Pride MMIX (C.E.)
Just barely in time to *not* miss a month.
Since I missed the march this year on account of having to go to the emergency room (a miniature saga quite publicly detailed elsewhere) I'll make the post about this year's Pride a reminiscence, of sort, of the last five of my life.
A little over five years ago, in May, I literally feared for my life at the hands of a speed-freak stalker of a boyfreind. Since my mother was leaving the country for several weeks, and no one even *knew* that I was queer, I figured I had to find some way to at least tell *one* person close to me the name of the person whom I fully expected to at least try and kill me. A little "guessing game" ensued. She knew I was sort of in love with someone at the time, and eventually she guessed the guy's name, over the phone -- a name that no woman I know of has *ever* had. And -- ta da! -- *that's* how I *finally* came out to my mother, at age 29.
Actually -- a couple of months before that, in February, I came out, in a manner of speaking -- on the radio. True, I only used my first name on the "call-in show", but I described being "dragged kicking and screaming out of the closet" on the redefinition of marriage act sponsored in the state capitol by Representative Gloria Vaughn. I asked for contact information and attended the legislative session for the first time in my life -- as a citizen lobbyist -- read "warm body". But you know what they say -- half the job is showing up! And if nothing else can be said for me, I *always* show up.
In June -- still fearing for my life, mind you -- I decided that I *had to* march in Pride. That was 2004. I wore a brown shirt, only to find myself *terrified* when I got to the march that someone might think I was "a brown shirt". Just the opposite happened. The support of the crowd was positively overwhelming, and I fast-marched the whole length of the thing the people who've taken it over have since come to call a "parade", standing between Ruben Israel (of "God Hates Fags" fame) and the people in the street, at both the beginning and end of the march, 'cause baby, that's what it's *about*.
I missed 2005 -- for reasons detailed below -- and then attended in 2006, 2007, and 2008 -- also detailed below. It's become a month-long event for me, the energy of which sweeps me up. This year, like in 2005, I had to ultimately miss it, for reasons beyond my control, but I still connected to it *deeply* in ways I never would have thought possible just the year before. And unlike in 2005, I can honestly say "there will always be next year" -- at least, if we're lucky.
In short, I think what happened is that five years ago I didn't matter. I was running around trying to make people happy, and doing pretty damn well at it, except for the fact that at some level I was lying about who I was, or at least not acknowledging it. It wasn't *usually* a matter of outright lying. More often it was a question of selecting invisibility, of choosing silence, the equivalent of telling a reporter "no comment". In short -- disastrous. No matter how many people I fooled for how much of the time, I never *did* jack shit that *mattered*, because at the core of my being I was hiding who I *was* and could *not* get away from. In short -- I could move fucking mountains and it wouldn't matter, because at some level I lacked *integrity*.
Then I feared for my life and started telling the truth. I think it's fair to say I owe my speed-freak stalker boyfreind of the time a special debt of gratitude. If he hadn't put that fear into me, maybe I wouldn't be where I am today. And I can honestly say this, today, for the first time since I knew him -- I hope he's alive and well, if still, hopefully, *very* far away from me, indeed.
One thing led to another. My deepest, darkest, most closely-held secret was "out there" for people to accept, take exception to, or ignore, as they saw fit, and suddenly I *had* integrity. It really was that simple. Eventually I got into reporting. And then I got into hosting drive-time news. Apparently people *trust* me. If I am *incapable* of lying about something as potentially repugnant as who I find myself sexually attracted to, why *would* I lie about news?
I don't pretend to be perfect. I make more than my fair share of mistakes. I've also done plenty of stupid shit, and gotten into plenty of trouble for it, but you know what? I've *never* lied about it -- never lied about much of anything, in fact, since I finally let my mother guess my lover's name, over the phone. Read back, if you don't believe me. My life these last few years is pretty much an open book, and *this* is *it*.
I've dithered a few times, but in the end, "the truth will out", and it's just a matter of time or research before people figure out where I really stand on anything that seriously matters. In the meantime I suppose I *should* apologise for writing lengthly posts almost every day for years running, but you know what? Screw it. You don't like it, don't fucking read. And if you *really* are just reading to try and find my weak spots, save yourself the time and ask me to my face. Better yet, try and convince me why I'm wrong -- I *do* listen. I also don't write *everything* online. Just damn *near* everything. I can't help it.
Reporters are like furries are like drag queens are like hairdressers are like waiters are like antique dealers are like court jesters are like village idiots are like shamans are like bookstore clerks. It's not just that we are all somehow "protected" or have "rights" on a societal level when it comes to telling truth. It's that we *must*. It's that we can not possibly do otherwise. We are ridiculous beyond belief. Therefore, we're truth tellers. You can believe us or not, that's really none of our concern.
The ironic outcome of all this five-year stretch now of telling the truth, like it or not, and regardless how it reflects on my character, is that I find myself "popular", or at least "in demand", on multiple often highly contradictory fronts. People in multiple worlds know that what I say *matters*, and seek me out because of that fact.
So -- I don't have enough time to do half the things that I want to.
Would I rather go back?
Not on your life.
