Voices

Amidst the chaos in my head
     Two voices sound the loudest.
Once claims that God has sent him
     To save me from my sins
The other screams He'll save
      me first.
The shouting match echoes
      and reverberates

Amidst the other chaos
      of family, friends and life.
The demon voices tell me
       they will save me
           from myself.

Pieces of Me

I left my heart at home wrapped
     in satin
        and placed in Mom's hope chest.

I tore my soul out of its hiding
     place
         and left it home with Dad.

I shattered hope
     gave it to my sisters
And shredded happiness
     to give to my brothers.

I tore my faith apart
     served it to the angels
And hollowed out the shell of me
     and gave what's left to God.

Now all I have's the shell
     you see
         And that I left for me.

What My Spirit Needs

What is the spirit? Where do we come from? Where are we going? What happens after this life? What is the purpose of this life? As we struggle to answer these questions, either from day to day or at the approach of death, we all come to terms with some aspect of our spirituality. From Hinduism to Buddhism, from Christianity to paganism, or from atheism to Judaism,  humans struggle to find the answers to the questions of life and the afterlife. But the true question that often gets asked is, "Who has the truth? Which religion is the right religion for each one of is? And is there a single religion that contains within it the truth?"

The truth often seems subjective. One truth seems to be more true to one person than it is to another person. I have been raised a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and at the age of eight was baptized, wholly immersed under water and then raised up spiritually cleansed of original sin. I went on a mission to the Tokyo North Mission when I was nineteen and struggled to teach people what I believed to be true. I felt like I was pushing my beliefs onto others and felt I was committing my own kind of sin. I struggled for ten months on my mission (a mission usually is for two years for men), but I felt alone and forsaken during a period of my life that was supposed to bring me closer and closer to God. I, however, felt the furthest away from Him than I have ever felt in my life. I was confused, alone, and just wanted out. I wanted that part of my life to be over, so I took thirty-seven Prozac pills, hoping that someone would listen and praying that the pills wouldn't kill me.

After getting my plane tickets home and living a semi-nomadic life, going from home to home because my parents were on their own mission in Manaus, Brazil, I still felt alone and forsaken. Beside feeling alone, I felt like I was a failure. The one time in my life that I had committed to God and I had failed to stay the whole two years. The weight of guilt on my spirit continued to be weigh on me. I was a sinner and an abomination to God. All I wanted was for life to be over. I just wanted to start over or end it all.

Over the years, I have lost my the faith of my childhood. I have not been to church in a long time and only find myself praying to God when I feel like the world is crashing down around my shoulders. However, in my struggle to find myself in the arms of God, I have looked into other forms of spirituality (Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism, etc.) and have still not found that one gospel that feels like home to me. There are parts of Buddhism, Taoism, and Christianity that ring true to me. But how do I take parts of all three and make them central to my beliefs about life, love, and God?

During my search for truth, I was reading from the poetry of Rumi, a thirteenth century poet. In The Essential Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks, I discovered there are lots of spiritual metaphors and allegories that began to roll off the pages. In the poem "Moses and the Shepherd," Moses chastises the shepherd because the shepherd gives human qualities to God because "such blasphemous familiarity sounds like/you're chatting with your uncles.../The shepherd repented and tore his clothes and sighed/and wandered out into the desert" (165-66).

After the shepherd abandons his prayers and wanders into the desert, Moses hears God's voice chastising him. God says:

You have separated me/from one of my own. Did you come as a Prophet to unite/or to sever?/I have given/each being a separate and unique way/of seeing and knowing and saying that knowledge./What seems/wrong to you is right for him./What is poison to one is honey to someone else./Purity and impurity, sloth and diligence in worship,/these mean nothing to me./I am apart from all that./Ways of worshiping are not to be ranked as better /or worse than one another./Hindus do Hindu things./The Dravidian Muslims in India do what they do./It's all praise, and it's all right./It's not me that's glorified in acts of worship./It's the worshipers! I don't hear the words/they say. I look inside at the humility (166).

