It's December 31st. I'm sitting at work, looking at my webcam reflection on the video screen, and thinking rather inquisitively about New Year's and all the metamorphic promises we make to ourselves. While peering ominously at myself, I can't help but wonder ... "How am I different from last year at this time?"
It was a rough, odd, and amazing year. So I don't know how to answer the question.
Can you be optimistic, happy, and cynical all at the same time?
In 2008 I lived in DC for the first time as a non-student ... a real resident. I lived in 3 different places, started my first full-time job (and then quit, and did something better), took up line dancing and got hooked (or lassoed), and spent many happy hours with friends at Nooshi, Kramer's, Starbucks, and La Bomba. There were several trips to NYC for shows, plenty of dancing in Philly, Baltimore, and Houston's country western bars, and a week-long cruise that showed how incredible gay families are.
But this year will always be slightly stained by the memory of my mom. Sometimes I wonder - am I grumpy because I'm sad, or am I sad because I'm grumpy?
I don't feel so different. In 2007 I experienced a lot of radical changes ... triumphs, mostly. 2008 had a few more tears, and not nearly as much growth.
Maybe that's the deal with getting older. You know how birthdays are the end all and be all when you're young? But the more of these milestones we experience, the weaker their impact and fanfare.
What if personal growth is the same? Are we more oblivious to it, or does it just matter less and less to us? When does the anti-monotony of childhood give way to a plateaued life?
Even the word "resolution", the New Year's promise in a resolute society, can be somewhat ambiguous. Is it a beginning (a resolution to change), or an end (a resolution to a problem)? Does a resolution look forward, determined, or backwards, concluded?
Is it hopeful that things will change, or hopeful that things will stay the same? I get whiplashed just looking back-and-forth from the future to the past. Where is the "present" in resolution?
In the bulb there is a flower
In a seed an apple tree
In cocoons a hidden promise
Butterflies will soon be free
Those are words from a song played at mom's memorial service ... I guess it reminds me that where one resolution ends, another begins.
So ... what will be my resolve in 2009?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
3 steps forward, 2 waves back, 6 feet under
Returning to DC was a comforting experience after spending almost 3 weeks in conservative central Florida for my mom's funeral et al. My friend picked me up from Dulles, and immediately I could feel myself ooze with the presence of feeling like "David" again. Like dunking a hard, brittle biscotti into some inviting hot chocolate, I could feel the staleness of my emotions crumble away into the welcoming mug of the city.
When I got back to my house I was greeted with 3 weeks' worth of mail. The most prominent envelopes were the super-red Netflix DVDs. Within them were my first requests on the queue: Season 1 of Six Feet Under.
Some people hesitate when they hear I've watched the entire series- was that a good idea? wasn't it morbid? did you cry a lot?
Well ... defining "morbid" is a bit of a challenge to me now ... unhealthy, diseased, and gruesome come to mind. And that's precisely what death is ... but it's also normal, ubiquitous, and -- paradoxically, a fact of life.
I guess my conclusion is that discussions in and around death are morbid solely because they are difficult. And things that are difficult become unhealthy and gruesome when we want to avoid pain.
Six Feet Under impresses me with its ability to take death and, with all of its messiness and entangled emotions, poignantly put it right in your face:
Here it is. It's real. It sucks. It's not going away ... ever.
And it's by accepting these things that you start to get through it.
Death is like stepping on a splattering of gum on the sidewalk. At first it's really sticky, and annoying as all get out. You walk and walk, the gum pulling at your every step and distracting you from everything else. But eventually the gum settles in and gets covered up by dirt and other debris from the street. So while it never goes away, you inevitably get used to it ... and keep walking.
Watching Six Feet Under was difficult, but very therapeutic. I remember, with striking clarity, some intense moments laying on the couch watching the show. I could feel this tide of emotions ... mainly sadness ... wash me over, feeling like the waves were literally rocking me backwards, forwards, and sideways all at once.
And it felt good.
Even though the rip tide threatens to drag you out into open and dangerous waters, swimming against it will only make the situation worse. But if you swim through it, parallel to shore -- not struggling, not fearing, and not fighting -- you'll eventually be safe.
So ... during the holidays I expect the ebb and flow of the tides will be particularly ripping *grin* ... and I'm not really looking forward to it.
