365 Days Of Me: January 3 -- Good News, Bad News

I don't watch the news.  I absolutely refuse to even stay in the room when my husband turns on the TV to see what is going on in the world.  According to the news, there is nothing good in the world, and it's explained to you in roughly half an hour, with a short break to tell you the weather, and how one team was victorious over another.  Then back to more bad news.

Okay, sure, they do have a couple of happy pieces, like a girl who raised 300 dollars despite her terminal cancer to help find a cure by opening a cookie stand, or the woman who finally found the son she put up for adoption 30 years before after getting gang raped while vacationing in the Bahamas, but those a few and far between.

My husband, who needs his fix of news at least once a day, says that I am putting my head in the sand about the world around me, but I don't think that is true at all.  I see it as sticking my head where the sunshine will fall on it instead of the rain and sleet.

---

There is a gentleman that I know that holds me in pretty high contempt.  I'm sure if you were to ask him his opinion about me, he would say something along the lines that I was a self centered attention whore who does absolutely nothing to make the world a better place. 

I know the exact moment he had formed this opinion of me, it was during a conversation we had while sitting at a Bear Run hospitality suite at around 2 in the morning.  I was tired, but too stubborn to go to bed just yet.  I had a plastic cup of M+Ms in front of me, which I was sipping like a fine wine, and he was sitting across from me, nursing a beer.

"Do you realize the power you have?," he asked me, his voice revealing a bit that he was what I call "Honestly Tipsy".  It's just enough alcohol in your system to make you more honest than you would be without touching a drop of alcohol. 

I took another sip of M+Ms to give me time to process this question which was apropos of nothing we had been discussing, and while I crunched away, he just stared at me, waiting for a response.

Finally, I said, "Well, what kind of power are you talking about?"

He set down his beer, leaned onto one shoulder and said, "You know, I've been watching you all weekend, and everytime you say something, someone turns to listen to you.  That isn't a power that everyone has.  I know I don't.  But instead of making a difference, you just make jokes about something that someone put into their asshole."

I clenched my teeth together as I choked back a sudden laugh, imagining a shard of M+M shooting out of my mouth and blinding someone.  In doing so, I began to cough, which was almost worse, but I was able to get myself under control.  The guy sitting next to me gave me a healthy clap on the back, not that I needed it, but he was a brawny hunk of a man and any body contact from him was very welcome.

Once I got control of myself, I opened my mouth to say something in response, not really sure of what it was going to be, but he continued on as if I hadn't had my little laughing/choking fit.

"I just don't understand it.  I figured that since you are a minority in a minority, that you should stand for *something*." he said.

There was an uncomfortable silence at the table, as if something had just made a joke about a midget not realizing that there was one just standing just below the line of sight while standing by the table.

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully, "Some people are meant for soapboxes.  Some are meant for spotlights.  I freely admit that I choose to be in the latter."

The man let out an exasperated sigh and said, "But what good do you do by only being in a 'spotlight' as you call it?  How do you help others with it?"

"I think making people laugh does a lot of good." I said a bit defensively.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe, if we all made a difference instead of what we wanted, we wouldn't *need* to laugh?" he said. 

I had to replay that question several times in my head to make sure I understood him correctly.  Was he actually insinuating that if I got up on a soapbox and made some sort of passionate point, that people would feel so good that they wouldn't laugh?  

"You know," I said, no longer choosing my words with care, "it's that sort of thinking that starts religions, you know.  In fact, any sort of passion without reason is a great catalyst to most cults, wouldn't you say?"

That was when he went off.  I thought for a second he was going to climb over the table and give me a hearty, manly bitchslap.  The M+Ms would have flown everywhere.

I could try to recall everything he rambled at me, but it would take me forever to sort out and make into any sort of logic or sense.  Instead, I will give the gist of it.

Apparently, I'm a dick.  A dick of the highest order.

---

Unlike the gentleman I just described, there was another man I knew who I always referred to as my Favorite Activist.  If there was a cause for gays and lesbians, he was either on the front lines, or on the phones rallying the troops.  But unless you asked him directly, he never really made much of an issue with it.  His passion was to help gay teens, probably stemming from the fact that when he had been a teen, he had attempted suicide not once but twice.

