xy - x - y + y +1 = (x - 1)(y - 1) = 1

I've spent the past two days playing with an emotional abacus. Does A equate B? Do C and F outweigh D (or at least even out)? Does E even exist? This is what I do when presented with a decision that lacks anything even remotely resembling fact, logic or definition. I make my own. We're still tallying in the counting house, though, and I have a feeling that process is going to take awhile.

But while I've been doing that, I started thinking in other directions. As I do when my mental hard drive has been set a very long and tedious task. Mostly about people and change and how things happen over time and accumulate and we never really pay attention to that accumulation.

Everyone changes. That's an established fact. It happens in small increments over time as we experience new things, learn new lessons, meet new people and places. These little changes can be good. They help us become who we are, if we let them change us in the right way.

This past year I've watched a lot of friends go through some pretty big changes, and I find myself thinking about the person I met, and the qualities I respected and admired in them then. Some of them haven't changed much since then. Maybe a little more grown up, maybe a little more experienced, but when I look at them now I can see that person I was first drawn to and appreciated. Others - and this is the real focus at the moment - I find myself searching and searching for any trace of those good qualities and the person I'd known. And that is upsetting.

I believe that loyalty given should never be taken away. It's one of those promises you make forever, and if you start breaking the forever promises, than nothing can be counted on. At the same time, what if you find yourself standing at a point where you realise you just might have outgrown that person you pledged your loyalty to? To put a little less callously, what if you look at the way they've changed and realise that they are no longer at all the person you knew and loved, and that the person they've become is something... negative and destructive? And how do you tell when that point has been reached, or if it's just a momentary period of difficulty?

I think, at a certain point in your life - and if you're under 25 or so, you can wander off at this point - you have to stop and question how you're spending your time. Especially if you feel like you're not going anywhere with your life. If every "good night out" is spent getting high, getting drunk, or tripping, and the most you do about changing your situation is whine about having to make a few compromises to fit into the corporate machine and pay the bills, maybe you need to think a little bit about growing up. And this is coming from Peter Pan, so you know it's srs bsns.

I've taken some time to get to where I wanted to go, and I'm still not where I actually want to be, yet, but I'm getting there. Part of the delay had to do with sorting out medical and psychological stuff. Part of it had to do with trying (and failing) to fit into an educational system that just didn't work for me. And not really having a clear concept of what I wanted to do. For the longest time I had this battle between getting a degree that would land me a nice, respectable, stable job and getting a degree that I was actually passionate about (but much less likely to support me). And, yes, my lovelies, I went through various phases of excess along the way, and even now I'm not disinclined to the occasional indulgence, but.

And really. This is the thought I always have when people tell me about the various methods of intoxication: You're missing life. There is a massive world of brilliance (and some not so brilliant bits) out there that you never actually see because you're not sober enough to see it. Because you're too stuck in your ways to venture into something different and unknown because gasp! It might be a little bit scary.

I'm wandering a bit, I realise. These thoughts can be ever so difficult to tame at times.

I know a lot of people who fall into that ever-ambiguous "alternative" label (and you know how I feel about labels), but they like it, cling to it, flaunt it around as something close to a badge of superiority over the rest of the world. They are so liberal and so controversial, raging against societal conventions at every turn mostly just because they're societal conventions. None of those things are necessarily bad, but I find myself looking at them and wondering what exactly is your contribution in life?

More specifically: why should I respect you?

For the most part, I'm a fairly liberal person. I have a set of rules on how to live, but they only apply to me, and those rules have been formed over some very serious and careful examination of myself and what I'm capable of. Everyone else, I can look at and said: Well, that's not for me, but whatever works for you. And I'm pretty damn accepting of a lot of things that aren't for me, conventional and otherwise.

So very early this morning, when I found myself being derided for not living a life of partying every night, loose-to-the-point-of-nonexistent definitions on love and relationships, dropping everything that doesn't have "good vibes" (including someone who's having a very bad day) because it doesn't feel good, the most I was capable of thinking was: what. the. fuck.

The contradiction of the statements with the person they were coming from were enough to short-circuit my brain, and the only thing I was really able to think was: what. the. fuck.

Which leads us right back to the beginning and the way people change, and whether it's something that can be lived with, or it's better to just walk away.