But, luckily, my friends and family will throw me the lifesaver I need when my body can't hold out anymore.
When I got back to my house I was greeted with 3 weeks' worth of mail. The most prominent envelopes were the super-red Netflix DVDs. Within them were my first requests on the queue: Season 1 of Six Feet Under.
Some people hesitate when they hear I've watched the entire series- was that a good idea? wasn't it morbid? did you cry a lot?
Well ... defining "morbid" is a bit of a challenge to me now ... unhealthy, diseased, and gruesome come to mind. And that's precisely what death is ... but it's also normal, ubiquitous, and -- paradoxically, a fact of life.
I guess my conclusion is that discussions in and around death are morbid solely because they are difficult. And things that are difficult become unhealthy and gruesome when we want to avoid pain.
Six Feet Under impresses me with its ability to take death and, with all of its messiness and entangled emotions, poignantly put it right in your face:
Here it is. It's real. It sucks. It's not going away ... ever.
And it's by accepting these things that you start to get through it.
Death is like stepping on a splattering of gum on the sidewalk. At first it's really sticky, and annoying as all get out. You walk and walk, the gum pulling at your every step and distracting you from everything else. But eventually the gum settles in and gets covered up by dirt and other debris from the street. So while it never goes away, you inevitably get used to it ... and keep walking.
Watching Six Feet Under was difficult, but very therapeutic. I remember, with striking clarity, some intense moments laying on the couch watching the show. I could feel this tide of emotions ... mainly sadness ... wash me over, feeling like the waves were literally rocking me backwards, forwards, and sideways all at once.
And it felt good.
Even though the rip tide threatens to drag you out into open and dangerous waters, swimming against it will only make the situation worse. But if you swim through it, parallel to shore -- not struggling, not fearing, and not fighting -- you'll eventually be safe.
So ... during the holidays I expect the ebb and flow of the tides will be particularly ripping *grin* ... and I'm not really looking forward to it.
But, luckily, my friends and family will throw me the lifesaver I need when my body can't hold out anymore.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Grieving, Super Heroes, & Obama
"Seize the day, boys,
Make your lives extraordinary"
-Dead Poets Society
For serious, Dead Poets Society appeals to any budding queen in his teenage years- what could be better than a bunch of men sittin' round a cave reading poetry to each other?!? Just add a sauna with some towels and we are in business! (I'm such a poser, that doesn't actually appeal to me at all ... I think ...)
Today I was looking through some pictures of Obama and his family on election night (click) and I delighted in the fly-on-the-wall candidness of the photographs. Here is a family just like the millions of others across the world, and yet a family that is so completely extraordinary in the most fantastic way imaginable.
Obama reminds me of Superman in these photos ... one minute your average man, the next minute a superhero. And only he decides when it's his moment to shine. It was humbling to watch him sitting so serenely on a hotel room couch, the direction of his life guided only by the glow of a TV screen. And it seemed, regardless of the outcome, that he and his family knew that they would be alright.
But Obama is not unique in his ability to change from average-Joe to renowned-hero ... we all have a Batman or WonderWoman lurking just below the surface, and we can show our extraordinary sides even when everything seems to be Gotham-y (Gotham separated is 'got' + 'ham', that's weird).
Losing my mom has been very Got-ham-like for my entire family, and with only 3 months into this race we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, it really is like a hurdling race; some obstacles you clear without a scratch, and others, while presumptuously just like the rest of the hurdles, bring you crashing down. Only the clock never stops ticking, and you have to get your momentum back quick to clear the next challenge.
But in my immediate family I can already see the superheroes struggling to the surface. My dad is still going to choir practice faithfully, and he is even considering buying some cologne (which he hasn't worn in years because it always effected my mom). My sister has uprooted herself and replanted in Atlanta, surrounding herself with close friends and a solid support structure.
And while the finish line of this race doesn't even exist, at least we are all still on the track together ... with plenty of friends on the sidelines cheering, first-aid kits ready and all.
As for me, I'm still looking for my inner extraordinary, my personal SpiderMan or Storm or Wolverine. All that seems to pop up is the Joker, as I try to laugh my worries all the way to the bat cave.
Maybe I should sit quietly, like Obama, and stare at the TV watching my life unfold before me. Patient, reserved, and comforted by the knowledge that no matter what happens ... everything will be alright.