God chastised Moses because he took a man from his worship because Moses believed that how the shepherd was worshiping was wrong and he strove to fix the shepherd's wrong worshiping habits. However, to God, it wasn't how the shepherd was worshiping Him, but "it's all praise, and it's all right." God is not looking at how and what the people say when they pray, but He "look[s] inside at the humility" that the worship shows.

When I read "Moses and the Shepherd," I realized that it's not how I worship God, but that I do worship God. It takes humility to turn to someone that you don't know, a higher power, and turn to Him for strength, putting faith in Him no matter how hard life gets. God isn't looking at how I worship him; He is looking at the humility in my heart. So, if I am Christian, Buddhist, Taoist or take properties and teachings from all three, it doesn't matter how I worship. Truth is truth and what might "seem[]/wrong to you is right for [me]" and "What is poison to [you] is honey to [me]." My spirit needs what is right for it and no one else.

Within The Branches

There was a happy, blooming lilac bush that grew in the front yard of the first house I lived in. The lilac bush stood tall in front of the house next to the driveway and next to the free flowing ditch, in which I spent many Summer days splashing myself and my siblings. The cool water caressed my skin and while cooling me off, was feeding my happy lilac bush. Six weeks of the year, the lilacs blossomed and filled the air with their sweet fragrance like sugar in the air. I used to rush toward them and pick some of the flowers, inhaling their fragrance like it was the only thing worth smelling and feeling the velvet caress of the flowers against my face. The beautiful purple hues danced with the wind as the wind played its springtime harmonies among the leaves and the blossoms.

There was a hiding hole within the arms of the lilac bush that protected me from being the first one caught in hide-n-seek because the full leaves and flowers blocked me from view; however, after a while, everyone caught on and knew that I was hiding within the safe confines of my favorite lilac bush. Sooner than later, I had to find a new place to hide. Though, occasionally, I returned to my friend and her loving embrace.

Within the branches, I was the discoverer of a new world. The insects I saw climbing the branches and crawling along the ground were the inhabitants and I was a giant that came to keep watch over them. The red ants marched along the branches and leaves, cutting off small pieces of leaves with their pincers and carrying their heavy load down to their queen and to the hive. The shiny black and red ladybug spread its wings and flew from my grasp as I tried to watch it climb all over my hand. The birds became angels that danced from branch to branch singing their hymns of praise and thanks. The robins with their red breasts waltzed through the air and the branches occasionally stopping on the Earth to pull a worm from the Earth's embrace. They were beautiful creatures that were lucky enough to be able to inhabit the world within my world.

Within the branches of my friend, I felt safe and didn't have a care in the world. I sat in the middle of her branches and daydreamed. I mingled with her leaves and looked out at the clouds floating high above me creating shapes and creatures of cotton. I talked with her blossoms and sang with the wind when it broke through her shelter; the gusts of wind whispered its notes in my ear.

I miss my old friend. I wonder if she is still standing tall in front of my old house or if she was cut down to make way for widening sidewalks or roads. I wonder if nature took her back through erosion and decay. Deep down, though, I hope that she is still standing. I hope that she is giving some new adventurer or observer the protection she once gave me. I hope that her fragrance still fills the air and her blossoms still give color to the spring. I hope that some young one has found solace withing her embrace, within her branches.

"I'm Me. Pretty Classy."

I owe special thanks and apologies to Dr. John Goshert, Utah Valley University professor, for introducing me to Faggots. The apology is for not being brave enough to read this book in public when I had the free time. The cover has the profile of a naked man bent over and the title is Faggots. The fear kept me from reading the book for fear of what others might think. So, thanks to Dr. Goshert for assigning this book for the class to read for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender (LGBT) Literature class and sorry for not reading it when I was given the chance.

In the novel Faggots written by Larry Kramer, he writes, "Now it's time to just be. Just like I have [hazel] eyes. I'm here. I'm not gay. I'm not a fairy. I'm not a fruit. I'm not queer. A little crazy maybe. And I'm not a faggot. I'm a Homosexual Man. I'm Me. Pretty Classy" (361). I read these lines two months ago. Faggots has inspired me in so many ways, especially towards the end of the book when Fred Lemish gets this "aha" moment. The novel gave me my own "aha" moment.

