Happy Thoughts

There are times in life when nothing seems worth it. When the air around you hangs heavy and you feel the weight of the world. Times when you look at life and wonder how you ended up so far from the place you expected to be at this age when you were 12 years old. Dull gray colors your world, no one understands, and the farther it goes the worse you feel, because now you’re bringing down everyone else around you and they are growing to hate you for it. No matter the problem, the road to recovery seems insurmountable and you can’t see the chance for redemption anytime soon.

But then there are the other days; days that overshadow the bad and unmentionable. The days where you wake up to the smell of pancakes and coffee. Vacations spent at your parent’s house watching the fog roll over the mountain tops and the sun peak into the valley. Nights going to sleep next to a warm body you love. The time you talked to the crazy lady that hangs out in front of Whole Foods and she meowed at you before you left. The unexpected road trip you took with your friends in 11^th grade that your mother still doesn’t know about. The drunken night you watched your best friend make out with an 18 year old and never let her live it down. Quiet afternoons spent lying in the sun watching clouds skim across the blue sky above. The first time you successfully attempted making macarons. Your first date. Your first kiss. Your first love. The thrill of being hired for your first writing job. Christmas with your grandparents. Your summers spent hanging out with your aunt. The cooking shows your sister used to put on while she was babysitting you. Cashing in your collection of pennies to take your family to Disney World when you were a kid. There was that time you drank too much vodka while you were driving up to Atlanta and laughed until your stomach hurt. Or maybe the day you spent walking around the streets of New York and discovered something inside of yourself you never expected.

We all suffer the days of uncertainty, but it’s the other days- the beautiful days- we remember. It’s those tiny happy moments that matter in the end, that make up our memories. There are horrible times that I’ll never be able to forget, but when I look back those are not my first thoughts. Instead I see the day I spent planting a garden patch with my grandfather, or the time my family went fishing on the pier and my mom caught a bigger fish than my dad. It’s those happy times that get me through life and make the bad days a little more bearable.   

Cool Post, Bro!

Years ago, when I was taking German during my first year of college, my professor was doing a lecture on cultural differences. He wanted us to understand that a lot of the little things we do every day are not necessarily normal in other countries. He gave a lot of examples, and to be honest I blanked out during most of that lecture because like duh… Americans are weird. But through the haze of daydreaming about the cafeteria mac & cheese and going back to my dorm to sleep some more one tidbit of information seeped through. At the time I wasn’t really sure why, but since then this little nugget has become an increasingly large part of my everyday life. Herr Voltz told us that in Germany it would be unheard of to say hello to someone throughout the day. In other words, after the first time you’ve seen someone for the day there is no need to continue with the pleasantries; it’s unnecessary and bothersome.

In retrospect I can see how this American nuance caused questionable instances in my life. Growing up I spent a lot of time in the laundry rooms of my mother’s hotels because I was the kid in the plaid jumper that no one wanted to hang out with after school. Unfortunately sometimes stereotypes are on point, and in this case most of the housekeepers at my mother’s hotels were immigrants. I can clearly recall dumbfounded looks as I greeted each person that walked into the laundry room, even if they had only left 10 minutes beforehand. This level of friendliness in my opinion directly led to an odd crush that one of my mother’s Czech contract workers had on me. He was in his mid to late 20’s with the most beautiful blue eyes, but I was 12 and still wearing my plaid jumper. Flattered, but gross…

Fast forward to today and I’ve taken Herr Voltz advice to heart. Throughout the years I’ve grown ever more disgruntled at those that incessantly say hello. If you’ve already seen me that day let’s both save the 30 seconds it will take to greet each other again when I come back into the room. Smile at me, sure; I mean, don’t be a dick, but there really is no use in greeting each other again. Now, if someone says hello multiple times throughout the day I just stop responding with more than a smile or a nod, sometimes not even that. I know that many people in my life think that this quirk is a byproduct of my quietness in social situations, but really I’m just annoyed. And this habit has grown, not just with “hellos,” but with other pleasantries as well.

