will still have that unmistakable stench. So it goes with Gallaudet.
So here is the question: to go or not to go to the graduation ceremony? If I'm having a difficult time keeping my mind off of the negatives, why put myself back in that situation? When my department gives me my graduate school hood and says "Yay you finally made it!", I'll only be thinking "Yay you finally noticed who I really am!" Can I genuinely smile and thank the people who made my experience so unnecessarily painful?
Two and a half years and $50,000 worth of debt later (Galladebt is the correct spelling, FYI) I stand strong and composed at the gates of a small university while the whisperings of extinguished memories sift softly into my consciousness: the best friend turned enemy (yes officer, she did in fact say she would be relieved if I died), the department that insensitively withdrew its support and warmth from my education (the counseling department- the irony), and the first guy to ever break my heart.
*somewhere a violin plays* ;-)
"Who can say if I've been changed for the better, but because I knew you I have been changed for good" -- all the gay boys sigh ....
Well the good news is that I'm happy now- and all's well that ends well, right? Hmm ... well then perhaps it's best to leave that dusty box of mixed Gallaudet feelings on its shelf in my emotional storage locker- and never unpack it again.
:-) It's amazing how quickly things change ...
And so there I was yesterday, 9 months later, back at a place which was so incredibly indescribable when I left it. My last dwindling moments at Gallaudet were tedious and disturbing ... like waiting for a relative in a coma to finally pass and be out of pain. That's exactly how I felt that final semester at Gallaudet- like I was in an emotional coma.
Yesterday there was the usual ritual of reuniting and catching up that always accompanies any event/location that involves Deaf people- within a half-hour I had already "bumped" into 6 people that I knew. I do miss that part of Gallaudet; there is always someone close at hand (wink) that you're connected to in some way. It's such a social place- like a dog park where you can fervently sniff all the crotches you want to and ignore the world just outside the park gates.
I went through the lines at "Gradfest", Gallaudet's one-stop shop for all of your graduation needs (4-hr long DVDs of identically-dressed persons taking fake diplomas, paying library fines, ordering rings that you'll never wear, cap and gown, etc.). And as I looked around, I realized how lonely it was to be the only person from my academic year not graduating with the rest of my class.
The problem with an institution that has left such a memorable mark in my emotional memory is that it's hard to separate the good from the bad-- like mixing a cup of cow manure into a batch of delicious cookie dough. No matter what you pull out of the oven, it will still have that unmistakable stench. So it goes with Gallaudet.
So here is the question: to go or not to go to the graduation ceremony? If I'm having a difficult time keeping my mind off of the negatives, why put myself back in that situation? When my department gives me my graduate school hood and says "Yay you finally made it!", I'll only be thinking "Yay you finally noticed who I really am!" Can I genuinely smile and thank the people who made my experience so unnecessarily painful?
Two and a half years and $50,000 worth of debt later (Galladebt is the correct spelling, FYI) I stand strong and composed at the gates of a small university while the whisperings of extinguished memories sift softly into my consciousness: the best friend turned enemy (yes officer, she did in fact say she would be relieved if I died), the department that insensitively withdrew its support and warmth from my education (the counseling department- the irony), and the first guy to ever break my heart.
*somewhere a violin plays* ;-)
"Who can say if I've been changed for the better, but because I knew you I have been changed for good" -- all the gay boys sigh ....
Well the good news is that I'm happy now- and all's well that ends well, right? Hmm ... well then perhaps it's best to leave that dusty box of mixed Gallaudet feelings on its shelf in my emotional storage locker- and never unpack it again.
:-) It's amazing how quickly things change ...
Monday, January 22, 2007
Santa Psychology
We are obsessed with big, old, fat, hairy men in red suits, aren't we? And no, I'm not talking about the bears' float in the Pride Parade; rather, Father Christmas, Pere Noel, crème fraïche, the big cheese, or Sinterklaas (sounds like a weapon from Star Trek—Mr. LaForge, blast that Borg with the Sinterklaas, then we can blitzen out of here and follow that comet!).
Apparently, the phenomenon of children gullibly accepting the lies of their parents and adults alike has been remarkably unchanged since this subject was first studied in the late 1800s.
Carl Anderson is a child psychologist who specializes in the field of lying and falsehood-spreading to innocent toddlers and youngsters that blindly accept the notion that strangers who eat cookies and milk are permitted into their homes … provided they leave a wrapped present behind.