Make your lives extraordinary"
-Dead Poets Society
For serious, Dead Poets Society appeals to any budding queen in his teenage years- what could be better than a bunch of men sittin' round a cave reading poetry to each other?!? Just add a sauna with some towels and we are in business! (I'm such a poser, that doesn't actually appeal to me at all ... I think ...)
Today I was looking through some pictures of Obama and his family on election night (click) and I delighted in the fly-on-the-wall candidness of the photographs. Here is a family just like the millions of others across the world, and yet a family that is so completely extraordinary in the most fantastic way imaginable.
Obama reminds me of Superman in these photos ... one minute your average man, the next minute a superhero. And only he decides when it's his moment to shine. It was humbling to watch him sitting so serenely on a hotel room couch, the direction of his life guided only by the glow of a TV screen. And it seemed, regardless of the outcome, that he and his family knew that they would be alright.
But Obama is not unique in his ability to change from average-Joe to renowned-hero ... we all have a Batman or WonderWoman lurking just below the surface, and we can show our extraordinary sides even when everything seems to be Gotham-y (Gotham separated is 'got' + 'ham', that's weird).
Losing my mom has been very Got-ham-like for my entire family, and with only 3 months into this race we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, it really is like a hurdling race; some obstacles you clear without a scratch, and others, while presumptuously just like the rest of the hurdles, bring you crashing down. Only the clock never stops ticking, and you have to get your momentum back quick to clear the next challenge.
But in my immediate family I can already see the superheroes struggling to the surface. My dad is still going to choir practice faithfully, and he is even considering buying some cologne (which he hasn't worn in years because it always effected my mom). My sister has uprooted herself and replanted in Atlanta, surrounding herself with close friends and a solid support structure.
And while the finish line of this race doesn't even exist, at least we are all still on the track together ... with plenty of friends on the sidelines cheering, first-aid kits ready and all.
As for me, I'm still looking for my inner extraordinary, my personal SpiderMan or Storm or Wolverine. All that seems to pop up is the Joker, as I try to laugh my worries all the way to the bat cave.
Maybe I should sit quietly, like Obama, and stare at the TV watching my life unfold before me. Patient, reserved, and comforted by the knowledge that no matter what happens ... everything will be alright.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Creation Museum
Science versus religion, a tireless debate that is argued most intently by those who can only see things as either black or white, comes to a dramatic flourish of biblical proportions at the Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky.
Dear lord ... there's so much to mock, I'm not entirely sure where to begin.
The Museum is home to a fascinating collection of facts drawn from a mistranslated book full of contradictions and a supreme being who enjoys torturing people just because they like to get frisky every now and then.
"Let the Rain Come" is an all-live new musical put on a few times per month for those who enjoy the thought of drowning the entire planet and then repopulating it by means of incest (which, apparently, is totally cool with the Creator ... see below). The show is chocked full of special effects (CGI would definitely be needed to squeeze all those damn dinosaurs on board, lucky God has a degree in graphic design), refreshing music, plus some surprises ("Look, kids, this is how I'm going to get my own daughter pregnant!!!" ... crowd: "ooooooh .... ahhhhh .....").
What kind of music would you put to accompany the complete annihilation of our world??? "Our God is an awesome God -- it rains from heaven above -- to kill, drown and destroy our lives -- our God is an awesome God..." *faint applause from the audience and the sound of children vomiting at the mercilessness of the Creator*
After all this talk of flooding, I definitely need a drink. Oh, how about I head down to Noah's Cafe and experience old world treats like Cincinnati-style chili and pizza. Perhaps they could explain how Noah's family was able to feed the entire population of the Ark without the dinosaurs devouring anything that moved.
"Be prepared to experience history in an unprecedented way."
"Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden's rivers."
"Walk through the Cave of Sorrows and see the horrific effects of the Fall of man. Sounds of a sin-ravaged world echo through the room."
To which I add -- "Take your children to therapy immediately for PTSD and the ill-effects of being completely lied to by pseudo-science."
Let's get back to that pesky, pesky topic of incest. Answers in Genesis, the brains (sic) and brawn behind the Museum, have an "Answers Department" that spends its time randomly quoting scripture and uses circular reasoning to back up its preposterous claims.