The Power in Meaning

I have this thing about words. I'm very specific about them, and what they mean, and very picky about any sort of ambiguity in their usage. Now, I know, we all have slightly different interpretations of what individual words mean, or what they mean to us in our own perceptions.

For example, I use the word "silly" as a term of endearment, as in 'yeah, that was kinda dumb, but I love you so it's okay'. Or if I say I'm feeling anxious that means I'm about two seconds away from finding the nearest corner to camp out in for a couple hours until the twitchiness passes, whereas someone else might say they're feeling anxious to indicate a small amount of nervousness. ("Twitchiness" is another word that I've adopted to mean "panic attack" because I don't like saying 'I'm having a panic attack'.)

Everyone has those things, and as you get to know them, you learn their individual language and adapt to it. Adopt it, in some cases.

Maybe it's because of this that very often we forget the actual meaning behind those words, and the power that meaning has. So we say things indiscriminately without thinking about the wider ramifications that meaning is going to carry with it to the person receiving them. Think about how many disagreements you've been in with someone where it eventually comes out 'I didn't mean it like that.' I'm sure you've said it yourself. I know I have.

But to come back to me (because, well, it's my blog so why not), my thing about words focuses in on those things. I do account for a slight amount of variation in meaning from person to person, but there are also universal meanings that a majority of people have come to accept - X means Y. And when it comes to the more fuzzily defined words - any emotion springs to mind - those universally accepted definitions are vital for accurately (or as accurately as possible) conveying a singular, individual experience to someone else without really having a common ground to stand on.

An example from a conversation a very long time ago:

He said he was very angry.

Recounting the same incident a day or so later:

He said he was very upset.

Hearing those two phrases, I'll stop you and say, well, which is it? Yes, "angry" is a form of "upset", but "upset" isn't always "angry". So it changes the interpretation. And I will completely halt the conversation with an interrogation about what is actually meant by a particular word until it's explained to my satisfaction. I like specifics. They prevent misunderstandings.

So today I'm thinking about words, and what they mean universally, and what they mean individually. It's fine to have your own set of definitions for words. It's also fine to appropriate words or clusters of words to attempt to describe something that doesn't have its own word. At the same time, though, you need to be aware of the universal definition when you're interacting with other people, especially when your definition isn't the same. You can't just spout off something and expect someone to immediately grab the usage that is particular to you. No. More than likely they will automatically fall into what the collective has decided that word or phrase means. So there's a responsibility there, in the language you use and the words you choose. Every single thing you say leaves an impact, and you need to be aware of what that impact will be. It's not enough to hide behind I didn't mean it that way or That's not the definition I use if it's the definition the majority uses. If you want to be understood, sometimes you have to go with convention a little bit. You have to think about the person you're speaking to and how they're going to interpret what you're saying, how that interpretation is going to affect them, and if they're actually going to understand what you're trying to convey. You may prefer your definition over all others, but if you can't get across what you mean, then what purpose does it serve?

I could use a better example, and you've probably gotten the sense I'm talking around something very specific, but I'm not that much of an attention junkie to slice myself open just now, and not quite so vindictive as to call up the flaming torches. I much prefer setting my own fires, anyway.

Along the same lines comes the topic of not saying things for the seemingly noble reason of protecting someone else's feelings. I will tell you right now: that's bullshit. The only reason for not saying something is because you're afraid to, and that has nothing to do with the other person. The more you don't say something, the more you lie, and lying doesn't protect anyone.

The point is: before you open your mouth, think about what you want to say. Think about the best words to say it. And if you know it isn't taken the right way, try again. At the very least, say that. 

The Unremarkable Confessions of a Drunken Lover

Give me another -
one part Jack, six parts truth.
Make mine a double,
'cause I'm still standing.

I measure my day in moments of you.
Clutching talismans of unacknowledged import.
My skin nags its ache for you -
nothing quite so sordid, I promise -
just your hand in mine.
Your Self occupying that
so conspicuously empty space
next to mine.
Oh, it's such a cliche...

I cast us as Romantic period lovers
forbidden ever to touch -
Romeo and Romeo,
sans suicide.
I'll use words to immortalise you-me-us
so Someday When
university students can pour over my lines
with apathetic glances
and giggle-whisper over hidden references
I never meant to put.
How many adjectives will it take to contain you
in rhyme and meter?
Vespertilian.
Ethereal.
Magnetic.
Addictive.
(My personal favourite.)