First of all, a comment: how typical of a man!!! Rushes himself up and down the chimney, grabs a quick snack, dribbles, and leaves behind a "surprise" that is quite difficult to get rid of. Yeah, his cheeks are all rosy from getting smacked a few times by Ms. Claus for hopping a few too many chimneys. Bitch … ho ho ho, indeed.
And now we return to my commentary where I am transferring my anger towards my lying parents on to child psychologist Carl Anderson. Mr. Anderson amuses his shrink-freak mind by dressing as Kris Kringle and blatantly deceiving the puppy-dogged eyes of hundreds of children at the Dallas NorthPark Center (go figure, Texas …).
Anderson states that the Santa "set of beliefs" has remained intact over the past 100 years. I wonder if he's at all surprised by this? Certainly children should be taught at an early age not to trust what is told to them by their parents and caregivers. How are children supposed to understand genuine from not? Truth from fiction? Fat man in house from armed burglar with an appetite?
I firmly believe that you should only lie to children when you can profitably gain from their naivety, quite like taking candy from a baby. Spinning a tale about Santa Claus actually costs you more money to buy gifts and presents; why would you do this to yourself?!?
Alas, not much can be said for a big fat white guy that goes around and spreads lies to the people of America. Oh wait … how did we switch from Santa to Capitol Hill?
Apparently, the phenomenon of children gullibly accepting the lies of their parents and adults alike has been remarkably unchanged since this subject was first studied in the late 1800s.
Carl Anderson is a child psychologist who specializes in the field of lying and falsehood-spreading to innocent toddlers and youngsters that blindly accept the notion that strangers who eat cookies and milk are permitted into their homes … provided they leave a wrapped present behind.
First of all, a comment: how typical of a man!!! Rushes himself up and down the chimney, grabs a quick snack, dribbles, and leaves behind a "surprise" that is quite difficult to get rid of. Yeah, his cheeks are all rosy from getting smacked a few times by Ms. Claus for hopping a few too many chimneys. Bitch … ho ho ho, indeed.
And now we return to my commentary where I am transferring my anger towards my lying parents on to child psychologist Carl Anderson. Mr. Anderson amuses his shrink-freak mind by dressing as Kris Kringle and blatantly deceiving the puppy-dogged eyes of hundreds of children at the Dallas NorthPark Center (go figure, Texas …).
Anderson states that the Santa "set of beliefs" has remained intact over the past 100 years. I wonder if he's at all surprised by this? Certainly children should be taught at an early age not to trust what is told to them by their parents and caregivers. How are children supposed to understand genuine from not? Truth from fiction? Fat man in house from armed burglar with an appetite?
I firmly believe that you should only lie to children when you can profitably gain from their naivety, quite like taking candy from a baby. Spinning a tale about Santa Claus actually costs you more money to buy gifts and presents; why would you do this to yourself?!?
Alas, not much can be said for a big fat white guy that goes around and spreads lies to the people of America. Oh wait … how did we switch from Santa to Capitol Hill?
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Protest Journal, 22 October 2006
October 22, 2006
I feel like the protest reached its climax yesterday with the parade. My only concern is that the peak of excitement and support will only give way to lessened commitment to the cause and weakened enthusiasm to keep the battle up. Alumni are leaving, students are slowly working their way back into their schedules, and the administration is biding its time simply waiting for everything to go back to "normal".
Normal??? Will Gallaudet ever know what that means again?
"Normal" would hardly describe my experience at Gallaudet since the protests began last May. "Normal" means ignoring the world around you. "Normal" means not paying attention to the neglect and atrocities that are constantly swirling in an endless flurry of complicated emotions. It's like ignoring a disastrous storm and pretending that nothing is going on outside even though your home is crashing down around you.
Is Gallaudet crashing? The administration would rather we weather the storm; are they prepared to deal with the clean up?
Think about hurricane Katrina: Will the survivors of the storm ever go back to "normal"? The government would like to think so. The tourism industry would like to think so. Ignoring the storm and refusing to deal with the serious consequences of the events, regardless of who is responsible, is a failure to identify the real issues surrounding the circumstances of people that are theoretically supposed to be "cared for". The government has an obligation to take care of its citizens and survivors of Katrina; Gallaudet has an obligation to take care of its students. Both have failed.