Be well,
xeltifon.
Since I missed the march this year on account of having to go to the emergency room (a miniature saga quite publicly detailed elsewhere) I'll make the post about this year's Pride a reminiscence, of sort, of the last five of my life.
A little over five years ago, in May, I literally feared for my life at the hands of a speed-freak stalker of a boyfreind. Since my mother was leaving the country for several weeks, and no one even *knew* that I was queer, I figured I had to find some way to at least tell *one* person close to me the name of the person whom I fully expected to at least try and kill me. A little "guessing game" ensued. She knew I was sort of in love with someone at the time, and eventually she guessed the guy's name, over the phone -- a name that no woman I know of has *ever* had. And -- ta da! -- *that's* how I *finally* came out to my mother, at age 29.
Actually -- a couple of months before that, in February, I came out, in a manner of speaking -- on the radio. True, I only used my first name on the "call-in show", but I described being "dragged kicking and screaming out of the closet" on the redefinition of marriage act sponsored in the state capitol by Representative Gloria Vaughn. I asked for contact information and attended the legislative session for the first time in my life -- as a citizen lobbyist -- read "warm body". But you know what they say -- half the job is showing up! And if nothing else can be said for me, I *always* show up.
In June -- still fearing for my life, mind you -- I decided that I *had to* march in Pride. That was 2004. I wore a brown shirt, only to find myself *terrified* when I got to the march that someone might think I was "a brown shirt". Just the opposite happened. The support of the crowd was positively overwhelming, and I fast-marched the whole length of the thing the people who've taken it over have since come to call a "parade", standing between Ruben Israel (of "God Hates Fags" fame) and the people in the street, at both the beginning and end of the march, 'cause baby, that's what it's *about*.
I missed 2005 -- for reasons detailed below -- and then attended in 2006, 2007, and 2008 -- also detailed below. It's become a month-long event for me, the energy of which sweeps me up. This year, like in 2005, I had to ultimately miss it, for reasons beyond my control, but I still connected to it *deeply* in ways I never would have thought possible just the year before. And unlike in 2005, I can honestly say "there will always be next year" -- at least, if we're lucky.
In short, I think what happened is that five years ago I didn't matter. I was running around trying to make people happy, and doing pretty damn well at it, except for the fact that at some level I was lying about who I was, or at least not acknowledging it. It wasn't *usually* a matter of outright lying. More often it was a question of selecting invisibility, of choosing silence, the equivalent of telling a reporter "no comment". In short -- disastrous. No matter how many people I fooled for how much of the time, I never *did* jack shit that *mattered*, because at the core of my being I was hiding who I *was* and could *not* get away from. In short -- I could move fucking mountains and it wouldn't matter, because at some level I lacked *integrity*.
Then I feared for my life and started telling the truth. I think it's fair to say I owe my speed-freak stalker boyfreind of the time a special debt of gratitude. If he hadn't put that fear into me, maybe I wouldn't be where I am today. And I can honestly say this, today, for the first time since I knew him -- I hope he's alive and well, if still, hopefully, *very* far away from me, indeed.
One thing led to another. My deepest, darkest, most closely-held secret was "out there" for people to accept, take exception to, or ignore, as they saw fit, and suddenly I *had* integrity. It really was that simple. Eventually I got into reporting. And then I got into hosting drive-time news. Apparently people *trust* me. If I am *incapable* of lying about something as potentially repugnant as who I find myself sexually attracted to, why *would* I lie about news?
I don't pretend to be perfect. I make more than my fair share of mistakes. I've also done plenty of stupid shit, and gotten into plenty of trouble for it, but you know what? I've *never* lied about it -- never lied about much of anything, in fact, since I finally let my mother guess my lover's name, over the phone. Read back, if you don't believe me. My life these last few years is pretty much an open book, and *this* is *it*.
I've dithered a few times, but in the end, "the truth will out", and it's just a matter of time or research before people figure out where I really stand on anything that seriously matters. In the meantime I suppose I *should* apologise for writing lengthly posts almost every day for years running, but you know what? Screw it. You don't like it, don't fucking read. And if you *really* are just reading to try and find my weak spots, save yourself the time and ask me to my face. Better yet, try and convince me why I'm wrong -- I *do* listen. I also don't write *everything* online. Just damn *near* everything. I can't help it.
Reporters are like furries are like drag queens are like hairdressers are like waiters are like antique dealers are like court jesters are like village idiots are like shamans are like bookstore clerks. It's not just that we are all somehow "protected" or have "rights" on a societal level when it comes to telling truth. It's that we *must*. It's that we can not possibly do otherwise. We are ridiculous beyond belief. Therefore, we're truth tellers. You can believe us or not, that's really none of our concern.
The ironic outcome of all this five-year stretch now of telling the truth, like it or not, and regardless how it reflects on my character, is that I find myself "popular", or at least "in demand", on multiple often highly contradictory fronts. People in multiple worlds know that what I say *matters*, and seek me out because of that fact.
So -- I don't have enough time to do half the things that I want to.
Would I rather go back?
Not on your life.
Be well,
xeltifon.
posted by xeltifon at 8:16 PM
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