From the website itself: "We’re not told when Cain married or many of the details of other marriages and children, but we can say for certain that Cain’s wife was either his sister or a close relative."
What ... the ... fuck ... ???
There's even a diagram depicting how genetic mutations increase over time until God decides to outlaw incest. Seriously, Creator, this is not some 5-year-old make-up-the-rules-as-we-go infantile game! We are talking about brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews making babies together! *more vomiting*
Seriously -- why not just cut the crap and say it? ... "Hmm, maybe incest just ain't cool, and we shouldn't take this thing so literally, after all" ...
It isn't rocket science, now is it ???
http://www.creationmuseum.org/
http://www.answersingenesis.org/articles/nab/who-was-cains-wife
Dear lord ... there's so much to mock, I'm not entirely sure where to begin.
The Museum is home to a fascinating collection of facts drawn from a mistranslated book full of contradictions and a supreme being who enjoys torturing people just because they like to get frisky every now and then.
"Let the Rain Come" is an all-live new musical put on a few times per month for those who enjoy the thought of drowning the entire planet and then repopulating it by means of incest (which, apparently, is totally cool with the Creator ... see below). The show is chocked full of special effects (CGI would definitely be needed to squeeze all those damn dinosaurs on board, lucky God has a degree in graphic design), refreshing music, plus some surprises ("Look, kids, this is how I'm going to get my own daughter pregnant!!!" ... crowd: "ooooooh .... ahhhhh .....").
What kind of music would you put to accompany the complete annihilation of our world??? "Our God is an awesome God -- it rains from heaven above -- to kill, drown and destroy our lives -- our God is an awesome God..." *faint applause from the audience and the sound of children vomiting at the mercilessness of the Creator*
After all this talk of flooding, I definitely need a drink. Oh, how about I head down to Noah's Cafe and experience old world treats like Cincinnati-style chili and pizza. Perhaps they could explain how Noah's family was able to feed the entire population of the Ark without the dinosaurs devouring anything that moved.
"Be prepared to experience history in an unprecedented way."
"Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden's rivers."
"Walk through the Cave of Sorrows and see the horrific effects of the Fall of man. Sounds of a sin-ravaged world echo through the room."
To which I add -- "Take your children to therapy immediately for PTSD and the ill-effects of being completely lied to by pseudo-science."
Let's get back to that pesky, pesky topic of incest. Answers in Genesis, the brains (sic) and brawn behind the Museum, have an "Answers Department" that spends its time randomly quoting scripture and uses circular reasoning to back up its preposterous claims.
From the website itself: "We’re not told when Cain married or many of the details of other marriages and children, but we can say for certain that Cain’s wife was either his sister or a close relative."
What ... the ... fuck ... ???
There's even a diagram depicting how genetic mutations increase over time until God decides to outlaw incest. Seriously, Creator, this is not some 5-year-old make-up-the-rules-as-we-go infantile game! We are talking about brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews making babies together! *more vomiting*
Seriously -- why not just cut the crap and say it? ... "Hmm, maybe incest just ain't cool, and we shouldn't take this thing so literally, after all" ...
It isn't rocket science, now is it ???
http://www.creationmuseum.org/
http://www.answersingenesis.org/articles/nab/who-was-cains-wife
Monday, September 22, 2008
Health Care (sic .... or sick?)
The following is a meddlesome dialogue between myself and the insurance company, taken almost verbatim from a conversation a while back:
**********************
Automated British lady: Thank you for calling United HealthCare. How may I mis-direct your call?
Me: Um ... 'benefits' (with emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) gastro-bypass surgery. Is that correct?
Me: Grrr ... 'BE-NI-FITS' (loads of emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Is that correct?
Me: Sigh ... 'representative'.
AB lady: Hold your horses, you little bitch. You gotta tell me who you want to speak to and then I'll transfer your sick ass.
(after much negotiating, a live person answers the line)
Live Person: Thank you for calling United HealthCare, how can I waste your time today?
Me: Yes. OK here's the deal. I tried to go to a walk-in clinic yesterday, one that was listed on your website as covered in your network. When I got there they said they wouldn't take my kind of UHC. WTF, UHC?