The parade was amazing. While walking along 8th street we came to a slight hill and I looked back to see how many people were following the march. The crowd went on for blocks and blocks. No matter what the affiliation or agenda or … how do I say this?... Despite the seemingly "conflicted" issues that have presented themselves during the protest, the mere number of individuals who were willing to give up their Saturday to make a stand for something they believe in was simply inspiring. The so-called "dissenters" casually strolled for an hour up to the Capitol: chatting, smiling, seeing old friends, and reinforcing the sense of community.
In reading King's letters and Fernandes' interviews with the press one might imagine that the participants of the protest were a rowdy crowd of animals trampling over the "paradise" of Gallaudet. I looked around me at the march- where were the angry faces? Where was the "chaos"? The "terrorism"? That is (verbatim) what Fernandes has called the protest. I didn't see it.
The tactics of the administration are slowly becoming more apparent to the general public. Whenever I am out in DC and people see me signing with friends they immediately begin discussing the protest – and I eavesdrop. 2 weeks ago people were saying "I don't really understand what's going on. What's wrong with Fernandes anyway?" Now they have started to say "Wow, things are really happening over there. I really don't see why she doesn't just quit. The students have made their case… how can she be so stubborn?"
There were two articles in the Post on Friday that further illustrated the confusion and mixed messages circling the protest. The first article discussed the disagreement between members of the Board of Trustees and some of their calls for Fernandes to resign. It was a fair balance between the protestor's demands and the responsiveness (or lack of responsiveness, as it were) of the administration. I was pleased with it. The second article seemed more like an editorial, and depicted the struggle of poor Fernandes in her pursuit for success despite the monstrosity of obstacles in her path. The articles painted very different pictures of the situation at Gallaudet; any reader should be able to identify the lack of congruence between the two, thereby knowing that while the administration attempts to distribute "factual" information regarding the situation on campus it is obvious flawed and construed to fit their own agenda.
And what is the administration's agenda? Ah… to get back to "normal", of course.
I feel like the protest reached its climax yesterday with the parade. My only concern is that the peak of excitement and support will only give way to lessened commitment to the cause and weakened enthusiasm to keep the battle up. Alumni are leaving, students are slowly working their way back into their schedules, and the administration is biding its time simply waiting for everything to go back to "normal".
Normal??? Will Gallaudet ever know what that means again?
"Normal" would hardly describe my experience at Gallaudet since the protests began last May. "Normal" means ignoring the world around you. "Normal" means not paying attention to the neglect and atrocities that are constantly swirling in an endless flurry of complicated emotions. It's like ignoring a disastrous storm and pretending that nothing is going on outside even though your home is crashing down around you.
Is Gallaudet crashing? The administration would rather we weather the storm; are they prepared to deal with the clean up?
Think about hurricane Katrina: Will the survivors of the storm ever go back to "normal"? The government would like to think so. The tourism industry would like to think so. Ignoring the storm and refusing to deal with the serious consequences of the events, regardless of who is responsible, is a failure to identify the real issues surrounding the circumstances of people that are theoretically supposed to be "cared for". The government has an obligation to take care of its citizens and survivors of Katrina; Gallaudet has an obligation to take care of its students. Both have failed.
The parade was amazing. While walking along 8th street we came to a slight hill and I looked back to see how many people were following the march. The crowd went on for blocks and blocks. No matter what the affiliation or agenda or … how do I say this?... Despite the seemingly "conflicted" issues that have presented themselves during the protest, the mere number of individuals who were willing to give up their Saturday to make a stand for something they believe in was simply inspiring. The so-called "dissenters" casually strolled for an hour up to the Capitol: chatting, smiling, seeing old friends, and reinforcing the sense of community.
In reading King's letters and Fernandes' interviews with the press one might imagine that the participants of the protest were a rowdy crowd of animals trampling over the "paradise" of Gallaudet. I looked around me at the march- where were the angry faces? Where was the "chaos"? The "terrorism"? That is (verbatim) what Fernandes has called the protest. I didn't see it.
The tactics of the administration are slowly becoming more apparent to the general public. Whenever I am out in DC and people see me signing with friends they immediately begin discussing the protest – and I eavesdrop. 2 weeks ago people were saying "I don't really understand what's going on. What's wrong with Fernandes anyway?" Now they have started to say "Wow, things are really happening over there. I really don't see why she doesn't just quit. The students have made their case… how can she be so stubborn?"
