mystery man

So I found out from a friend of a friend that a friend of a friend three hours away is equally fed up with the gay community at large. Fantastic. Who is he? Pictures are stolen (willingly offered) from facebook and exchanged through the friend tree and what do you know? We are both cute. Stories are then exchanged through that friend tree. Turns out we are equally hysterical (Martha Stewart is indeed a classy, frosty bitch and I love her for it.) Loose plans are made for a "chance meeting" in January. I, for one, start falling for the mere idea of someone who is cute, funny, and intelligent enough to know that the world isn't about him and him alone. That itself is probably a bad idea but in a world that seems to be falling down around us, what else can you hope for but ideas? There is a new development, however. Apparently this mystery man found my blog through that friend of a friend and has been raptly reading my musings. I will not, however, be boxed up and shipped via FedEx to Minneapolis. I have a car and gas money and that seems a far more comfortable way to travel. (Insert winking emoticon.) Listen mystery man. You are tots cute too. Get your facebook back, or at least stalk around enough to find my email. I did, but I lost my nerve. (Is there an emoticon for nervous shame?)

you go girl

It seems weird to title a post about feminism with "girl" but it's a queer saying along the lines of greeting a friend with "Hey girl, hey!" so I am sticking with it. Consider it inter-marginalized-group lingo.

When I applied to graduate school, my personal statement articulated that I am gay. Coming out to a graduate admissions panel made my ultra-liberal undergraduate advisor pause, get up from her desk, and run next door to talk to her partner Nick. Was it okay? Should I not bring that side of myself up in such a situation? Thankfully, Nick's expert advice (which, in the end, correlated with Dr. Capo's gut instinct) was that it wasn't necessarily a bad decision as long as it was in the right context, aka I wasn't using it to get a pity vote for admission. Had I been told to take it out, I wouldn't have. You see, according to my personal statement for my M.A. program, a critical literacy autobiography (for Dr. Blakely's Theory and Research in Composition course), and an autobiographical essay and analysis (for Dr. Post's American Autobiography course), recognizing I am gay was a critical turning point in my academic career. I wasn't lying. It was a part of the culminating moment when I turned away from my future as an Architect, when I turned away from the prospect of a high-paying job, when I turned away from a childhood dream. When I came out I did it because I knew the world wasn't fair but I also knew I wasn't about to accept it. Coming out, in a way, led me to study literature, to study who gets it and who doesn't get it and why, to study what it is like to be disenfranchised, to study how these systems of oppression are created and sustained.

Tonight, however, I watched A League of Their Own for the first time in years and I had a memory, or multiple memories that aren't really memories; I had a feeling. I remember watching that movie with my mom and my sister. I remember the night my mom took me to see First Wives Club. I remember growing up with a definite sense that whatever men could do, women could do it and do it better because, damn-it, you just can't keep a good fighter down.

Until tonight I had never really considered who planted the original seed of social justice in my head. It certainly wasn't mass media. The same people who, up until Philadelphia, refused to portray gay people in a positive light are running around behind the scenes supporting cultural hegemony for the (imaginary) man / woman binary. (Did you know that scientists have identified at least five biological sexes? Seems to me like this whole man paired with woman by the grace of God and biology is *tisk, tisk* a societal construction.) It certainly wasn't the church. A woman's place is serving her husband? Well that's a bunch of bull shit if you ask me. Not that marriage is inherently bad but if men can't hold their own then they might as well just nominate themselves for a Darwin Award and watch some more football.

I realized tonight that one of the best things my mom ever did was to pull a Donna Harraway and sneak around (consciously or unconsciously) blurring the boundaries in the minds of her children. Movies like A League of Their Own and First Wives Club instilled in me early a sense of the differences that society constructs, the way it uses people. Those movies (thanks, Mom) set me off on the right foot, primed me for the path I am on now. It was a nice revelation to have, and, in a way, it answered some of the questions that I just don't get to ask my mom.

What did she think of feminism? I never got to ask her before she died but I can picture her sitting at the dining room table with her coffee, reading her daily devotional. If I asked her that question she would have gotten that indignant look on her face, crossed her arms and spoke her mind in that matter of fact, I grew up slaughtering chickens and sewing my own clothing voice. "Women can do it too, Marc."