I'll pen epics in your honour.
Become that quintessential knight
questing for his lady's -
sorry. lord's
affection.
Will I ever win his hand?
This poor Pinocchio with naught but dreams and hope on offer.
And his heart.
His heart not once wholly given to any other.
Is that sacred enough to sway your favour?
They've killed all the dragons, love,
but there are monsters still to find.
Just name your price, I'll pay it.

I admit:
all those soppy sentiments and angst-ridden poets
waxing on love lost and not quite grasped,
I looked on with contempt and derision because
how could I -
that ever changing and unchained creature that is me -
how could I ever need another for completion?

But you.
With your quiet looks and unassuming ways.
You with your strength, your honesty,
your untamed muchness bucking to be free.
Have captivated every part of me
and pushed me toward the ranks of all those desperate
to personify and dignify and legitimise their love's desire.

So drown me.
Consume me.
Absorb me.
Transform me into that thing I crave.
Let me join the queue
of tricked out boys all saying:
oh, baby
let me fuck u hard
let me make u cum
let me swallow u
possess u
but just for tonite
but just if u can get me off

Okay.
I'd say those things, too,
given half a chance.
But it wouldn't sound right;
I'm working with higher ideals.
And proper grammar.
Usually.

So let's give this a whirl:
Oh, baby,
let me slip inside your soul,
that tricksy, shining thing you are.
Let me have all those dreams
you're too afraid to wish for,
and hold them still for you to see.
Sink sink sink into me.
But just if it's forever.
But just if you get off on that.
Let me keep you safe every tonight.

But damn, boy.
It's hard work trying to differentiate
from all those faceless names
spouting off all those selfsame words
until I love you is just code for
Hey, babe, I wanna fuck you.
And I won't deny - I can't compete.
But what I lack I make up in sincerity.

And damn, boy.
I spend so much time
trying to be pure and true,
for fear of you just hit-and-running
while denying all the ways
I want you
until all my atoms are just chanting your name.

Okay. Okay.
Just one more round,
and then we'll go.
I promise.
Same again?
I know the shape size weight of your fear
and all it's holding back.
But I'm wondering how many more times
I'm going to make jack o'lanterns in my chest
before you believe
I won't leave you damaged and lost.
I'm in it for the long haul,
and I'll carve up yet another toothy smile
if that's what you need.
Because the shape size weight of my heart -
as ever -

is you.

Mine Was A Penguin

Since my last sermon, a lot of people have commented with regret or admiration for what I've been through or that I've gotten through it. I never really know how to respond to that because... I don't see it that way. Yeah. I've come up against some difficult things. I've had to deal with some extremely difficult people. But it's not something I carry around with me. Jinks said once: You just have to say these things, and once it's out of your head, you're done with it. It's gone.

I don't give up on things, that's true. Just about everyone who knows me has had to persuade me to not clamber over, on, or around a No Entry sign at least once (both metaphorically and literally...). But I don't see that as necessarily something to be admired or praised. It's gotten me into trouble a few times. It can be quite alienating at others. But mostly it's just the only way I know how to be. It's not like I made a conscious decision one day that I was going to leap mountains to achieve my ambitions or some other lofty ideal that actually is worthy of admiration. No.

Think more along the lines of that bee that keeps running into the kitchen window because it can't figure out there's a pane of glass between it and the outside world. Yeah. That's me. And every so often I bash around long enough that I find some other opening, or someone gets sick of hearing me and shoves me themselves.

Either way, the admiration makes me uncomfortable. As does the sympathy. They're both impractical reactions. There's no reason for you to apologise for something that some person you've never and more than likely never will ever encounter did too many years ago to count. And my life isn't so bad that I deserve to be admired for getting myself out of bed each day and just getting on with it. So let's talk about more worthwhile things.

Like this quote from <a href="http://azizriandaoxrak.deviantart.com">Jes</a>, who always has awesome quotes:

I gotta say. One of the worst and scariest things about the world for me is that anyone, absolutely ANYONE can be a "bully" to me. It's knowing that people will take the opportunity to "bully" me because my body lets them know that I am available to be "bullied" by them.