There were two articles in the Post on Friday that further illustrated the confusion and mixed messages circling the protest. The first article discussed the disagreement between members of the Board of Trustees and some of their calls for Fernandes to resign. It was a fair balance between the protestor's demands and the responsiveness (or lack of responsiveness, as it were) of the administration. I was pleased with it. The second article seemed more like an editorial, and depicted the struggle of poor Fernandes in her pursuit for success despite the monstrosity of obstacles in her path. The articles painted very different pictures of the situation at Gallaudet; any reader should be able to identify the lack of congruence between the two, thereby knowing that while the administration attempts to distribute "factual" information regarding the situation on campus it is obvious flawed and construed to fit their own agenda.
And what is the administration's agenda? Ah… to get back to "normal", of course.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Protest Journal, 18 October 2006
October 18, 2006
This is my first journal of which there should have already been many. Fatigue coupled with emotional upheaval (not to mention laziness) are mostly to blame, and I would like to make up for that by reflecting on all that has happened over the past few weeks… months, rather, here at Gallaudet with regard to the protest over the appointment of Jane Fernandes as the 9th President of the University.
It's been a nightmare, to put it lightly. I don't even know where to begin.
The curse of being a counseling student is the constant awareness of one's emotions, one's reactions to situations, and the unending analysis of the relationship between the two. Since Fernandes' announcement at the end of the spring semester I have been incessantly grappling with myself over my position, my involvement, my level of commitment, and my overall emotional well being.
Most of these had plateau-ed during the summer, and have only begun to change and take shape in the past month when the issues became increasingly more visible and … desperate. Time is running out.
Honestly… I don't know where to begin.
I have never been happy with the administration at Gallaudet. Everywhere you turn there are ridiculous and tedious rules that appear to exist for no reason. A rule can only be as strong as the rationale behind it; Gallaudet has always been lacking in its explanation of how its structure is built. "Welcome to Gallaudet" is an expression used most frequently by incoming freshman and 1st year graduate students meant to shrug off the frustrations of a system that obviously doesn't have its students' best interests in mind.
We have seen that attitude become abundantly clear in the past month's events.
I have seen many changes. My personal opinion of the protest has remained mostly the same since May: I do support the ideas of eliminating the "isms" of the current system, of having a diversified faculty, staff, and administration, and of unity for a common cause. My only issue with the protest from the beginning has been the varied agendas fought behind a common banner, cheapening some of the values I had and goals I supported.
Due to the gravity of the situation and the crucial need for solidarity in our voice to combat the administration, my initial hesitance to support the protest for the aforementioned reasons has fallen by the wayside. Yes, there are multiple agendas. Yes, some people are fighting for what I consider to be the "wrong" reasons. Yes, MANY new demands and calls for changes to the University that were not included in the original protest in May have been added.
It doesn't matter. The system must be changed. The issues must be addressed. Only by numbers and unity can this be accomplished, despite the confusion and chaos between agendas and purposes.
My concerns have been put aside. Those are to be addressed should Fernandes resign and the selection committee continues their work to find a new President.
It has been a difficult week. I have been suppressed from discussing the protest with my students at Kendall. I have seen letter after letter be sent in opposition to Fernandes, and continuously ignored by the administration and Board of Trustees. I have seen friends and peers cry. I have seen myself cry. We are all upset, and we are all hurting.
I have learned about sacrifice. I have learned to accept that sacrifice for a cause is important, and that some things must take a backseat- including my own education. How much am I willing to sacrifice for the protest??? I don't know. But more than I thought I would, that is for certain.
I have seen people look me square in the face and say "this protest doesn't effect the academic education of the students" at Kendall. I have seen the PR office distribute lie after lie about the "dissenters". I have watched an administration stall and hope that the momentum of the protest will die out. Perhaps it will … many people who are uninformed about the issues would like that.
I heard my own elementary students at Kendall say "I don't feel safe" the night of the arrests. I have cried so many times over this that I can't believe it. That one moment will remain fused in my emotional hardwiring for quite a long while. The ONE place where deaf children should feel safe- from oppression, from the hearing world… from a world that doesn't understand them and their extraordinary uniqueness- wasn't safe for them.
I'm crying even now.
How can that one moment affect me so strongly?
I've had it.
This is my first journal of which there should have already been many. Fatigue coupled with emotional upheaval (not to mention laziness) are mostly to blame, and I would like to make up for that by reflecting on all that has happened over the past few weeks… months, rather, here at Gallaudet with regard to the protest over the appointment of Jane Fernandes as the 9th President of the University.