You go girl.

live and learn...

...and then re-write your story.

So for those of you who don't know I want to write. I can go on and on about the power of literature and how it changed my life and how I can't wait to be behind the podium teaching it but the truth is, I don't have the balls to go all Stephen King, take a shit job, and write Carrie during my fifteen-minute breaks. I need something with a little more security (read health care and enough money to keep me swimming in Gap's latest line of argyle sweaters) than that.

I do, however, write. I journal, I have several short stories in notes and in my head, I blog. Most importantly, though, I keep stories in my head. I think about how stories are constructed. I dissect the plot lines of shows like Weeds and The OC. Every time I talk to my brother I get some new idea for how I would (will) portray him in my book. The mental process doesn't often stop. So when really good things pop into my head I have to write about them.

Last night my brother and I did a long, drawn-out face regime involving no less than six products and and a power tool (bathroom variety, dahling). The end of the regime started with a flirtation with a bronzer that injects Vitamin C into your face from the first dusting to the next time you plug in the Clarisonic scrubber. According to my brother we looked catalog perfect. My brother neglected to tell me, however, that the bronzer transfers to fabric easily and hence my new, white, zip-up hoodie was a bad choice. The hoodie spent the last twenty-four hours soaking in a sink of cold water.

A few minutes ago I decided the hoodie had suffered long enough so I started wringing it out. Word to the wise: a fully-saturated white, zip-up hoodie weighs more than you would think. It was so heavy, in fact, that I announced it to my brother. The conversation went something like this:

Jon, this is heavy.
Oh yeah?
No wonder people drown! ... You know, I wrote about this in an award winning story once. The lead character rescued a woman on the Titanic because she couldn't swim under the weight of her dress. When faced with the real thing, though, I am beginning to doubt that my pre-pubescent lead character could have done any better than the woman wearing the dress.
Award-winning story, huh?

The point wasn't that the story was juvenile and mostly shit (just slightly less shitty than all of the others) or that one shouldn't wear white while applying vitamin bronzers but rather that writing is a never-ending process. I wrote that story when I was in seventh grade. I wrote it on a whim and didn't expect to either submit it or win anything. When I lifted that (excruciatingly heavy) hoodie out of the sink my mind went immediately back to that scene when the lead character, in a daze after watching his grandmother die, wades into the water spilling into the D-Deck reception area, finds, and saves a young woman who was about to succumb to the weight of her saturated dress.

And this is why I need to write--because I can't stop thinking in stories.

holding pattern

Two of my friends announced their engagement to my roommate and myself tonight. Amanda messaged me saying she had news and that we should join her for a drink at Cafe Baudelair. I was anticipating an engagement announcement and while I was exited both for the news and for the couple in question I felt a bit numb on the inside. The conversation at the bar merged seamlessly from talk of engagement and the impending wedding ceremony to feminism, standpoint theory, and racial / economic privilege but my mind never really left the topic of marriage. To understand my obsession we have to go back a week or so to a completely different conversation in completely different circumstances.

My undergraduate advisor at Illinois College, Beth Capo, is currently teaching in Japan on a Fullbright scholarship. Prior to her departure from this continent our conversations were limited to facebook messages and chats at The Three Legged Dog when I was home on break. For an extend stay in Japan, however, she branched out to Skype. It felt weird to Skype her when I saw her online for the first time--academic relationships are often defined and redefined by barriers--but the conversation that ensued was surprisingly comfortable. In passing I mentioned my jealousy that she was in Japan--think of it, a new apartment, a new culture to experience on a daily basis, new foods, new drinks, exciting and challenging teaching experiences. Her response was typical Capo--instead of basking her the glow of her experiences she flipped the emphasis back to me. "Think of how jealous people are of YOU. I am not joking. You live in Iowa." Yeah, I do live in Iowa, a state that not only guarantees the rights for gays to marry but has, since its inception as a state, a long history of civil rights victories. Her statement called for pause and reflection.

That reflection, which in the style of my thinking rolls around in my brain's washing machine for days, is combined with my recent interaction with a fraternity for gay and progressive men and the ensuing explosion of friends and acquaintances who are of my, well, let's say persuasion. That reflection came to a head tonight when celebrating the engagement of two friends in combination with near constant thoughts of where I will end up at the end of this year when I graduate with an M.A. in English literature.