I have been labeling myself as gay since I was thirteen years old. I saw this part of myself and was disgusted with it. I heard, over and over, the disgust and hatred that others felt for me when they called me a "fairy," "faggot," "queer," or "fruit." I felt and internalized that disgust and compounded that disgust with what an abomination I felt  i was when discussing homosexuality in church. I have seen myself in that light since I was thirteen years old. Imagine the toll that took on my teenage mind.

However, as I read the words of Fred Lemish via Larry Kramer, I've begun to erase such negative thoughts and see myself as "Me. Pretty Classy." I am a good person who also happens to be homosexual. It's hard to try to re-write my own views of myself, but since I can't change what others think, I can change myself and what I think.

Fred Lemish also says, "What I want is better though! No. Just different. I'm going to have enough trouble changing myself. Can't change everyone else too. Can't change those who don't want to change. I want to change. I must change myself. Allow myself something better...Be strong enough for Me. I feel better (362). I am making this a personal mantra to "Be strong for Me" and tell myself "I love you" five times. The world is a harsh enough place for everyone. Why should I continue the cycle and add to the harshness by making myself less than me. "Pretty classy" is what I am and nothing less. I'll start changing me and that will make the difference. 

Nothing to Fear?...Or is There?

Fear is my own personal manager. Fear manages what I say and do because the fear of hurting or offending someone reigns in my mind. I am a passive aggressive person and I think, beside being my personality flaw, I am a passive aggressive because of this fear. "What if someone is offended? You probably shouldn't say that." "What if someone's feelings get hurt? You probably shouldn't write that." Also, "What kind of example are you setting? You probably shouldn't do that." These kinds of sayings or one-sided conversations resound in my mind.

Fear has kept me silent and that same fear of hurting, disappointing, frustrating, destroying, etc., keeps me lying. The lies just flow out of my mouth unpracticed and unbidden, but they naturally flow out of me because I don't want to hurt anyone. Lying has become habitual because of the closet I lived in for so long. I didn't want people to reject me because I was gay, so I lied. I put on the fake facade and lived life with two masks; one mask I wore for the public and one mask I wore in public.

 I tell lies and omit truths because I don't want to hurt and I don't want to be hurt. I have protected my heart for so many years and the shell of my heart is hard to break. Some closest to my heart have hurt it before. When I finally allowed myself to come out to family and friends as gay, when I was twenty-five, some of them didn't take it as well as others and said some things that have scarred me. Being compared to pedophiles and people who sleep with their animals (bestiality) is not the most welcoming and loving things to be compared to and made me cry. I was very hurt, so I lie to keep this from happening again.

I lie to others to survive and hope that we don't come to a confrontation; I fear confrontation. I don't want to have to confront anyone, but this is mostly because at the height of my emotions in a confrontation, I feel like my words escape me and my voice goes missing. I often end up not communicating correctly what I feel or want to say. Then, I feel like I can't breathe, so I lie.

How do you learn to stop letting fear and lies control your life? It's a serious question which I don't have the answer for. Fear and lies have been with me so long, they are almost second nature to me. They are part of the flawed personality that I have created over the years. How do you change things second nature? Do you start "one day at a time?" Is there a Liars Anonymous group I can go to? Or is it not a fixable malady like malignant cancer that wasn't caught in time and just takes over, becoming the ruler that kills its host? All I know is that if it is cancerous, I have to find a way to rip it out and keep it out so that my relationships can become stronger and last longer. But how?

I Dream Dreams

In honor of Martin Luther King Jr.,  a great man who was one of the spearheads of the Civil Rights Movement and gave his life for that movement, I have been given a chance this month to dream my own dreams. I have seen the great movings of progress in our nation once again and I've seen the efforts to stifle that movement, keeping the progress stagnant; I have seen great movements for the progress to move backward. I have seen heads held high with pride and heads hidden in fear and shame. I have seen pain and have seen joy. Through it all, I have seen dreamers continually dreaming. So, I too have dreams.

I have a dream that one day marriage will not be determined by which sex you marry, but by the love you share. I have a dream that love be demonstrated from coast to coast through simple and big acts. I have a dream that my children and future generations will be able to show the world that who they love is not something of which to be ashamed. I have a dream that with their partners' hands in theirs, they can walk with heads held high and show the world how deep their love is.