In my imagination, I always pictured my Favorite Activist as the leader of an Underground Resistance, complete with a beret and a no nonsense attitude.  But in reality, he was just the meek guy who just happened by take on the daunting task of promotion Gay Rights in the Midwest.

He was a very difficult man to track down.  He worked 10 hour days as a paralegal, then afterwards volunteered when he could with many gay rights groups.  I asked him once why he didn't just go ahead and run for president of a group or something, he said, "Two reasons really. One is because I don't have the time to do what I do now.  Two, because I want to leave a *little* wiggle room to find a husband."

Two years after I met him, he suddenly dropped off the radar.  He had given up all posts and simply stopped volunteering altogether.  Many of his colleagues tried to find out what was wrong, but even if they did get a hold of him, he would just say that he didn't want to do it anymore, and that's all they could get out of him.

I had heard about this and like everyone else, my concern about it went into the red.  I didn't understand what was going on, but I knew that no matter the cause, this sort of sudden behavior change was a very very bad sign.  Given the fact that he lived alone didn't make things any better.  But, he did have few friends that would check on him, and those that I knew as well just said that he wouldn't talk about it, but he wasn't in any real danger or anything.

I wanted to let it go, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  I know when to mind my own business, but there are times when a person's instincts override propriety.  

One day, I was sitting at a local gay bar and restaurant, when he suddenly appeared on the stool next to mine at the bar.  While I was surprised to see him, I tried not to let it show.  Whatever it was that was on his mind, it wasn't my place to start poking at it.

We talked about everything for almost an hour while we shared a couple of appetizers. He didn't look like he had eaten much, but he ate enough to make me think that if he had a lack of appetite, it was ebbing while we talked.

There was a lull in the conversation, and he sighed and looked at his watch.

"I should be getting back home, hon." he said, "I just came out because I was so sick of sitting by myself in that stupid apartment."

I signaled the bartender to settle up and said, "What time do you have to work tomorrow?"

"I don't go back until next Monday.  I took a leave of absence.  I had to before I had a breakdown." he said.  As soon as the bartender came with the tab, My Favorite Activist snatched it out of his hand before I could do anything about it.  That was a game I will always be terrible at.

Setting my annoyance at losing the tab like that aside, I said, "Stress from work that bad?"

When I didn't get a response, I turned to find him on the brink of tears.  His face was so contorted with agony that at first, I jumped a little.

I said his name, and he pulled in a hiss through his teeth.  He put a bill on the table, and blurted, "Keep the change."  He turned in the stool and moved quickly to the door.

I looked at the bartender, not sure what was happening, and I could see a look of concern on his face that said, "You gonna let him leave?"

I got outside, and I found him leaning against his car that was parked out in the street.  At first, I thought he was vomiting, because of the way he was standing.  I froze, waiting for the sound of gagging and wretching, but I didn't hear anything.   I said his name softly as I approached him, and he suddenly turned, walked to me, put his arms around me and sobbed with such force that I could almost hear his soul tearing.

There are moments when you simply become unaware of your surroundings.  For all I knew, as long we were in that embrace while he cried, possibly for the first time in weeks, people just walked by wondering what the drama was all about.  But I didn't care about anything else except that there was a man in my arms who was falling apart, and I was completely helpless to do anything about it except remind him that I was there.

I don't know how much time passed, but eventually he pulled himself back together.  He pulled away, saw that there was a mess of tears and snot on my shirt, and looked at me apologetically.  

"Don't worry about it.  Detergent takes it right out.".  I thought he would laugh, but he didn't.  

Instead, he looked me in the eyes and said, "Will you come home with me?"

"Of course." I said immediately, and pulled out my keys.

---

His apartment was small, and very efficient and neat.  I had only visit one time before, to pick up some flyers to deliver to several of the gay bars in town back when he was still an activist.  For some reason that I couldn't put my finger on, the life in the apartment wasn't quite right, like when you don't realize that one of several light bulbs had burned out in a room.

I sat down on his couch, and he went to the bathroom.  First, there was a loud honk as he blew his nose, then he came out with a washcloth and he approached me.

"I know you can't see it where you are, but I slimed you pretty good." he said, the humor in his voice seeming forced.

I craned my neck to the side, and he wiped at the spot with the cloth.  As he did, he said, "I owe you an explanation."

"No, you don't." I said, and even though it was a knee jerk response, I was surprised to find that I really meant it.