When I first moved to Iowa I was convinced that I was moving to the white trash, hick, backwater state of the midwest. I couldn't have been more wrong. Imagine my shock when, months after my arrival, Iowa made gay marriages legal. Whatever I end up doing after this bout of schooling, I would prefer not to leave Iowa. Living in a state that prizes civil rights at the sake of "social comfort" for the majority of conservative, white, middle class, Christians has been a cherished experience and I am not ready to give up that comfort.

Thoughts like these--a strong desire not to leave the land of gay marriage combined with increased interaction in the gay community combined with confronting an engagement head on--have led me to wonder the following: what would I do if I found myself in a committed, lovign relationship in the next year? It is, of course, entirely situational--it depends on the relationship. But let's suppose I found myself in a relationship where I was truly happy, where I could be myself, bare all emotion and reciprocate that process in a mutually beneficial way with my partner. Faced with the great unknown that comes at the completion of a degree, what would I do? Would I propose? Would I get married? Hypothetical questions that are, by and large, futile in a time when I have no prospects of any relationship, not to mention one that is committed. Nevertheless, they are questions perfectly suited to my mind--one that always reaches ahead to the the "what ifs" in its path.

Then we reach the part of the analysis that begs the question what does this line of thinking mean in a more meta context? Perhaps I am more ready than ever to take on a relationship? Does that mean I am looking? Perhaps, perhaps not. Some days I am convinced that I am not looking for a relationship. Other days I am convinced I am ready and unconsciously on the prowl. In the end it will be time that tells the truth but for some reason this particular line of thought and introspection has given me something resembling peace of mind.

Earlier tonight my roommate and I had a conversation about dates that trouble us. My particular date is always September first--the anniversary of my mother's passing. We talked about how it is important to be around for each other on days that are troubling to the soul and she apologized for not being there for mine this year. "Jordan," I said, "I wasn't available on my day this year. It wasn't you." It was at that point in the conversation that I realized I was doing something important for the process of recovery on that day. I was playing kickball with the men of Delta Lambda Phi, making friends, discovering people, discovering things about myself. I was living and growing, which is just what my mother would have wanted me to do.

And these questions, "What would I do if...?" lead me to believe the same sort of thing. I am still simultaneously out there and in here. I am living and growing constantly, steadily making the slow transition from closeted, insecure man to self-accepting, hopeful, open man. I think sometimes that this progress is all we can ask for.

too close for comfort

Sometimes music falls out of the sky (in a digital feed from iTunes) randomly (on the day the album is released) and hits pretty close to home (especially for emotional saps who long ago learned how to process emotions through song). Thank you MIKA for understanding what it is in my head (a fairly universal situation, to be honest) better than I know it myself. I had to do the gay gasp when I heard the lines in stanza four.

I See You--MIKA

I'm standing across from you
And dreaming of the things I do
I don't speak, you don't know me at all

For fear of what you might do
I say nothing but stare at you
And I'm dreaming
I'm trippin' over you

Truth be told
My problems solved
You mean the world to be but you'll never know
You could be cruel to me
While we're risking the way that I see you
That I see you [3x]
That I see

Conversations
Not me at all
I'm hesitating
Only to fall
And I'm waiting, I'm hating everyone

Could it be you fell for me?
And any possible similarity
If its all, how would I know?
You never knew me at all but I see you
But I see you [4x]

I'm standing across from you (But I see you)
I've dreamt alone, now the dreams won't do (But I see you)
I'm standing across from you (But I see you)
I've dreamt alone, now the dreams won't do (But I see you)

Truth be told, my problem solved
You mean the world to me
But you'll never know
You could be cruel to me
While we're risking the way that I see you
But I see you [4x]

I'm standing across from you (But I see you)
I've dreamt alone, now the dreams won't do (But I see you)
[4x]

But I see you
But I see you
But I see you

facebook freakouts, gay squeal and spins, and toe bashing

Bid night was stressful for me which really isn't saying much; I stress out every morning when I pick out an outfit. Stress set in a month ago when I realized I had class from 6-9 on bid night. It got worse when I forgot and scheduled an appointment for 9, directly after class. It got even worse when rumors circulated that decisions would be made by 8pm and I would be unavailable. It got slightly better when class got out 40 minutes early and I was back in my car pacing the streets of Ames by 8:50.