I have a dream that people will identify one another as human beings and not place each other in identifiable boxes that separate each of us, rather than unify us. I have a dream that we can each share the aspects of ourselves rather than hide in the dark closets we have built for ourselves. I have a dream that with heads held high, people can be proud of who they are and not hide in shame and fear.

I have a dream that each child can walk to school without fear of violence and without fear of being bullied. Schools should be places for learning, not fearing and hiding. I have a dream that students feel like they have a place to go where their opinions matter and they are accepted for who they are and not in what box they have been identified. I have a dream that fear does not play a part in their lives.

I have a dream that the men and women who serve this country will continue to protect us, but that they will come home safe from a war that seems so futile. I dream a dream of peace and life free from corruption. I dream a dream of love over hate; love becoming the ruler of our minds and hearts. I dream of safe schools and zero tolerance for violence and bullying. I dream of peace and love. I continue dreaming dreams.

The Clock is Ticking

My biological clock is ticking, and sometimes it ticks so rapidly that I think I am running out of time. Let me put it more plainly than saying, "My biological clock is ticking," because I am human and I come closer to death everyday. What I really mean is that I want a family. I want a husband and I want kids; one kid would be nice but two would be better.

I know it is not common for gay men to want kids. Some would argue, "Isn't that the point of sleeping with men, to negate the possibility of kids?" I suppose for some gay men, not having kids is indeed one of the perks of being gay.

However, for me, a family and being a devoted husband and a devoted father to my kids has always been important to me. In fact, I have been picking out names for my kids for years. (The current names I have picked out are Holden Alexander and Cadence Elisabeth.) I know, "How gay can I be?" But the heart wants what the heart wants. I have always known that I wanted to be a father. I just wish everything else in my life was so certain and necessary.

I want a husband to help raise our progeny. We could do surrogacy or adopt. I would love to see a little me running around and a little one who looks like my husband, whomever he will be. But, I also know that there are plenty of children in the world who need a loving home to go to when this world is cruel to them and they need someone who loves them to tell them they are loved and everything will be okay.

This is my dream that I dream and I know that it is possible. However, until I meet my future husband and we have a home to provide for children, I will continue to remain a dreamer and my biological clock will continue to tick away. Tick, tick, tick.

This Grudge

I hold grudges. This is not new, nor is it newsworthy, but it has recently become more evident as I think about my childhood and why I feel, about the Church, the way I do, that I am holding a grudge against the Church and God. The Church, which is actually used to signify the Holy Roman Catholic Church, but in this sense, I mean the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, has been like a sibling who needs all the attention and leaves the other kids wanting for affection from my father.

Before I keep going, I want all to know, who read this, that I love my father. I want that to be understood. He is a good man and a great example of what a man is and how that man should treat the ones he loves. He has always treated my mother like a queen and a goddess. When we disrespected her, in anyway, her only punishment for us was the mere mention of telling our father and we immediately apologized. I think fear of the wrath of a father is a pretty common childhood threat. And although he never actually struck us or physically hurt us, we were still afraid of him. Perhaps, afraid is not the right word because it leaves no room for the respect we had for him, but I will use afraid for now.

Now, getting back to my original subject of the Church and its status as a needy sibling, I will explain what I mean. When I was born, my dad was Bishop of our ward in Richfield, Utah. A bishop is the leader of a specific group of the flock (I use flock because Jesus said he is a shepherd and we are his sheep) within the city and he is under the Stake President, the Quorum of the Seventy, the Quorum of the twelve, and the prophet and President of the Church. A Bishop's job is never done. My dad was always at the church dealing with confessions of sin, activities with the youth, Sunday meetings that seemed to last all day, and so on. Because of my age and my need for the comfort of my mother, most of the time the absence of my father, at that point in my life, was only partially noticed.

The calling of Bishop doesn't seem like much, but I forgot to mention that my dad was a seminary teacher for the Church Education System (CES). A seminary teacher teaches the youth of the Church on more in-depth conversations of the Bible (The Old and New Testaments), The Book of Mormon, The Doctrine and Covenants, The Pearl of Great Price and the teachings of the latter-day prophets. My dad was gone all day with his job working for the Church and then, after dinner, would do his duties as the Bishop.