Live Person: Well, sir, let me explain it to you as if you were 5 years old and have recently suffered a severe trauma to the head. You don't have United HealthCare, you have MDIPA, which is a subsidiary company of UHC. However, since you have MDIPA preferred, you still have access to that specific clinic for urgent care.
Me: Oh. So, I don't have the United HealthCare that's printed on my card here?
Live Person: No, you don't.
Me: And you are a customer service representative for ...
Live Person: United HealthCare.
Me: Then ... shouldn't I speak to someone from MDIPA?
Live Person: No, you dumbass. MDIPA falls under the umbrella of UHC, but not all parts of the umbrella are covered.
Me: OK ... so I can go to this clinic, right?
Live Person: Yes ... but only for urgent care. And you'll need a referral from your primary care physician.
Me: I haven't set up my PCP yet.
Live Person: *tsk tsk* What kind of idiot hasn't set up his PCP yet? UHC and MDIPA are not liable for consumers' ignorance.
Me: So I need a referral from a doctor to see a doctor in urgent care? Doesn't that seem a little redundant and silly considering the fact it's called 'urgent'?
Live Person: Sir, your incompetence is petulant. We are a business, and too busy to mettle with petty matters such as patients' care.
Me: Could you call the clinic and verify that my insurance will cover the visit?
Live Person: Oh, absolutely sir. I could also come to your house and clean it from top to bottom, scrub all the floors with a toothbrush, and, for good measure, personally and affectionately wash your skanky feet. I could, but I'm not going to.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can not do for me today?
Live Person: The list is longer than you can possibly imagine. Have a lovely day and thank you for choosing United HealthCare!
Me: My absolute pleasure. Seems I'll be under the weather for quite a while. Fortunately, though, I have your silly umbrella to keep me dry.
**********************
Automated British lady: Thank you for calling United HealthCare. How may I mis-direct your call?
Me: Um ... 'benefits' (with emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) gastro-bypass surgery. Is that correct?
Me: Grrr ... 'BE-NI-FITS' (loads of emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Is that correct?
Me: Sigh ... 'representative'.
AB lady: Hold your horses, you little bitch. You gotta tell me who you want to speak to and then I'll transfer your sick ass.
(after much negotiating, a live person answers the line)
Live Person: Thank you for calling United HealthCare, how can I waste your time today?
Me: Yes. OK here's the deal. I tried to go to a walk-in clinic yesterday, one that was listed on your website as covered in your network. When I got there they said they wouldn't take my kind of UHC. WTF, UHC?
Live Person: Well, sir, let me explain it to you as if you were 5 years old and have recently suffered a severe trauma to the head. You don't have United HealthCare, you have MDIPA, which is a subsidiary company of UHC. However, since you have MDIPA preferred, you still have access to that specific clinic for urgent care.
Me: Oh. So, I don't have the United HealthCare that's printed on my card here?
Live Person: No, you don't.
Me: And you are a customer service representative for ...
Live Person: United HealthCare.
Me: Then ... shouldn't I speak to someone from MDIPA?
Live Person: No, you dumbass. MDIPA falls under the umbrella of UHC, but not all parts of the umbrella are covered.
Me: OK ... so I can go to this clinic, right?
Live Person: Yes ... but only for urgent care. And you'll need a referral from your primary care physician.
Me: I haven't set up my PCP yet.
Live Person: *tsk tsk* What kind of idiot hasn't set up his PCP yet? UHC and MDIPA are not liable for consumers' ignorance.
Me: So I need a referral from a doctor to see a doctor in urgent care? Doesn't that seem a little redundant and silly considering the fact it's called 'urgent'?
Live Person: Sir, your incompetence is petulant. We are a business, and too busy to mettle with petty matters such as patients' care.
Me: Could you call the clinic and verify that my insurance will cover the visit?
Live Person: Oh, absolutely sir. I could also come to your house and clean it from top to bottom, scrub all the floors with a toothbrush, and, for good measure, personally and affectionately wash your skanky feet. I could, but I'm not going to.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can not do for me today?
Live Person: The list is longer than you can possibly imagine. Have a lovely day and thank you for choosing United HealthCare!
Me: My absolute pleasure. Seems I'll be under the weather for quite a while. Fortunately, though, I have your silly umbrella to keep me dry.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Consolation Prizes
Sometimes people don't know what to say when they try and comfort a person who has experienced a loss. Over the past month I have been the unwilling recipient of consolation prizes dished out by the bucketful from those eager to express their condolences.