• Do we really have to say “God bless you” every time someone sneezes? I don’t know about other people, but my sneezes rarely ever come as a one off thing. I sneeze in multi-packs. There’s no need to bless me more than once. I’m not losing my soul through my nostril expulsion. I’m just having an involuntary reaction to your strong cologne.
•  Unless you are my boss, a coworker looking for help or someone I’m talking to on the phone please do not ask what I’m up to. You are standing right in front of me. You can clearly see what I’m doing. I’m standing in front of a basin of water with circular ceramic vessels often used during the ingestion of food. Perhaps, just maybe, I’m doing dishes. I’m laying on a soft rectangular piece of furniture in a manner saying I just melted into this position while a box containing a flickering light plays moving images in front of me. I’m most likely watching television.
• My mom used to ask me how my day at school was every night when she got home from work. I gave her the same answer every time, “just another day…” This would never change unless it was an absolutely horrendous day. Please don’t ask me how my day at work was unless you actually want to hear a longwinded retelling of how much I hate Excel.
• Which leads into my most hated of all questions, “how are you doing?” No one, and I mean no one, besides your mother or partner really cares how you are doing. For some reason this question has become synonymous with “hello” in American culture. What’s the point of asking it? I don’t want to hear myself gripe, and I’m fairly certain the water delivery guy doesn’t want to hear me either, so why does he have to ask me each time he comes in? I don’t know, but I hate it.

So maybe I am just an overly angry person who needs to calm down and recognize that people are just trying to be friendly. Maybe I was never meant to be American. Maybe my German-born professor sullied my innocent young mind with his propaganda, or some other rhetoric the Tea Party would come up with. Or maybe, just maybe, there are others who agree with me. No, I’m probably just PMSing; you know, stereotypes and all…

And She Remembered

She had been up since 5am, running around the house to make it just so. The windows were washed, the counters clean, the floors shined and the picture frames dusted. She started dinner around 3 o’clock in the afternoon after all of her chores were done; a nice big roast with beans, cornbread and greens.

It was close to 6pm now and her husband would be home from work soon. She hated the days that he was away and had been asking for him to spend more time at home now that they were older. He could have retired three years ago, but he loved the work he was doing. She didn’t have the heart to really ask for him to give that up. Besides, she liked being able to take care of him when he came home after a long day in the office. He had stopped working at the grocery store years ago and now he spent his time working at the church. The pay wasn’t as good, but you could see on his face how much more he enjoyed what he did there.

It had been eight years since he received his calling, and seven years since he started preaching at Harmony, the church in the holler below their farm. On Wednesdays he would do a service at the old church up the mountain, but most days were spent with his delegates at Harmony. She loved watching him preach and made a point to never miss a service. Even when she had caught that really bad flu one winter she was there in the front pew, smiling as he spoke the good word. He had begged her to stay home that time, but she grabbed her shawl and hopped in the Bronco before he could get the final word.

But now he’d be coming home in just a few minutes, hungry and tired. She’d have dinner on the table and his smoking pipe filled by his chair waiting for him. They had been married for close to 45 years now and she never failed to have his dinner made for him when he got home from work. She thought about that day he had come by her Papa’s house to pick her up for a date only to tell her they were getting married that afternoon. They had talked about getting married for a while, but he hadn’t actually asked her yet. She was sure he hadn’t asked for Papa’s blessing, but the idea of not marrying him that day was the most horrible thing she’d ever heard of before. She went back inside, put on her white polka dot dress, pinned her hair up and met him on the porch with a smile stretching from ear to ear. Three hours later and she was Mrs. Hendrickson. It still made her tear up a little to think about how happy they had been that day when he dropped her back off at her Papa’s house after the courtroom ceremony.