My younger, hungrier sibling, the Church, was not satisfied with this sacrifice and, soon, demanded more of my dad's time. During the first few weeks of summer, my dad, with other seminary teachers, began to take buses of high school graduates on tours of Church historical sites like Nauvoo, Carthage Jail, Kirtland, and the Sacred Grove, the site where Joseph Smith had his vision of God and Jesus Christ, telling him about the true church and his role in bringing it about in the latter-days. So, my dad became seminary teacher, Bishop, and tour guide for my hungry, needy sibling.

Every once in a while, there would seem to be a reprieve and the Church seemed well fed and sated, but the rumblings of the Church's belly began to ache with hunger and need. My dad, after being released as Bishop, was called to the position of Stake President of the Richfield Utah Stake. He was in charge of all the members of the Church in Richfield.

The Stake President was just a check in the balance of protecting the souls of God's children. When the sin was big enough that the Bishop couldn't take care of it within the power given him by God, he sought the advice of the Stake President, his counselors, and the High Council (a council of men within the stake chosen by God to overlook important matters.) So, the Stake President was needed much more often than the Bishop because his flock was much larger. Also, because the flock was human and always sinning.

My dad, therefore, was gone from dawn to nine o'clock at night. And my sibling, the Church was still very needy, but I had reached the point in my life where my mother's affection, though still important, was not enough for a growing boy. I needed my dad and, on the rare occasion that the Church didn't require him, got the chance to receive his affection.

However, I think now would be a good time to say that my family does not consist of me, the Church, and my parents. My actual breathing siblings consists of seven older siblings, Loren, Marci, Kirsti, Josh, Adam, Beth, and Kim, and two younger siblings, Jaclyn and Stephen. We are, what many people in Utah call, a stereotypical "Big Mormon Family." In fact, when people hear the size of my family, they always ask, "Did your parents not own a TV?" Anyway, not only was the affection of my father being vied for by my mom and the Church, but also my nine siblings. His affection, all to myself, was very hard to come by back then. He is a great man, but I'm afraid he couldn't work miracles and create more time in a day to give each one of us time alone with him.

My dad, the Stake President, husband, father, teacher, tour guide, and devoted Christian to the Church, gave what time he could to his family, but the hungry, needy Church required more and more and more. When I was turning twelve, the Church decided it needed more from my dad and gave him a promotion. I know what some might be thinking, "Geez kid, stop complaining. Your dad got a promotion with better pay to take care of you." I should have been happy he was promoted to Area Director of Seminaries and Institutes in South Eastern Utah, from Vernal down to Moab, and his office was in Price, Utah. I should have been happy, but my own personal hell was lived in that town. Often, I felt very much alone.

My family was uprooted from my home and birthplace, Richfield, to be moved to the armpit of Utah aka (well, at least to me) Hell on Earth. The most formative years of my life were spent in utter misery due to bullying and what appeared to be the absence of my father because the Church required him to travel a lot. Price is where my grudge and resentment towards the Church began. I did my best to survive Price and the bullying and still believe the Church's truth and importance in my life. However, the Church's stance on gays allowed me to loathe myself and the Church's demand for so much of my father's attention and affection made me a jealous person. My grudge had developed into a callus and a distrust of the Church, its teachings/doctrines, and the leaders of the Church, which demanded so much of my father when I needed him most.

Perhaps, now that I understand the formations and beginnings of this resentment that festers within me, I can learn to let it go. I can go forward and form new opinions of myself and the Church. I can learn not to cringe when I hear the prophet speak and learn not to cringe when my parents say that they know someday I will come back into the Church's arms and teachings. And perhaps, I can learn not to base my views of myself from experiences many years ago. I can stop loathing myself because the Church, that I once loved, taught it's flock that I am an abomination in the eyes of a God. Perhaps I can stop hating the Church and God who took my father from me to serve Him. Perhaps I can let go and stop allowing others, or the Church's opinions, affect me and my own opinions of me.

Perhaps...

Is it too much to ask....