It's been a nightmare, to put it lightly. I don't even know where to begin.
The curse of being a counseling student is the constant awareness of one's emotions, one's reactions to situations, and the unending analysis of the relationship between the two. Since Fernandes' announcement at the end of the spring semester I have been incessantly grappling with myself over my position, my involvement, my level of commitment, and my overall emotional well being.
Most of these had plateau-ed during the summer, and have only begun to change and take shape in the past month when the issues became increasingly more visible and … desperate. Time is running out.
Honestly… I don't know where to begin.
I have never been happy with the administration at Gallaudet. Everywhere you turn there are ridiculous and tedious rules that appear to exist for no reason. A rule can only be as strong as the rationale behind it; Gallaudet has always been lacking in its explanation of how its structure is built. "Welcome to Gallaudet" is an expression used most frequently by incoming freshman and 1st year graduate students meant to shrug off the frustrations of a system that obviously doesn't have its students' best interests in mind.
We have seen that attitude become abundantly clear in the past month's events.
I have seen many changes. My personal opinion of the protest has remained mostly the same since May: I do support the ideas of eliminating the "isms" of the current system, of having a diversified faculty, staff, and administration, and of unity for a common cause. My only issue with the protest from the beginning has been the varied agendas fought behind a common banner, cheapening some of the values I had and goals I supported.
Due to the gravity of the situation and the crucial need for solidarity in our voice to combat the administration, my initial hesitance to support the protest for the aforementioned reasons has fallen by the wayside. Yes, there are multiple agendas. Yes, some people are fighting for what I consider to be the "wrong" reasons. Yes, MANY new demands and calls for changes to the University that were not included in the original protest in May have been added.
It doesn't matter. The system must be changed. The issues must be addressed. Only by numbers and unity can this be accomplished, despite the confusion and chaos between agendas and purposes.
My concerns have been put aside. Those are to be addressed should Fernandes resign and the selection committee continues their work to find a new President.
It has been a difficult week. I have been suppressed from discussing the protest with my students at Kendall. I have seen letter after letter be sent in opposition to Fernandes, and continuously ignored by the administration and Board of Trustees. I have seen friends and peers cry. I have seen myself cry. We are all upset, and we are all hurting.
I have learned about sacrifice. I have learned to accept that sacrifice for a cause is important, and that some things must take a backseat- including my own education. How much am I willing to sacrifice for the protest??? I don't know. But more than I thought I would, that is for certain.
I have seen people look me square in the face and say "this protest doesn't effect the academic education of the students" at Kendall. I have seen the PR office distribute lie after lie about the "dissenters". I have watched an administration stall and hope that the momentum of the protest will die out. Perhaps it will … many people who are uninformed about the issues would like that.
I heard my own elementary students at Kendall say "I don't feel safe" the night of the arrests. I have cried so many times over this that I can't believe it. That one moment will remain fused in my emotional hardwiring for quite a long while. The ONE place where deaf children should feel safe- from oppression, from the hearing world… from a world that doesn't understand them and their extraordinary uniqueness- wasn't safe for them.
I'm crying even now.
How can that one moment affect me so strongly?
I've had it.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
male behavior in restrooms
In my time interpreting this summer in DC I had the pleasure (or misfortune) of entering several government office buildings, passing through security checkpoints of all shapes and sizes, and attending atrociously boring staff meetings. And, as any trusty interpreter has a bottle of water by his or her side at all times, I also spent a great deal of time in public restrooms.
Male bathrooms are pretty standard: there are the urinals with pink deodorant cakes (internet search has failed to find a reason why they are pink, although I did learn that the average cake lasts 30-60 days), urinal dividers to keep those government queer boys' eyes from wandering (don't grasp, don't smell), and automated sensor-controlled water faucets that remind me of how I absentmindedly move my hands in front of my face during a 3-D movie.
The most notable features of the men's bathroom are the men themselves. What begins as a cold room of marble and porcelain suddenly becomes a territorial war zone to strut, parade, and celebrate our amazing ability to stand and perform an excretory function all at the same time.
Choice of urinal is the first objective when entering the restroom; men need distance when they are peeing, both to protect their sense of decency and to hopefully be out of earshot on the off chance that some passing of wind may blow during the rainstorm. Farting at the urinal is acceptable behavior; however, I cannot think of anything funnier on the planet.