Those first few years of marriage had been spent in Ohio where her husband was stationed during the war. She had taken the train up to Dayton by herself and was supposed to meet him at the platform when she arrived. Something had gone wrong though, and he never showed up that night. Worried, scared and alone for the first time in her life she had used the little bit of money she had to take a cab to a hotel nearby. The next day she called the base but was unable to reach anyone who could help her. As naive as she was she was just as determined, and after grabbing breakfast she headed out onto the streets to find both the Army base and her husband. After hours of walking, discouragement seeping in,  she saw a familiar face across the street- her husband, normally tan and hansom,  paled with worry and fear. She called out to get his attention, and as she would later tell her children and grandchildren, his face instantly lit up bringing all of his color back. He ran over, hugging her tight, all the while telling how he had spent the night searching for her after she wasn't at the platform when he got there. There had been a mix-up at the base and he got to the train station late. Nine months later and they welcomed their fist child, a beautiful baby boy with raven hair and caramel skin just like his father.

A car door shut outside and she could hear voices coming closer to the house. Tired from her long day and wary bones she waited in the living room for him to come in. As the door opened she cocked her head to the side listening for his telltale whistling, she swore the man never took a step without whistling, but she couldn’t hear anything except for the shrill voice of a woman. He must have brought home one of his parishioners for further tutoring. He stepped around the corner and she stood to give him a giant hug, loving the feel of him in her arms after so many hours without him.

“Oh, Ernest, you’re home!”

“Hey, Mama. How was your day?”

“Much better now. How was your’s?”

“Well the trip wasn’t too bad. Nance and I ran into some traffic in Atlanta, but we still managed to make pretty good time.”

A quizzical look crossed her face. “You were on a trip? Where did you go?”

“I drove up from Florida,” he said, a look matching her own gracing his face.

“Well why were you down there?”

“I live there, Mama. I came up here to visit you. Where did you think I lived?”

Angry that he was trying to trick her she puffed up, “Well here with me of course! Why would you live anywhere else? I’m your wife.”

“Mama… I’m Ernest Jr., remember? And this is Nancy, your granddaughter. Daddy died 20 years ago. I live in Florida with my wife Pauline.”

“Oh… I guess that’s right,” and she could feel her heart breaking.

Her granddaughter Jessica, now 34 instead of the 13 year old she remembered, poked her head out of the back bedroom. “Hey, Uncle Ernest! Hey, Nancy! How was the drive? I put a roast on earlier for you guys. Mamaw insisted we make a big dinner for you. Hope you’re hungry.”

She slowly stood, grabbing the walker that was never more than a few inches from her, and headed to the bedroom she had never shared with her husband but that still contained the bed they bought that first year they were married. Saying she needed to use the bathroom no one followed her. Once the door was shut and the lights turned off she sat on her bed, their bed, and cried the tears she knew would never stop. She was alone, and she couldn’t remember why.

Coming to Terms

A little less than five years ago I had a conversation with my mother that I had been dreading since I was 12 years old. You know the one I’m talking about, the conversation; the mom-I’m-gay conversation. It wasn’t something I ever wanted to tell her. And up until the moment the words came tumbling out of my mouth I honestly wasn’t sure of their sincerity. I had dated women, I had dated men. I even thought I loved some of them. But the moment I said those words I knew how true they were.

My coming out wasn’t perfect. My mom didn’t look at me knowingly and whisper that she had always known. We didn’t have a heartfelt talk about how we loved each other. We did cry, but it wasn’t the happy tears of bonding. It was a hard and painful conversation. But as imperfect as it was I felt relief the moment I had said the words.

It was a long time before my mother came around to the idea of having a second gay daughter. My sister and I grew up in a very religious family, but my mom had always been the liberal hippy. When my sister came out my mom just sort of smiled. To my sister’s mortification mom would comment on attractive women when they went out together. She was accepting and loving no matter what. But my coming out sort of threw a wrench in all that. She started telling my sister to tone down the gay, and blaming herself and her divorce for my sister and my sexualities. And she cried. She cried a lot.