I ended up settling in at my apartment watching Rachel Zoe and drinking a beer. Then rumors started circling that nine was the new eight. Ten quickly became the new nine followed quickly by ghastly rumors that eleven was going to replace ten. At approximately 9:50 I received a text message asking where I was. I was at home. On my couch. Watching Rachel Zoe. Drinking a beer.

Meanwhile facebook was busy ruining the secrecy and suspense that I imagine bid nights were back in the day--all the gays were busily messaging back and forth, fingers flying in a frantic rush of questions and support. "You are totally in, there is just no way," was mixed right in with "There is always a chance I rubbed someone the wrong way" and "Knock on wood right now!" Not quite the idealistic picture of deep introspection while waiting for official word.

Eventually I couldn't stand the pressure and my roommate and I descended to the parking lot where I commenced chain smoking. I really did try to pay attention to her recap of her day--reports, an event, a request to organize a meet and greet / fundraiser for a senate campaign--but my mind was running over and over the time that had passed and the signal my phone was getting: "How is it that I only have three bars?! Four is optimum! No 3G?" At one point the gay squeal and spin came out and I got pretty dizzy.

Then a red car pulled up with four guys in it. Four guys never travel together in this town, at least not four guys with FANTASTIC hair. Slowly their faces came into focus and I lost the power of speech. Ben, Darin, Chris and Joe got out of the car and all I could muster was an accusatory, "what are you doing here?" "We are here to offer you a bid to Delta Lambda Phi." That's when all hell broke loose. I moaned as my left hand went up to my face and my right hand went up and dropped my cigarette. "Have you been smoking because of us?" asked Joe. "I have been chain smoking because of you."

To make a ridiculously long story short, they explained my bid papers, invited me to a dinner on Friday and gave me a round of hugs (during which I stepped on Darin--he won't admit it but I totally did...my Kenneth Cole's totally stomped his awesome blue slip-ons). Then they were off to the next house and I was back to the gay squeal and spin.

Meeting these men was awesome. Getting to hang out with them (and do things I never dreamed I would do) was awesome. Realizing that I would be fine with or without a bid was worthwhile. Learning about myself was first rate. Getting a bid was priceless. Trying to calm down is going to be difficult.

the luckiest

Back in the day when my ego and superego were much more at odds with each other than they are mow, I dated women. Not a ton of women--I have always been the kind of guy who wants something serious--but enough for me to finally realize that I wasn't kidding anyone, especially myself. Despite the fact that I have written all the time since I was very young, I have never been very successful at writing what goes on inside my mind. This is also why I will likely never be well-known for my writing. Hence, in order to describe these intangible emotions I would send them through a song, a burnt CD and a note often left on someone's car with a single flower. In hindsight it seems slightly stalker-esque but for the sake of my sanity let's just say it was evidence of my flare for drama and romance.

Looking back on this part of my life I regret what I did. I regret that I wasn't strong enough to tell myself the truth and I regret that my lack of strength hurt people, especially those women. I also regret that I gave some of that music away. I am all for memories--they are a huge part of how I function--but sometimes I get tired of reminding myself constantly that I hurt people, I get tired of walking down the road to self-blame and guilt every time I listen to those songs that I gave away.

And so I am on a mission. I am reclaiming those songs. I won't shy away from them on my iPod anymore, and I will work on forgiving myself. Because one day when I find someone to love I want to be able to give him those songs that describe the way my emotions work and not be sad. I want to be happy.

Starting with this extremely special number by Ben Folds.

The Luckiest

I don't get many things right the first time in fact, I am told that alot
Now I know all the wrong turns and stumbles and falls brought me here
Where was I before the day that I first saw your lovely face, now I see it every day
And I know that I am, I am, I am the luckiest

What if I'd been born fifty years before you in a house on the street where you lived
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your, bike would I know?
And in a wide see of eyes, I see one pair that I recognized
And I know that I am, I am, I am the luckiest

I love you more than I have ever felt the way to say to you

Next door there's and old man who lived to his nineties and one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife she stayed for a couple of days and passed away
I'm sorry I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong
That I know that I am, I am, I am the luckiest