Is it too much to ask for a Christian nation, such as the United States of America, to be more Christian in their judgments of others. I can hear it on the streets and during Gay Pride parades where people are spouting off their "Christian" dogma. "God hates fags," is written on signs and the same is spouted by these people and sometimes their children. "Homosexuals are gonna burn in hell," another Preacher yells.

Sometimes worse sayings are recited by people who claim to be messengers of the gospel of Christ, but as far as my knowledge goes, in regards to the teachings of Jesus Christ, he did not say to speak ill of your neighbors or teach people to hate. Christ told his people, "Love thy neighbor as thyself" and "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me." When we judge and are cruel to one another, it is, as Christ said, as if we do the same to that Christ we claim to believe in and follow.

Love was what Jesus Christ taught. Love unconditional, or charity (the pure love of Christ), is the true requirement of a follower of Christ. I may not have attained perfect love, but I am doing my best. Because, when I meet my maker and his beloved son, I want to stand tall and say that I did my best and know that a merciful God will judge my heart before condemning me to Hell or welcoming me into Heaven.

So, is it too much to ask for all of us (gay/straight, black/white, male/female, Muslim/Jewish/Christian/Buddhist/Hindu etc.) to follow the admonition of a great man and historical figure and love one another, refraining from the negative and unimportant judgments? Because we are all fallible and sin filled people. We will be judged by an infallible, omnipotent, and merciful God. Leave the judgments to the Being that can see into the heart of a person and judge justly. As Jesus said, "Judge not that ye be not judged with the same judgement." And finally, "Love thy neighbor as thyself." So, just love. Is that too much too ask?

Is it too much to ask....

Is it too much to ask people to stop using the phrase "that's so gay" as though it is synonymous with "that's so stupid?" You might see being gay as an insult or something bad, but it is no more an insult than someone being Catholic or Mormon; straight; black or Hispanic; or male or female. "That's so gay" is a ridiculous saying and is only demeaning to the person saying it because that person has fallen into falling in line with the popular people and prove that it is hard for him/her to think for himself/herself.

The phrase has become so commonplace that I can't go anywhere today without hearing people use "that's so gay." The other problem with it's frequent use is that people only feel like they need to apologize for its use when they know that the person they say it around is gay. I have been around co-workers and friends, even some family members, who say "that's so gay" and then quickly turn to me and apologize. To make it worse, however, I simply shrug it off and say, "That's okay. Don't worry about it." Simply shrugging it off takes away from the awful phrase and its unfortunate effect on the phrases continuing use. By shrugging it off, I am telling those co-workers and friends, "Go ahead and use it. Just don't use it around me."

"That's so gay" is not something that should be continued in everyday conversations, much like swearing. My mother, on swearing, has always said that people who swear can't think of better words to use and show their knowledge of appropriate dictionary words when they can't speak without swearing. This same idea can be applied to the use of "that's so gay" as a demeaning statement. Is it too much to ask for people to consider their words before they speak and allow their intelligence to show?

What Makes a Man

What makes a man? Do sex organs make a man? His mannerisms? His sporting ability? Is a man the combination of these, as long as he is tough, macho, doesn't cry when he is hurt, and he is able to have any woman he wants? Are these things what makes a man?

I grew up with four brothers and five sisters. I played Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with my youngest brother, Stephen, outside and in the mud, but I also played Barbies with my sisters, Jaclyn and Kim, in the model home that they had for their Barbies. I played games outside and played house inside.

I was a member of the Boy Scouts of America ( I know. "Gasp, the Boy Scouts had a gay among their ranks and didn't kick him out." Shocking, I know.) I went camping, put up tents, tied knots, and did all the other things required of me to get my merit badges. I watched my older brothers, Loren, Josh, and Adam, while they played sports and flew airplanes on top of the roof of the old house, and secretly, I wanted to be like them; they were so tough and epitomized manliness.

But, I also loved to pick flowers and smell them. I loved to help Mom in the kitchen, making spaghetti or baking cookies and cakes. I loved to help Mom plant the garden. As I grew, I continued to do things with both my brothers and my sisters; some of my likes and dislikes come from my brothers and some come from my sisters. Must I purge my sensitivities for harder, more masculine traits?