One day I finally had had enough. I missed my mom. The mom that would talk to me about life and relationships. The mom that had always been open and honest with me about everything. The mom that would answer any questions I ever had, even those about sex. The mom that told me in 7^thgrade that she knew my sister was gay even though she hadn’t told her yet and that she wanted me to know she would always be there for me if I ever felt the same. She had said those words, been that perfect mother, but now she was failing to live up to it.

The coming-out-follow-up conversation as I like to call it was in fact worse than the first. There was lots of yelling, a feat considering I had never raised my voice to my mother in all of my years, and lots of crying. My roommate ended up leaving the house because even in her room she could hear me yelling into the phone. After about 20 minutes of calling my mom out on all of the bigotry she had been exuding over the past few months I broke down. The truth was I just missed her being there. I asked her what was so different now. Why I couldn’t talk to her about my relationships now that the other party was a woman when before it had never been an issue. And most importantly, why she acted like she didn’t love me anymore.

About an hour after I got off the phone I got a call from my sister saying mom was holed up in her room. I’m not sure what it was about our fight, but after that things started to look up again. One day while discussing religion mom admitted that my coming out had made her reevaluate her faith and what it meant. She started messaging me when news would come out about new states passing marriage and civil union laws. Two years ago she even met my girlfriend I was dating at the time, the first ever time I introduced someone I was dating to my family.

Things are better now. I have my mom back. When my girlfriend and I broke up I called my mom for comfort. When I accidentally came out to my cousin at dinner, my mom just laughed. When my sister got a new crush, it was my mother and I that made fun of her for acting like a pre-teen girl.

So what is the point of me telling you all of this? I mean I’m not one that thinks every coming out story is worth telling, and I don’t really like to focus on the serious matters in life too much, contrary to what the latest post on this blog may suggest. But here’s the thing; I love my mom with all of my heart, but for about 3 months after my coming out I sort of resented her. Coming out is rarely ever perfect. Most people have to deal with a lot of negativity not only from family members but the world at large. And until you yourself go through it, either as the family member or the person deciding to be brave enough to accept who they are, you can’t know what it is like. My mom had all of these great ideals and beliefs, but when the time came she struggled to accept the truth.  It’s just a part of life I guess.

There’s a lot of hate in today’s society. I honestly get scared sometimes thinking about what will happen if America’s current conservative swing keeps building momentum. I deal with bigotry in my life on a daily basis already, even from those I deem friends. I don’t necessarily look gay; I mean I’m not hitting homers in the local women’s softball league or anything. I don’t shout that I’m gay to everyone I meet because it’s really not a big deal. But I’m still faced with hate every day in some shape or form. And until someone knows what that’s like- to have men ogle you when you kiss your girlfriend, to have a friend repeatedly tell you to stop acting so gay or to stop being such a lez, to have a family member stop talking to you or look at you with disdain, to listen to politicians openly hate you because of who you fundamentally are, to work for a company that gives money to those politicians behind your back even though they promote the idea of equality in the workplace, to be told you just haven’t found the right dick yet- until you know what that’s like you don’t have a right to tell me what I should or should not be able to do. Because the truth is every minority group in the world deals with issues of bigotry and hate. We can be sympathetic, and at times perhaps even empathetic, but until you walk a mile in someone else’s shoes it is impossible to know what it is really like for them, for us, for me.

I’m a woman. I’m Irish and Native American. I’m southern. I’m a writer and an avid reader. I’m a college graduate. I’m often times shy. I love Pretty in Pink and Titanic. Mexican and Thai food are my favorite things to eat. The first day of fall is my favorite time of year. I’m obsessed with cute animals. I have a name no one can pronounce when they first meet me. And I’m gay. None of these things are more important than the other. They are all just aspects of me as a whole. If you’re gonna hate someone fine, but do it for a good reason, like they punched your 80 year old grandma in the face. Don’t hate someone because of something they can’t change about who they inherently are. I mean I hate to point out the obvious here, but that’s sort of what the Romans did to Jesus when they killed him for saying he was the Messiah, and look how that turned out…