And not knowing whether the violence is going to come from people I already know or complete strangers just makes it worse, and there are days when I am terrified of PEOPLE because I don't know which people are dangerous. And there are plenty of times when I think I HAVE to be weird for thinking like this.

I am a feminist because I believe that NO ONE has a right to "bully" others because they were born with the right color skin, the right set of genitals, the right income bracket, the right version of love. And I HATEHATEHATEHATE that bullying is divorced from the systemic factors that feed into it. And I HATE that there's so much heart-warming-church-charity-two-week-program-that-will-drop-it-and-never-pick-it-up-again BULLSHIT.

But knowing that there are other people out there who GET IT, who I CAN reach and I CAN talk to - that helps, and it's something that I didn't have in high school, and it makes it, for me, about 500000000X better. And since I can't change THE ENTIRE SET OF SYSTEMS OF DISCRIMINATION right this very minute, I like to be able to turn to people who are trying to work through "bullying" in its many forms and let them know: it is possible to take what has happened to you and use it to make you stronger, and there are and will be people out there who can help you, so just HOLD ON.

A Few Brief Lines

Originally posted on deviantART.


So everyone's talking about Spirit Day... I might as well do it, too.

I wrote something on it a few days ago. Not specifically Spirit Day, but the concept behind the month in general.

Here's the deal:

I think it's nothing but good that time and energy is devoted to making the masses aware of a problem. I really do. All the people who offer support and crawl out of the woodwork to wave their flags, absolutely fantastic. Pat yourselves on the back. But this isn't a one day thing. It's not a one month thing. This is an all the time thing.

Wearing a button or a colour or reposting memes to your Facebook page doesn't do anything but give you a warm, fuzzy feeling because you've performed some socially appropriate action.

I know, I know. I should be grateful that the social norm is deigning to recognise that I deserve to be treated like a real, live human being. I should be extolling the virtues of every one of you who shouts to the world: my best friend is gay and s/he is such a good person. I should get all choked up about all the people who wear the buttons and repost and squeeze onto the wagon. Otherwise I'm just bitter, right?

Well, no. And this is why I don't do those things: because - and, yes, I'm aware, this doesn't apply to all of you, but it applies to enough to merit being said - how many people will repost anti-bullying slogans or attend some rally and then turn around - and without even thinking about it - sneer at something for being "gay" (as in the apparently accepted definition synonymous with "stupid", "lame", etc.)? Or shun that girl at work because she's a little weird? Roll your eyes at the overweight guy in the restaurant?

There are a million little things that people do and say all the time without bothering to consider the impact it has on the people experiencing it (and this applies to a lot of different areas; not just this). There are a lot of ways to bully someone besides the obvious.

Which leads me to my next point.

There is a massive focus on the gay and lesbian portion of the community. Fair enough. A majority of my friends are part of that community. They don't have it particularly easy. That said. They're just the ones that show above the water (iceberg reference out of nowhere; I'm aware. Moving on...).

The queer community is vast and diverse, and encompasses a lot of things that each have their own unique issues and difficulties. I, for one, don't fit into any particular category. I prefer that; I shy away from labels whenever possible. I can take on various ones in certain situations, and I do, because I have to function in a world where I am anything but the norm and I get tired of explaining the intricacies of my identity and personal life to every random person that happens along. I don't fit into the binary gender system. My concept of sexuality is riddled with shades of grey. I'm involved in a relationship that defies all sorts of convention and description to the point that we'll both readily admit we have no idea what we're doing or how it's all going to play out.

From that standpoint, trying to find my footing within the queer community, let alone society as a whole, has been precarious at best. I've come up against a lot of hostility, a lot of ignorance, and a whole lot of pre-judgement. And some of the most hurtful, dehumanising and derogatory things that have been said to me have come right out of that same community. The straight people I've encountered (and this is just my experience; I'm aware that others have very different ones) tend to be a little too curious and occasionally thoughtless and uninformed, but generally not malicious. The queer community - particularly the gay/lesbian portion - has not been so nice.

This, I think, is even worse than whatever ridicule is thrown at me from the heterosexual vantage point. These people, after all, claim to be safe and understanding. They claim to include my interests with their own (and time and again the advocacy groups have flat out refused to argue for protection for the BTQ portion in order to secure something the GL segment wants). But these things get overlooked and unspoken for various reasons. The community needs to show solidarity, or whatever. A lot of times, though, the end result is the feeling that no one is actually on your side because you're not [adjective of your choice] enough, or maybe just because you're a little too [adjective of your choice].