The most amusing display at the urinal is how some men make it seem like such an extraordinary effort to undo their pants and remove the mayor from his office. Seriously- some men act like they're detracting an 80-pound python from some hole in the middle of the Amazon. It does not require that much pomp and circumstance to remove a (hopefully) flaccid pointer from its shaft. It's not like hoisting a cannon into position and preparing to fire!
What's worse is the "shake-off" that comes at the end of the urination. For some men, they make it look like a dog when it's just hopped out of a pool. That much abrasive shaking would kill a newborn baby, for sure. And that kind of movement is highly distracting and suspicious at the urinal (don't make me go into my stories about the train stations in Naples – ah!).
And last but not least, the washing of the hands. Oh wait- this doesn't actually happen. Sinks, soap, and towels are there merely for decoration and to appease the opposite sex.
Yes, it's true: men remove the pistol, fire, spin it around and slink it into its holster. And, sadly, they leave the restroom with gunpowder residue still on their hands.
Male bathrooms are pretty standard: there are the urinals with pink deodorant cakes (internet search has failed to find a reason why they are pink, although I did learn that the average cake lasts 30-60 days), urinal dividers to keep those government queer boys' eyes from wandering (don't grasp, don't smell), and automated sensor-controlled water faucets that remind me of how I absentmindedly move my hands in front of my face during a 3-D movie.
The most notable features of the men's bathroom are the men themselves. What begins as a cold room of marble and porcelain suddenly becomes a territorial war zone to strut, parade, and celebrate our amazing ability to stand and perform an excretory function all at the same time.
Choice of urinal is the first objective when entering the restroom; men need distance when they are peeing, both to protect their sense of decency and to hopefully be out of earshot on the off chance that some passing of wind may blow during the rainstorm. Farting at the urinal is acceptable behavior; however, I cannot think of anything funnier on the planet.
The most amusing display at the urinal is how some men make it seem like such an extraordinary effort to undo their pants and remove the mayor from his office. Seriously- some men act like they're detracting an 80-pound python from some hole in the middle of the Amazon. It does not require that much pomp and circumstance to remove a (hopefully) flaccid pointer from its shaft. It's not like hoisting a cannon into position and preparing to fire!
What's worse is the "shake-off" that comes at the end of the urination. For some men, they make it look like a dog when it's just hopped out of a pool. That much abrasive shaking would kill a newborn baby, for sure. And that kind of movement is highly distracting and suspicious at the urinal (don't make me go into my stories about the train stations in Naples – ah!).
And last but not least, the washing of the hands. Oh wait- this doesn't actually happen. Sinks, soap, and towels are there merely for decoration and to appease the opposite sex.
Yes, it's true: men remove the pistol, fire, spin it around and slink it into its holster. And, sadly, they leave the restroom with gunpowder residue still on their hands.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Rescue me ...
"I believe there's a hero in all of us." -- Spiderman II
And let the pathology begin!!! It's been 5 days since I saw Superman Returns, and yet the feverous obsession initially sparked by a man in tighty-reddies (although I've been told the shade was maroon) has relentlessly gripped and crushed me into a wriggling giggling school boy with an insatiable desire to ... well, let's just say that I'm curious to know if the man of steel lives up to his reputation.
The movie itself was very convincing. I was so captivated that I even caught myself wondering "Where are you Superman?" when Gotham was in utter chaos. It seems that the belief in a superhero is not so farfetched, despite Wonderboy's lack of fashion sense (although you will hear no complaints out of this one, digital reductions aside).
This hero theme and the idea of being rescued seems to have followed me closely the past week. I just saw an episode of Sex and the City where the girls acknowledged that they wanted to be rescued from their imprisonment of singleness and solitude. And I'm currently reading "Sanctity and Male Desire - A Gay Reading of Saints", which idolizes the masculinity and salvation of the hero saints in Catholicism.
I started to wonder about the author and his strange obsession with the saints. According to him, this is not an uncommon occurrence for gay men. To which I thought- neither is the obsession with superheroes. Where in the psychology of being gay is there this need to be rescued, to be saved from the impending doom of a natural disaster or evil villain?
Or are they desires to be saved from situations that we (gay men) cannot control? Like a society that continues to deny us our rights, ignoring discrimination and hate crimes, and labeling us as an afflicted population ...
Undeniably there is a huge chasm between Superman and the scantily-clad saints of the Catholic church (or superheroes of any faith).