I was not born with the natural ability to kill animals during hunting season. Also, I was not able to kill fish when, on an odd chance during fishing escapades with Grandpa, I caught a fish. In fact, the best part about going fishing with Grandpa was not that we caught fish. On the contrary, it was just being with him and looking for deer in the fields close to the lake. We drove around for hours looking, with his spotlight, for deer and occasionally, Grandpa would let me hold the light and shine it out on the fields to discover the deer and point them out to everyone else in the truck. I felt so grown up when he would let me be a part of that world.

However, on that rare occasion that I caught a fish, Grandpa was so excited for me. We were usually members of what he termed the Bum Fishermen because we never caught anything and he was the president of the Bum Fishermen Club. But on this occasion,I caught a fish, and after fishing for a little bit longer, we drove back to Grandma and Grandpa's house. I excitedly showed Mom and Dad my catch and then ran to show Grandma.

At that point, I had no idea what was required of a fisherman. I just knew that Grandma would prepare the fish in a butter and lemon juice mixture, in tinfoil, and she would cook the fish to perfection. Grandpa pulled me over to the sink and told me that I had to clean the fish. I honestly thought that it just meant cleaning the exterior of the fish, but Grandpa grabbed a knife and put it in my hand. He had me slit the belly of the fish and then told me that I had to pull the guts out. I told him I didn't want to do touch the guts because they made me squeamish.  He told me I caught the fish and it was my duty to clean it inside and out. I didn't want to do it, but I didn't get a choice. I fulfilled my duty as a fisherman, but never fished with Grandpa again. I wouldn't even eat fish until that was my only choice (but that is a story for another day).

I was not born with the ability to play any type of sports. Well, volleyball was a sport that I was okay at, but let's be honest, volleyball is often considered a feminine sport. Part of the reason I didn't play sports, in addition to my inability to play and my desire not to play,was that I was born with a muscle growth between my ureter and my kidney that was taken out when i was three or four. (I have a big nasty scar on my side to show for it.) Because of this invasive surgery, the doctors told Mom that I would have to be careful and not play any contact sports, so I was banned from playing football, soccer, or even participating in karate. So, as to sports, they are not my thing.

I guess the notion of male and female gender roles and their fulfillment have become obsolete, in my opinion. Because we are who we are, mannerisms and all the life experience tied up in one fleshy being. We need to stop defining in terms of male and female, and rather, we need to define people in terms of what makes a human a human.

In terms of society and medicine, I am male. However, I am sensitive and some movies and other beautiful, artistic things (art, music, writing, poetry, etc.) make me cry. I have an artistic soul and see beyond just the physical. I have some masculine traits and mannerisms but, also, feminine traits and mannerisms. Does having both traits make me anything less than me? I think I am going to start using what God said in the Bible, when naming himself to Moses. It is not longer "I am male hear me roar" and watch me thump my chest. It is now "I am that I am." Nothing less!

Sticks and Stones

Do you remember the rhyme that states, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me?" What a world it would be if words really never hurt you. The thing many people don't understand is words may not be physically as painful as a kick to the gut or a fist to the face, but words can be just as damaging, if not more damaging to the receiver.

Fat, fatty, sissy, pussy, faggot, worthless, stupid, and other playground names may seem harmless or they may make the person yelling them feel better, but the problem with the words is that the person being bullied, after so long, begins to believe that they are worthless or stupid because they've heard it enough; the brain begins to believe that what it hears is truth and the bullied kid begins to see himself/herself as stupid, fat, sissy etc.

Even as a thirty-one year old gay man, because of my experience at Helper Junior High School in Helper, Utah, I can look in the mirror and the words that were used to attack me, unbidden, come to my mind. I begin to think of myself as worthless and fat. I call myself fag or faggot with the same hatred with which the words were spewed at me. A beautiful day, in the blink of an eye, is turned into a bleak existence of self-hate and self-deprecation. The bleak days turn to prayers to God to end my miserable existence because of a few words that weren't supposed to hurt me.