The point that I have taken a very long time to get to is this: straight people are not the only ones who can be bullies. Gay people are not the only ones who get picked on. And this is not something that should only be thought about once a year.

Related
A Comment about LGBT Rights and Spirit Day by AzizrianDaoXrak
Spirit Day is Coming by NicSwaner
LGBT Spirit Day by GrimFace242

Esse Est Percipi.

A year ago today, my father died.

In reality, he was gone a long time ago. Sometimes I'm not entirely sure he was really ever there to begin with. For a majority of my life, he showed symptoms of dementia. It made things difficult. Really difficult. For most of my life we didn't know what it was. A lot of the time, I just thought my dad was a massive asshole.

What teenager doesn't?

After he died, I found journals he'd written to me when I was a kid, which is the only reason I know he showed symptoms that early. I spent a long time trying to puzzle over whether knowing that changed anything. I still don't know. Because not all of it can be attributed to the disease. There were choices he made that impacted other people. There were secrets he kept that we'll probably never know, and the scary thing about that is I was one of those secrets and it wasn't until the end he was able to come clean about it, so what secrets didn't he ever tell?

The problem with grieving for my father is that I saw him as he was, which gets in the way of being the dutiful son. Around his family, around those who loved and respected him, I feel like a fraud because I don't foster the belief that he was some sort of saint.

My father was a deeply flawed individual who never learned from his mistakes and never seemed to make the right decision, regardless of his intentions. I've been told he had good intentions, and maybe he did, but I'm equally aware that there was a good amount of selfishness directing those good intentions, too.

I remember sitting beside his bed day after day and the only thing I could think of to say to him - no, it was more insistent than that. I had to make sure he knew Jinks.

A year later I still can't reconcile how I feel about my father or his death. I still can't wrap my head around it. And just like a year ago, I don't say much about it. But it's there. Something broke in me last October and it hasn't been put right yet. I know that much.

But life doesn't stop. So you pack it up and keep it in its box and you go like nothing touches you.

---

FREEDOM
[Not exactly true, but not entirely a lie.]
I watch your mouth move in silent incantation.

          I want you to know about Sam. I need you to know about Sam. Out of everyone, you would probably understand our relationship. You would probably be able to explain it to me.

          You’d like him.

          He’s just like me. But good at all the things you wanted me to be good at. We’re even the same age, so you could pretend.

          Do you know that this is it, this is your last chance to say all the things you never did? Are your secrets finally coming out? All those things you planned to tell me. One day.

          They left me alone to talk to you, but alone is relative. The room hums and beeps with machines whose functions I can’t even guess. Beyond our curtain of privacy, George watches Antique Roadshow. An orderly puts Ralph back in bed. The son of the man (whose name I don’t know because he wasn’t here last time) next to you talks about his wife and their plans for the weekend.

          I look at your unfocused eyes.

          I watch your lips move.

          I don’t know what to do.

          The words stumble and jerk from my mouth, trying to be normal. Like this is any other conversation we might have. Except you don’t talk back. Except I don’t know if you’re listening. I feel raw and exposed inside our curtain of privacy.

          I talk about school and my friends.

          I talk about the things I’ve read.

          I talk about Sam.

          I’m supposed to tell you it’s okay. I’m supposed to tell you I’ll be fine. I’m supposed to tell you that you can go. That’s the phrase they keep using. Like you’re just going on a trip somewhere.

          It’s not true. There are truths you haven’t told and things I haven’t learned. There are questions.

          You always hated my questions.

          Why do you always have to ask why, you’d say after the tenth or twentieth round. Why can’t you just accept things the way they are?

          Because I want to know why, I’d say.

          You could be speaking a language we’ve all forgotten. You could be reciting the secrets of the universe. You could be describing the face of every angel and we’d never know.

                   The last time we talked about faith I was nineteen and it was raining so thick the wipers couldn’t keep up. You kept picking at every thing I did, but you couldn’t drive in the dark by then and it was my car. For God’s sake, put that out, you said about my cigarette. God can fuck himself, I said back.

          Do you still believe in those things?

          I’m not sure I do, but sitting here, I need to.