The difference is simple: Superman does not discriminate between race, gender, orientation, or any other human uniqueness. Everyone is a likely candidate for disaster, and everyone has an equal right to be rescued.
I cannot say the same for the Church.
And let the pathology begin!!! It's been 5 days since I saw Superman Returns, and yet the feverous obsession initially sparked by a man in tighty-reddies (although I've been told the shade was maroon) has relentlessly gripped and crushed me into a wriggling giggling school boy with an insatiable desire to ... well, let's just say that I'm curious to know if the man of steel lives up to his reputation.
The movie itself was very convincing. I was so captivated that I even caught myself wondering "Where are you Superman?" when Gotham was in utter chaos. It seems that the belief in a superhero is not so farfetched, despite Wonderboy's lack of fashion sense (although you will hear no complaints out of this one, digital reductions aside).
This hero theme and the idea of being rescued seems to have followed me closely the past week. I just saw an episode of Sex and the City where the girls acknowledged that they wanted to be rescued from their imprisonment of singleness and solitude. And I'm currently reading "Sanctity and Male Desire - A Gay Reading of Saints", which idolizes the masculinity and salvation of the hero saints in Catholicism.
I started to wonder about the author and his strange obsession with the saints. According to him, this is not an uncommon occurrence for gay men. To which I thought- neither is the obsession with superheroes. Where in the psychology of being gay is there this need to be rescued, to be saved from the impending doom of a natural disaster or evil villain?
Or are they desires to be saved from situations that we (gay men) cannot control? Like a society that continues to deny us our rights, ignoring discrimination and hate crimes, and labeling us as an afflicted population ...
Undeniably there is a huge chasm between Superman and the scantily-clad saints of the Catholic church (or superheroes of any faith).
The difference is simple: Superman does not discriminate between race, gender, orientation, or any other human uniqueness. Everyone is a likely candidate for disaster, and everyone has an equal right to be rescued.
I cannot say the same for the Church.
Friday, June 9, 2006
Bus therapy
What do you do when life gets you down? Phone a friend? Eat an ice cream? Punch a random tourist?
In the counseling field we are taught to constantly analyze our emotions and how they affect our behavior. It's nauseating; some days you're simply overwhelmed with yourself (and no, not in that extended-shower kind of way...)
The world turns its back on you and you feel rotten ... what options do you have left?
The answer is simple: ride the city bus.
There I was, late on a Thursday evening, fretting about increasing rates on student loans, comprehensive final exams looming, the stress and worry of finishing all my assignments on time, and being pissed off with life in general.
As I boarded the 80 to take me to the Kennedy Center, I paused from my selfish world and looked up at my fellow passengers. Most of them tired, rugged, and worn out from a hard day. Some were going to work, some just getting back- most of them had a very distant look in their eyes.
And then I realized- school is a privilege. I have the privilege to be in a financial position where I can take out massive loans. I have the privilege to have been educated well enough to enter a master's program. I have the luxury of classes and exams and deadlines and stressors, meetings and schedules and frustrations and chaos.
They are all an extravagant indulgence.
Suddenly the world became very big, and very manageable. And that's not bad for a buck-thirty-five.
In the counseling field we are taught to constantly analyze our emotions and how they affect our behavior. It's nauseating; some days you're simply overwhelmed with yourself (and no, not in that extended-shower kind of way...)
The world turns its back on you and you feel rotten ... what options do you have left?
The answer is simple: ride the city bus.
There I was, late on a Thursday evening, fretting about increasing rates on student loans, comprehensive final exams looming, the stress and worry of finishing all my assignments on time, and being pissed off with life in general.
As I boarded the 80 to take me to the Kennedy Center, I paused from my selfish world and looked up at my fellow passengers. Most of them tired, rugged, and worn out from a hard day. Some were going to work, some just getting back- most of them had a very distant look in their eyes.
And then I realized- school is a privilege. I have the privilege to be in a financial position where I can take out massive loans. I have the privilege to have been educated well enough to enter a master's program. I have the luxury of classes and exams and deadlines and stressors, meetings and schedules and frustrations and chaos.
They are all an extravagant indulgence.
Suddenly the world became very big, and very manageable. And that's not bad for a buck-thirty-five.