I wish I could say that the days get better as you get older (perhaps some days do, but I am never without feeling inadequate) and I wish I could say that ignoring the awful opinions of others becomes easy, but I can't completely tell anyone that it does become easy with better days. The days still turn bleak. My prayers often turn to pleas for the world to end. However, the key to controlling your thoughts is remembering that you can change what your mind is telling you WHO are, to you telling yourself WHO you are; the memories no longer control your perception of you, but you control your own perception. And finally, bleak days turn into clearer skies with the occasional dark cloud blotting out the sun.

Words do hurt, but we can make them sting less. We can give the words less power over us, but practice and time are the remedy. For now, just brush the words off your shoulder and tell yourself that you are beautiful.

My Eulogy

I've found it. I know what I want people (family or friends, it doesn't matter) to read at my funeral for my eulogy. I know it sounds morbid for a thirty-one year old to even be contemplating death and a funeral, well, really, a cremation and the services, but a man has to be prepared for the unexpected or the possible unfortunate day when the darkness wins and my body loses to my mind to take the life inside. I'm not saying suicide should ever be considered, but I'd be lying if I said, when the darkness has risen to its strongest and the abyss is ready to swallow me whole, I have never considered killing myself. To lie about never being consumed by the darkness and considering death would be stupid; the darkness has been with me a long time. I have been fighting it off since I was a teenager. So, I prepare for the inevitable end.

My eulogy is from Willa Cather's My Antonia, when Mr. Shimerda fights homesickness and loses his battle with the dark, he takes his own life with a shotgun shot to his head in the barn. After all the preparations are made, (the coffin is built; the frozen ground is broken and dug up; and Mr. Shimerda is lowered into the ground) grandfather is asked to pray for Mr. Shimerda.

Grandfather prays, "'Oh, great and just God, no man among us knows what the sleeper knows, nor is it for us to judge what lies between him and Thee.' He prayed that if any man there had been remiss toward the stranger come to a far country, God would forgive him and soften his heart...[He] asked God to smooth the way before [those left behind] and to 'incline the hearts of men to deal justly with [them].' In closing, he said we were leaving [him] at 'Thy judgement seat, which is also Thy mercy seat."'

I want to acknowledge the just God that I know is merciful and will see my heart along with my actions and will judge me mercifully. So, whether by my own hand, the hand of another, or nature takes me, I want whomever prepares my services to eulogize my life with this great quote. And then God take my soul.

Mirror, Mirror

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" said the Queen from Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. To which, the Magic Mirror responds that the Queen is the fairest in the land. What if each of us had a mirror that told us we were the most beautiful and fair, ignoring obvious flaws i.e. fat, moles, glasses and any other physical flaw that is seen as ugly or undesirable? Hopefully,  we would leave our houses feeling beautiful and proud.

In Junior High, I was a victim of bullying. I struggled everyday with other kids calling me fag, faggot, queer, fudge packer, cocksucker, etc. You name it and they called me anything that equated with being gay or being a sissy. The students hurled the barrage of cruel and demeaning names. Most of the time, I didn't have any idea what they were talking about. Through all of the name calling and bullying, I suffered and suffered.

While the bullying was mostly verbal and psychological, the emotional toll, those years took on me, has stayed with me and the wounds fester. The memories are a constant scab I continually pick at and make them bleed. No matter how much council I seek, I find the memories too strong and painful to always overcome.

What I wouldn't give to have my own Magic Mirror to tell me how fair and beautiful I am. Perhaps, the daily positive verbalization would help to destroy the negative memories that are always inside my head telling me that because I am gay, I am a second class citizen and deserve nothing this world has to offer me or that I deserve to be called names. If I had the Magic Mirror, the religious me would stop saying, "You're going to go to hell if you kill yourself and you're going to go to hell for being gay, so you might as well get it over with and kill yourself."

Bullying is a modern-day warfare tactic that is not waged with guns and bombs, but with words that could kill by bringing the bullied to take their own lives. It is a plague that emotionally and psychologically damages and destroys. It is amazing how many types of bullying there are today. Schoolyard bullying was the only bullying that I experienced, but today, I fear for the youth because of all the social networking sites (Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, etc.) that allow kids to bully from wherever they are. Zero tolerance in schools and on the social networking sites needs to be implemented, so that people understand that it is not okay to make others feel like they are unimportant and that life is not worth living. Stop the hate. Stop the violence. Stop the bullying.