          Two days before I landed, you still squeezed the nurse’s hand when she asked. I’m afraid to touch your hand because it might break. Every vein shows through the translucent skin and swollen knuckles spasming against your chest. I place my hand beside yours and for once yours look smaller. Cold. Dry. No matter how many times I ask, it never moves.

          I get the irony, but I need to know you know I’m here.

          Beyond the curtain, a priest asks the orderly if someone’s in with you. The orderly tells him he thinks it’s a nurse. I know I should tell him it’s okay to come in, but I’ve run out of words.

          I hold your hand.

          I will you to squeeze it.

          I watch your lips move.

          It could be complete gibberish. You’ve been off the feeding tube for four days. You haven’t spoken for six. God knows where you are because you’re not behind your eyes and no one knows why you’re still alive.

          I can’t remember the last conversation we had.

          The priest talks to George about the show. They talk about sports and how the Steelers are doing this season. The priest asks how long ‘the nurse’ has been with Father Anthony. George doesn’t know.

          I still can’t speak.

          I’m desperate for someone to break our silence.

          I’m terrified someone will.

          Your body jerks. Your mouth moves.

          It could just be muscle spasms. The neural paths in your brain finally broken down after twenty years’ decay.

          I wish you could’ve met Sam.

          I stand over you so I can look into your eyes. My eyes. My nose. Even the hands pinned to your chest are mine.

          This is what I’ll look like.

          Evelyn is beyond the curtain, talking to the priest.

We won’t be alone much longer.

You move your lips. I search your eyes.

I don’t know why I never told you about Sam. I didn’t tell anyone for a long time. Maybe because all I know is secrets and holding them tight. Maybe because it always took too much explaining, like I knew it would. Maybe because they all want to put us in a box, and I knew that would happen, too.

We are what we are. That’s what Sam says, and that sums it ups. Tied but not bound.

What would you say?

What would you say…

You should love your friends, you’d tell me. There are many types of love.

I wish you would speak. More than anything. I just want you to speak.

In three weeks when it’s all sinking in and I’m lying on his floor, Sam will ask: What do you want to talk to him about?

I don’t know. I don’t know, I’ll say. Anything. Everything. Stupid shit that doesn’t mean anything. I just want one more conversation.

I put my hand on your forehead. It’s hot against my palm. You close your eyes and your mouth stops moving. There’s just the heave of your chest and the twitch of Parkinson’s in your arms. The machine keeping oxygen in your lungs.

Do you have a boyfriend? you asked, last time I was here. I didn’t tell you I’d already answered it the day before.

No, I don’t have a boyfriend. The question made me feel tired. Like the effort of strapping myself to a person, a place was a physical undertaking beyond my means. Like the effort of explaining that to you again was even worse.

A girlfriend then?

No. No girlfriend, either.

What about that Charlie fellow?

He was my roommate.

He’s a good friend?

Yes.

That’s important. As long as you have good friends, you’ll be all right.

Evelyn peeks around the curtain and smiles. Her cheerfulness is a force I feel guilty for clinging to. ‘Father Tim is here,’ she says. ‘Is that all right?’

I nod, but my mouth is empty. You keep stealing my words with your silent incantation.

That was the day you forgot my name. The look on your face as you looked at me like I was anyone and no one. That’s the look I can’t forget.

I cleaned you up and left you in the living room of your sister’s house and dodged past relatives I barely knew and questions in a language I no longer grasped. Cousins chasing after me in childish fascination to giggle at my strangeness.

I inhaled an entire cigarette in one breath.

I called Sam.

He told me stories until I laughed. Until they called me back to the frontlines because in that house full of good intentions no one ever did a damn thing.

You kept apologising and the look on your face was even worse than the one that didn’t remember. I smiled and said okay. I told you it was okay to forget me.

Fr. Tim clutches a smile that says he doesn’t know what to make of the tattooed and pierced man with purple nails to match the purple hair having a private audience at Fr. Anthony‘s deathbed.

The last time I visited, my hair was blue and you told the nurse we were going to dye yours, too.

None of them know what to make of me.

‘Tim, this is Zee,’ she tells him. ‘Tim visits all the TORs.’

I just nod and take his hand. I don’t know where to look.

‘That’s an unusual name,’ he says. ‘Are you named after that actor? What was his first name…?’