Some strike a tender chord, harmonizing with my sadness. Others strike me angrily, like a 5-year-old banging on a piano.
Some of my least favorites include: “She’s rejoicing with her Lord now”. “She’s making great music in heaven”. “God has taken her home”.
The audacity of help …
For some of the prize-givers, little or no thought is given to how inappropriate or insensitive their remarks may be. Take, for example, my position on religion. It’s quite presumptuous to automatically assume my mother and I shared the same religion, or that I would be comforted by talk of heaven, and Jesus, and God’s plan to pluck people in their prime.
Personally, I lie somewhere in between the grey mix of agnosticism, atheism, and Unitarianism.
Can you imagine me going up to someone at their relative’s funeral and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Hopefully it will be of some comfort to know that your relative was merely a complex biological organism that has stopped functioning and will never exist again.” … or … “I hope it brings you peace to know that your relative is now part of some nondescript comprehensive epistemological existence that cannot be truly named or identified.”
Can you imagine?
The Wednesday after my mom died her school had their regular chapel meeting, only this time they devoted the service to my mom and they invited my family to attend. There were children everywhere- some performed songs, rang handbells, or walked about the sanctuary singing “Butterfly” and flapping their arms. It was all really touching …
… until one of the pastors got up and delivered his message.
“Boys and girls, I know without a doubt, if Mrs. Bruce were here today and she only had one thing she could tell you all … it would be that she loved Jesus and wants you to tell everyone you know about Jesus.”
My jaw hit the floor. My left eyebrow etched itself like a mountain peak jabbing into my forehead. I sat, transfixed in anger, while the pastor went on to further use my mother’s death to promote his personal agenda. He quite literally turned her passing into a springboard to catapult his religious propaganda into the impressionable minds of young children.
Way not cool …. Waaaaaaaaaay not cool.
She never would have said that. Instead, she would have said "I love all you children so much, and I'm really going to miss being your teacher. Keep practicing, be nice to your teachers, and eat a lot of coffee ice cream".
Sadly, none of these non-consoling consolation prizes come with a return receipt for me to exchange them. But, if they did, I know exactly what I would exchange them for- and in abundance:
a hug,
a smile,
a promise of support,
“my thoughts are with you”,
“she was such a kind and caring woman”, and
“when all the sadness passes what will be left are the amazing qualities she had that are still alive in you”.
The last one still makes me cry … these are the prizes that win first place.
Some strike a tender chord, harmonizing with my sadness. Others strike me angrily, like a 5-year-old banging on a piano.
Some of my least favorites include: “She’s rejoicing with her Lord now”. “She’s making great music in heaven”. “God has taken her home”.
The audacity of help …
For some of the prize-givers, little or no thought is given to how inappropriate or insensitive their remarks may be. Take, for example, my position on religion. It’s quite presumptuous to automatically assume my mother and I shared the same religion, or that I would be comforted by talk of heaven, and Jesus, and God’s plan to pluck people in their prime.
Personally, I lie somewhere in between the grey mix of agnosticism, atheism, and Unitarianism.
Can you imagine me going up to someone at their relative’s funeral and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Hopefully it will be of some comfort to know that your relative was merely a complex biological organism that has stopped functioning and will never exist again.” … or … “I hope it brings you peace to know that your relative is now part of some nondescript comprehensive epistemological existence that cannot be truly named or identified.”
Can you imagine?
The Wednesday after my mom died her school had their regular chapel meeting, only this time they devoted the service to my mom and they invited my family to attend. There were children everywhere- some performed songs, rang handbells, or walked about the sanctuary singing “Butterfly” and flapping their arms. It was all really touching …
… until one of the pastors got up and delivered his message.
“Boys and girls, I know without a doubt, if Mrs. Bruce were here today and she only had one thing she could tell you all … it would be that she loved Jesus and wants you to tell everyone you know about Jesus.”
My jaw hit the floor. My left eyebrow etched itself like a mountain peak jabbing into my forehead. I sat, transfixed in anger, while the pastor went on to further use my mother’s death to promote his personal agenda. He quite literally turned her passing into a springboard to catapult his religious propaganda into the impressionable minds of young children.