He kept wiping away, but looked at me and said, "I owe a lot of people an explanation, but you will be the first to get it since you were kind enough not to ask me for it."

I wasn't about to argue.  I just said, "Fair enough."

He stopped with the washcloth, leaned back, and shook his head. "That was a bad idea."

I shrugged and said, "Don't worry about it."

He sat down next to me, took a breath and started talking.

---

Back when I was in school, I was beat up a lot.  I know there are kids who had it worse than me, but at the time, but back then, I thought I was the only kid in the world who was beat up for being a fag.  And that's all I thought I was too, just a fag.

There were even kids who called me faggot when I walked across the stage to get my diploma.  I looked to the principal, and *he* just acted like he hadn't heard it.  Just like the teachers acted like they didn't see me getting slammed into lockers in the hallways.  There was a crack in mirror in the boy's bathroom near the front of the school.  My head did that.  It's probably still there.

As soon as I got into college, I started joining causes.  At first, it was for vengeance.  My response to any problem that any of the groups I was involved in faced was primarily to make straight people uncomfortable.  I wanted everything we did to be disruptive and in your face. The older activists saw me as an overzealous young up, and after a while, they talked me down quite a bit.  

I was angry, and I wanted to make people pay for it.  I felt that it wasn't just the teachers and principals that turned away, but every straight person on earth that just didn't give a shit what happened to any guy who had a lisp, and any girl who had a buzzcut.  I guess you could say I was pretty heterophobic.

My hatred towards straight people turned into a passion to help others that were like I was back in school.  I took that resentment and I used it to focus on the real reason I should be doing any of the work that I was putting my life into, helping gay men and women, especially teens, get through some pretty rough shit, and feeling good about themselves in the process.

Problem was, that sort of passion and commitment leaves very little room for dating, or love, but that was OK.  I just told myself that until everyone could love openly, I would just do without, because anything less simply wouldn't do.

I went to law school, and became a paralegal, but I spent almost every moment of my free time campaigning and knocking doors.  I went out on a few dates, but I probably annoyed them with my constant chatter about whatever cause I was gunning for that week, because I rarely got a second date.  But again, I just didn't care.

And that's how I lived my life until recently, really.  It all ended up becoming a vicious cycle, I know that now.  What started as vengeance became passion, but then that ended up becoming compensation for the lack of passion I had in my own personal life.  

Anyway, there is a woman that used to live in this building who couldn't stand my guts.  The only time she even acknowledged my existence was to spit a bible verse, spit a condemnation, or on a couple of occasions, just spit.  I'm not kidding.  Once she got me in the face with a loogee she must have been saving up all day.  But, I just put her hatred and used it as fuel to keep going, because it was people like her that was the reason why I was doing what I was doing.  

Her daughter was the complete opposite, though.  15 or 16 years old, but you would never tell the way she acted.  Very polite and mature, easy to smile and even easier to laugh.  One of the sweetest kids I ever had the pleasure of coming across.  One Christmas or rather a few days before, she knocked on my door and handed me a gift certificate for Sears, and kissed me on the cheek before running away.

She handed it to me and said, "Don't tell Mom.  She'll kill me."

It was a sweet gesture, but I didn't give it much thought at all.  I was actually on my way to another rally meeting, and that was more important to me.

A few weeks ago, I heard thumping outside the door as if someone was running.  This is a pretty quiet area, so when I hear something like that, I get concerned.  I through on a robe, went to the door, and opened it just in time to see a paramedic running by.  My next door neighbor was already standing outside her door, and when she saw me, she came over to tell me that something was wrong in the apartment where the woman who spat in my face lived.

I stood talking to her for a few minutes, when a sudden wail came from the apartment which was one floor up.  It was the woman calling out her daughter's name.  At least, that's what I assumed because I never even took the fucking time to find out the fucking girl's name.

She had *killed* herself.  Slit he wrists in the bathtub, as she had seen done on television.  On her vanity in her room, she left a note saying that she was sorry, and that she couldn't bear life any longer.  The note expressed love to her mother, and to her girlfriend, who she loved so much.  She said that she loved them both, but knew she couldn't have both in her life, so she was ending it.

The only reason why I know this is because a few days later, that woman came to my apartment, spat on me again, and thrust that note at me.  She stood there and glared at me while I read it, then...