‘The author.’ I lose some of the syllables, but at least I make a sound.

He looks confused, but the smile stays. He reminds me of a bulldog.

‘He wrote westerns.’

‘That’s right. So are you a fan of westerns, then?’ Like he’s the first person to ever ask it.

‘No.’ I hate that question. I’ve never told you that. ‘I just watched them with him.’ I give you a half-nod.

‘It’s really good to meet you, Zee. Obviously, not under the circumstances, but I’m sure Fr. Anthony appreciates you being here.’ He still hasn’t let go of my hand. ‘Have you known him long?’

You lie between us.

Your mouth moving.

Your arms twitching.

‘Yeah. Awhile.’

‘Oh?’ The smile warms, like this will explain everything. How many kids did you mentor in my lifetime? How many in your career? ‘You’re from the parish?’

‘No.’

The handshake is no longer a handshake, but a tether holding me still. ‘My mistake. How do you know Fr. Anthony?’

I’ve been your secret for so long I don’t know how to answer. This should be your job. Your confession. Not mine.

Evelyn nods. ‘Go on.’

‘He’s my dad.’

‘Ah.’

We hang there while he tries to decide what to do with that. I wonder how many times I’m going to have to do this.

‘It’s good you’re here. Shall we pray?’

He anoints your forehead and we all join hands. A priest on either side of me. I can’t get over the way your hands feel. Tissue paper. Plastic. Something not human.

They close their eyes and bow their heads.

God of power and mercy, you have made death itself the gateway to eternal life.

          I watch your mouth move in silent incantation.

Look with love on our dying brother, and make him one with your Son

          If I could decipher what it means, I would have all the answers.

in his suffering and death, that, sealed with the blood of Christ,

But even after a lifetime of reading other people’s lips, I can’t read yours when it really counts.

he may come before you free from sin.

I murmur my way through the Sign of the Cross without hearing the words. Two decades out of the church and I can still recite every prayer in my sleep. 

Amen.

          Fr. Tim shakes my hand again. He leans over and clasps your hand with more bravery than I’ve managed. ‘I’ve got to go now, Tony. I’m off to see Richard. Do you want me to deliver a message for you?’ He looks at me with that standard-issue smile. ‘Your dad and Richard are old friends from the TOR. I always stop and ask if he wants me to give Richard a message.’

          I nod. I’ve heard this story. Last time I was here, you told me every day I was in town. It ended every phone call.

          You kept saying you were going to visit me when you got out.

          We’ll see, I’d say, knowing you never would but lacking the ability to actually say no. Not when you called it a prison. Not when the nurses were guards divided into Good Guys and Bad Guys.

          ‘He always gives me the same message, don’t you, Tony?’ He pats your shoulder and your gown slips down over painfully articulated clavicle. ‘Freedom, that’s the message, isn’t it? ‘Tell Richard ‘freedom’! Is that what you want me to tell him, Tony?’

          I never was sure how much of that was a joke and how much you really believed. It’s always been like that. We just have a name for it now.

He pats your shoulder again.

          Your mouth makes it shapes.

          She walks him out and I’m left standing over you again. I pull up your gown and straighten your blanket until it’s a perfect line across your chest.

          I try to find you in your eyes.

          I think about the last time you visited. Your eyes were going then, and your balance. I held your hand every time we crossed the street.

          I can do it myself, you said as we made our way down Oglethorpe. You used to say that all the time. Just a little thing. I’d try to help, but you’d just stamp your foot and cross your arms. I can do it myself, you’d say. I feel like that sometimes.

          I know, and I feel sorry that you can’t. Help me cross the street.

          I think about your night terrors and wonder if that’s what traps you now.

          The idea terrifies me.

          I smooth the last of your hair into some sort of order. It never really stays, though. I got that from you, too.

          I’d pray if it didn’t feel like a lie.

          ‘I’m okay, old man,’ barely louder than the mysteries on your tongue, but my skin wills it into yours. ‘Just go.’

It Gets Better?

As per usual, I'm going to throw a series of loosely related topics at you with the expectation that you can keep up.

A few years ago, the It Gets Better Project was started as a way to inspire young LGBT people faced with bullying. I respect the intention. I do, but every time I've watched one of the videos I've had this sneaky little thought in the back of my mind: Liar.