Way not cool …. Waaaaaaaaaay not cool.
She never would have said that. Instead, she would have said "I love all you children so much, and I'm really going to miss being your teacher. Keep practicing, be nice to your teachers, and eat a lot of coffee ice cream".
Sadly, none of these non-consoling consolation prizes come with a return receipt for me to exchange them. But, if they did, I know exactly what I would exchange them for- and in abundance:
a hug,
a smile,
a promise of support,
“my thoughts are with you”,
“she was such a kind and caring woman”, and
“when all the sadness passes what will be left are the amazing qualities she had that are still alive in you”.
The last one still makes me cry … these are the prizes that win first place.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
BE-ing blunt about BE Bar
The DC gay nightlife is peppered with bars and clubs for every niche of the gay male community (sorry ladies, we got the lion's share on this deal ... irony ... a lion is just a big pussy-cat). Leather at the Eagle, cowboys at Remington's, sports at Nellie's ... and, my personal favorite (insert sarcasm), the skinny young bitches at Be Bar.
Upon entering Be Bar, the last thing you can think of is simply Be-ing ... which for me is a young guy with a beard and a healthy weight (shaking-body-in-front-of-mirror flab test is showing improvement). Rather, when confronted with the clientele of Be, I am suddenly more conscious about my age ... my weight ... my man-beard ... and my lack of fashion.
At the front door you are carded by a prepubescent boy who is in dire need of a sandwich. Inside you are forever waiting for a bar tender who doesn't serve people who can actually shave. Feeling like a giant among insects, people can't seem to help but spill beer all over your jeans ("but the bearded man's just SO big, I couldn't avoid his mammoth-leg!").
And you're going to charge me a five dollar cover? On a weekday?
In a somewhat narrow space that never seems big enough to fit its patrons, despite their delicate proportions, Be Bar has a chic dance floor where you can watch the exertion of anorexia in action. Their limber bodies, clad in admittedly well put together attire, shake fervently to the beat of deafening music in order to burn off the square of cheese they scarfed down for "dinner". And, most conveniently, the bathrooms are located near the front door so you can purge and polish before stepping out into the night air.
Once outside, completely deaf and a little weary, you're greeted by a wall of smoke that resembles a tear-gas raid by police. Apparently a little lung cancer goes well with a Ghandi-like physique. But hey! They're dressed up to the nines and look absolutely hip.
Damn! This blog is a perfect example of how my personal insecurities are projected as bitchiness! Maybe I should shutup, remember that thin is in and muscles are on their way out, drink a bit more, admire the fashion, and not be so damn "old".
Thank you, Be Bar, for letting me just Be me ... which is to say, uncomfortable.
Upon entering Be Bar, the last thing you can think of is simply Be-ing ... which for me is a young guy with a beard and a healthy weight (shaking-body-in-front-of-mirror flab test is showing improvement). Rather, when confronted with the clientele of Be, I am suddenly more conscious about my age ... my weight ... my man-beard ... and my lack of fashion.
At the front door you are carded by a prepubescent boy who is in dire need of a sandwich. Inside you are forever waiting for a bar tender who doesn't serve people who can actually shave. Feeling like a giant among insects, people can't seem to help but spill beer all over your jeans ("but the bearded man's just SO big, I couldn't avoid his mammoth-leg!").
And you're going to charge me a five dollar cover? On a weekday?
In a somewhat narrow space that never seems big enough to fit its patrons, despite their delicate proportions, Be Bar has a chic dance floor where you can watch the exertion of anorexia in action. Their limber bodies, clad in admittedly well put together attire, shake fervently to the beat of deafening music in order to burn off the square of cheese they scarfed down for "dinner". And, most conveniently, the bathrooms are located near the front door so you can purge and polish before stepping out into the night air.
Once outside, completely deaf and a little weary, you're greeted by a wall of smoke that resembles a tear-gas raid by police. Apparently a little lung cancer goes well with a Ghandi-like physique. But hey! They're dressed up to the nines and look absolutely hip.
Damn! This blog is a perfect example of how my personal insecurities are projected as bitchiness! Maybe I should shutup, remember that thin is in and muscles are on their way out, drink a bit more, admire the fashion, and not be so damn "old".
Thank you, Be Bar, for letting me just Be me ... which is to say, uncomfortable.
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