Saturday, May 6, 2006
Rent, then and now
If you look under Article IV.a of the gay man's membership manual (and no, I am not referring to Spartacus), you will find the following clause: A man, defined loosely as an organism with male genitalia, who is attracted to another man of the same species, is required under the bylaws of Gaydom to know at least 85% the lyrics/music to Rent.
So when Jonathan asked if I wanted free tickets to see Rent opening night in D.C., naturally I referred to the manual for instructions. Article IV.b : any invitation to see Rent, paid or otherwise, must be met with a shrill squeal, multiple handclaps, and a gay hop or two in the air (see picture iii.a for Jack from Will & Grace).
This was my second Rent experience; first time was in New York, in the gaping-wound-bleed section (nosebleed just doesn't do it justice). This time, however, I was front and center, literally ... row G in the orchestra.
It's amazing; no matter how well you know the show or sing it in the shower or hum it on the metro or blog about it or etch the lyrics on trees with a heart around them or gurgle Listerine to the tunes or strum the beat on your knees during counseling sessions for obsessive tendencies, the show is still impressive and new.
It's been two years since I saw Rent in New York, and so seeing it again made me realize just how much has changed in that time. I had just come out, feeling released, fresh and free, but still a bit regretful and angry with myself because I had spent so much time in the closet. For any of you who adhere to Article IV.a, you will know that we should "forget regret, or life is yours to miss".
It was a long lesson to learn; but in the end, I look back and realize that if I had come out any other way then it just wouldn't be my own unique story. And, seeing that there is no day but today, looking forward is much better than giving the remorseful past a moment's glance.
So when Jonathan asked if I wanted free tickets to see Rent opening night in D.C., naturally I referred to the manual for instructions. Article IV.b : any invitation to see Rent, paid or otherwise, must be met with a shrill squeal, multiple handclaps, and a gay hop or two in the air (see picture iii.a for Jack from Will & Grace).
This was my second Rent experience; first time was in New York, in the gaping-wound-bleed section (nosebleed just doesn't do it justice). This time, however, I was front and center, literally ... row G in the orchestra.
It's amazing; no matter how well you know the show or sing it in the shower or hum it on the metro or blog about it or etch the lyrics on trees with a heart around them or gurgle Listerine to the tunes or strum the beat on your knees during counseling sessions for obsessive tendencies, the show is still impressive and new.
It's been two years since I saw Rent in New York, and so seeing it again made me realize just how much has changed in that time. I had just come out, feeling released, fresh and free, but still a bit regretful and angry with myself because I had spent so much time in the closet. For any of you who adhere to Article IV.a, you will know that we should "forget regret, or life is yours to miss".
It was a long lesson to learn; but in the end, I look back and realize that if I had come out any other way then it just wouldn't be my own unique story. And, seeing that there is no day but today, looking forward is much better than giving the remorseful past a moment's glance.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
The Vortex
The vortex is the cafeteria on campus - the epicenter of Gallaudet University's social life.
It is interesting to see how the groups divide: the undergraduate students take the tables near the entrance (and divide into subgroups of residential and mainstream students), the international students occupy about 2 or 3 tables near the center of the room, the post-20s students are often near the TVs, and the hearing student groups are usually on the second floor.
On a campus of 2,000 (or less) students, we still find ways to segregate ourselves. Even under the banner of deafness (or at least an interest in deafness), the hunt for division and inclusion is obvious.
It is natural and usually healthy to try and find those who are similar to you; with an identity comes stability and a sense of significance. Being aware of this tendency does not mean you won't fall prey to it, sadly.
Last Friday I broke the vortex longest-chat record. I sat with friends for over 4 hours. We were all white, all in our mid-20s, and all hearing.
I'm so predictable. I even sat on the second floor.
It is interesting to see how the groups divide: the undergraduate students take the tables near the entrance (and divide into subgroups of residential and mainstream students), the international students occupy about 2 or 3 tables near the center of the room, the post-20s students are often near the TVs, and the hearing student groups are usually on the second floor.
On a campus of 2,000 (or less) students, we still find ways to segregate ourselves. Even under the banner of deafness (or at least an interest in deafness), the hunt for division and inclusion is obvious.
It is natural and usually healthy to try and find those who are similar to you; with an identity comes stability and a sense of significance. Being aware of this tendency does not mean you won't fall prey to it, sadly.
Last Friday I broke the vortex longest-chat record. I sat with friends for over 4 hours. We were all white, all in our mid-20s, and all hearing.
I'm so predictable. I even sat on the second floor.
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