As Anti-Bullying month rolls around yet again, I watch the various memes and images flying up on Facebook about ways to deal with bullying and yet again I find myself with a vague distrust of the propaganda. Yes, bullying has become and increasingly serious problem for a lot of teenagers, though I find the term 'bullying' too light for those situations. The thing I find lacking from all these messages of hope and inspiration is anything practical or useful. It's all well and good to say, now, children, we need to all place nice and respect each other.

Anyone who's ever been to high school - hell, anyone who's ever been a teenager - knows that's just not going to fly.

And this is the problem I have with It Gets Better.

It doesn't. It just gets different.

Yes, you graduate high school and move out into a wider pool. It's a little easier to find people like yourself, people who will be positive and supportive influences on you, and who accept you who you are. But those other people - the ones that want to tear you down because you're not masculine enough, not feminine enough, not traditional enough, not smart enough, too smart, too skinny, too fat, etc. - all of those people will still be there.

There is always going to be someone who wants to tear you down just because they can. Maybe they're afraid of you. Maybe they're afraid of what you represent. Maybe they're just downright nasty, mean-spirited people. Who knows. But they aren't going to go away just because you go to college or move out of your little town or any other change you might make.

I've lived in three different countries, and six different states, and every place I've been, those people have been there. Some places have been better than others. Savannah was refreshingly odd; Galway delightfully artsy. But even in those places, there were insults yelled out of windows, having to fight for a job I was more than qualified for because of my sexuality, being refused service at a bar for the same. One benign and silly night a friend and I were followed down the street from Supermac's by two very large and very drunk men who cornered us against a shop front until I spouted out the Our Father with perfect accuracy.

Thank God they burn that shit into your brain in Catechism.

I've been mocked by cops, banned from my partner's family functions, belittled, degraded, threatened, intimidated, just about the whole gamut and let me tell you - the stuff after high school was way scarier than anything they did to me during.

So instead of telling kids who are bullied that everything will magically resolve itself once they escape adolescence and just reinforcing how beautiful, amazing, wonderful, special, etc. they are, what we need to do is tell them the truth. We need to teach them how to handle it, when to ignore it and when to fight back. Soft and fluffy will only get you so far; if you're going to be different in this world and survive, you need to be strong. You need to be fearless. You need to be prepared for what's going to come at you.

Along the same vein, I've been prowling various LGBT forums for information and I have to say it's been one of the most disheartening experiences I've had lately. I'd forgotten why I started keeping my distance in the first place.

Because, sweetheart, and this is the really important part: straight people aren't the only ones you need to be wary of. You think there's this big, loving community waiting to welcome you with cookies and open arms? Try walking into a gay club as a bi, femmey transboy and you might as well just stamp PARIAH on your forehead.

The amount of ignorance and pure hatefulness coming from the L and G directed at the B and T (particularly the T) is astounding. It's one thing to just not understand the specifics (again, particularly with transgendered issues; it's complicated, confusing and varied. Unless you're somehow personally associated with those issues, you're going to be lost), but the number of posts in response to legitimate questions and concerns that ran from the benign I don't think it's right to the much more hurtful You shouldn't exist is something else entirely, and no less damaging than the drunk redneck screaming fag out the car window. In fact, potentially more damaging because these places are promoted as safe environments to ask questions, get advice and information and develop a sense of identity.

Then there were the more well-intentioned, but equally misguided, responses. One stuck out to me in particular, and if it hadn't been from three years ago, I would have added in my two cents. The poster was in a relationship with a transman, accepted and supported the transition, but felt guilty because she occasionally wished he had been born biologically male. That it would be easier. All the responses basically made it out like if she really loved him, she would be okay with it. 'Love will solve everything.'

Yeah. Right. But that's another topic. Probably for another time.

The fact is, what that girl needed to know, is that her boyfriend probably felt exactly the same way sometimes. It's normal. Being transgendered is hard work, and the truth is, it would be easier to be born the correct gender.

And that brings us back around to giving people seeking advice the soft and fluffy answer. It might make the person feel better temporarily. It might give them a little ego boost and a momentary sense of empowerment, but what good is it going to do when they find themselves back out in the real world with all it's unyielding hardness?

Not a damn thing.

If you want to help someone, give them facts. Give them truth. It's the only thing that lasts.