---

At first, as he spoke, he was in control.  Then there were tears, then hitches in between sentences, but by the time he got to this point, he couldn't even talk. I had tears in my eyes too, for him and for the poor girl.  I'm sure the suicide made it into the news, but I don't think any of his friends or colleagues realized the connection.  

He sat there, hands on his face, sobbing again.  I put my hand on his shoulder, and he reached up and touched it in a way that said, "Thank you, but that's enough."

It was clear without him having to explain that she blamed him for her daughters suicide.  Hatred has a way of muddying up common sense, and you combine grief with that, you will lash out at anyone, friend or foe.  

"She was right here, in this building, and I couldn't even help her!" he said in between sobs, "I keep wondering if she wanted to confide in me, or if I should have seen some cue or..."

I knew it would do no good to tell him that it was in no way his fault.  I'm sure he would hear that enough in time.  

As he talked, his crying subsided.  Like a wound where the bleeding was finally beginning to clot.  There is always that moment when you get concerned that you won't stop bleeding, but then suddenly, you realize that it was tapering off all along.

Suddenly, he looked at his watch, and said, "Oh fuck, it's 3 in the morning."

"Is it?" I asked, "Hadn't noticed.  But I should probably be getting back."

"You gonna get shit when you get home?"

"Probably.  It will be fine, though." I said, standing up.  I could have asked if he was going to be OK, but deep down I knew he would. If he had walked around with this pain this long, now that he had let some of it out, the healing could begin.  I did plan on checking on him on occasion.

I got to the door and he gave me a hug.  "Listen, I..." he began.

"I promise.  Not a word to anyone.  Not my place." I said.

"I.....thanks...." he said, and gave me a hug, this time on the other side of my head.  I thought he might cry and snot up the other side, but he didn't.  Not that I would have minded, since symmetry was always good when it came to a shirt.

---

Bill and I were visiting friends for an extended vacation the same time that Hurricane Katrina hit the country.  While my husband and the other couple sat glued to the television watching every minute of the coverage provided, I spent my time in another room, playing video games.  I would go and check to see if they watched anything else, but they weren't.  On one of these visits, I saw a reporter in a boat interviewing a crying woman in another boat.  The woman couldn't find her husband, and the reporter was asking how she felt at that moment.  

I found myself looking at my husband with such disgust, mostly for the reporter but a little bit was for him as well, and I turned and walked from the room.

Eventually, I couldn't handle it anymore, and I had to say something.  They knew I was upset, and it was time for me to tell them know how I felt.

"You do realize," I said, going instantly into "teapot" mode, one fist on a hip, "that the only reason why those assholes are out there in that boat is because it gives them better ratings, right?"

"I'm not going to stick my head in the sand every time something bad happens, William." Bill said to me.

"But what good does it do to watch this?  Don't tell me it is out of concern, because if you were really concerned, you would go down there, hop in a boat, and help those people." I said, feeling heat in my face remembering the woman who couldn't find her husband who was either dying, or dead.

Bill just looked at me and said, "That's just unreasonable."

I realized then that I shouldn't take my frustration out on him, so I just walked away.  Just because I had no interest in watching the Hurricane drama unfold doesn't mean no one should.  But I still found it galling that people will take a tragedy and capitalize on it, whether we are talking hurricane coverage, or those homage songs that came out months after the 9/11 tragedy.  All of it was capitalization, and tuning in was rewarding those who would dare exploit it.

Since then, Bill only watches the news for the weather, and maybe just to see if the world was about to blow up or not, if for no other reason than to alter his plans for the day one way or the other. 

While he does, I will be in the other room, making plans for the day which I would do, come hell or high water.

---

I will freely admit that I live my live blissfully unaware of many of the woes of the world.  Most of those woes do not apply to me directly, and the rest can't really get to me unless I let them.  Rather than sitting in front of the television, letting my brain absorb the sorrows and woes of people that I don't know, I would rather lend an ear to people that I can actually try to help.  I can't fix the entire world, but I'm satisfied with lending a hand with my part of it.  It isn't much, in the vast scheme of things, but *my* world means a great deal to me.  That includes everything everyone that my hands and heart touch.  I won't get a special segment on the 6 o'clock news, but that's alright.  

Keeping your face in the sunshine doesn't make for a very good headline, but I can live with that.

Posted via email from Random and Absurd: The American Way