June 2008

The Heap

We all have a closet full of memories–full of old photo albums, letters, souvenirs, and little pieces of the past that we’ve accumulated along the way. And every so often, we delve back into that heap and reminisce over the things in life we may have forgotten. When we reflect, we also stumble across the things we may have wanted to forget as well. But with memories, we don’t have a choice to weed out the bad and good–they all come cluttered together.
Our minds are funny things. The things we want to remember, we can’t. If it wasn’t for photographs, videos, and tape recordings of the past, I would never recall the toys I used to play with, the way I looked, or the sound of my voice before adolescence. It’s only when I go to my parent’s house and rummage through my old belongings and physically hold those things that I even begin to remember that past. Sometimes those parts of my life feel like a dream that flew by, and no matter how badly I want to remember more of my childhood, I can’t. It’s all lost in storage somewhere.
Ironically the things we want to forget, we never will. And that’s the part most of us always have trouble with–letting go of the bad. But the older I get, the more I realize that we have to let go of the bad in order to move forward to the good. Despite what it may be that holds us back, we have to let go of the love we never got in return, the promises that were never fulfilled, the hope of an old lover’s reemergence, or the many disappointments we endure throughout life. As hard as it is, we have to accept the past. The most important thing is to forgive what’s holding us back–whether that be ourselves or someone else. We have to forgive or we’ll never forgive ourselves later down the road. If we live in the past, we’ll never embrace what the future may hold.
Honestly, there’s really no such thing as ‘letting go’–we just accept the past and keep moving on. We forgive, but really, we never forget–we just embrace the good and bad and, eventually, it all becomes a part of the heap in the closets of our mind…
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Final destination
Smoky clouds poured over the plane as we ascended into the morning sky. Charleston, West Virginia appeared as a small model town up there in the clouds until it disappeared below an endless sea of white. I smiled as I looked out into an ocean of blue hues and cottony clouds.
I realized that 20,000 feet into the air, I had no control over the plane. If something happened, all I could do was pray before we crashed and before the impact destroyed everything. My life would officially be over in the blink of an eye in screaming horror as oxygen masks shot out from above my seat and the people around me were sucked out of the plane and into the sky as it split in two…
After my fear of flying wore off (and after realizing I’ve watched entirely too many episodes of “Lost,”) I realized it felt nice to be on my way to escaping West Virginia for a while. Though I wasn’t off to some remote desert island, I was off to somewhere other than the state that held so many recent bad memories. It was nice to get away.
The bad thing about being stuck on an airplane besides the lack of control of the plane is the lack of control of your thoughts when your mind wanders. Despite how much my heart rejected it, I thought of Derek. A few months ago, I thought about flying to Texas to spend New Years with him. And now here I am a few months later, and he’s not even in my life anymore.
My relationship with Derek was a trip to begin with. There were so many highs and lows throughout it, and I never really knew of the destination–it was just a ride that I never felt in command over. I had no control over anything with him, because he was the one with issues and, essentially, the one piloting the relationship. I knew the road would be bumpy and full of a little turbulence, because that’s expected. However, when the trip gets too rough and we lose control of ourselves and disregard our personal destination, we have to rethink the ride.
The trip with Derek was always aimless wandering until I finally got tired of the aimless trip and ran out of fuel. Nevertheless, I had forgotten how hard the crash could be, and I had forgotten how long it takes to pick yourself up out of the wreckage and live your life. It takes time.
I never thought I’d be one of those people who loses themselves somewhere in the clouds. I’ve always been very much in control with myself, and I rarely let anyone get to me. And even though we haven’t spoken since then, Derek was still haunting my thoughts and controlling them. And when you lose control, you have to regain control of your life. One trip shouldn’t deter us from the entire journey.
I knew I didn’t have control over the situation with him, but I do have control over my final destination with me. So, up there in the clouds–somewhere between Cincinatti and St. Louis–I left Derek behind. Because despite how much it hurts to lose someone in your life, it’s even worse to lose yourself.
devinlee3582@yahoo.com
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Pride:

When I think of gay pride, I think of the brave men and women who stood up against society’s norms and fought for equality. I think of the people who cried out for rights among the cruel voices and hands that lashed out against them. Through persecution and battles, they attempted to show that, despite our differences, we’re really the same–we‘re all human and who we love is just a fragment of who we are.

That being said, I feel as if we’ve lost our way since then. Instead of being proud of what makes us the person we are, we’re consumed with whatever makes us feel good. We’re losing ourselves and creating a world where love and respect isn’t a necessity–it’s a burden. As much as I hate to admit it, we’re becoming that perverse group of people others stereotype us as. Where is our pride?

I’ve visited several gay bars where I’ve heard the words ‘cunt,’ ‘pussy,’ and ‘cock,’ shouted out like a bid at an auction by people on stage. And, to my surprise, people cheered. I almost expected hands to raise in the bidding war, complete with a drag queen auctioneer on the stage (glamorously miming the numbers and words, of course, in a typical drag queen fashion) while pointing to a naked man sitting on a rainbow pillow. “Do I hear four? Four dollars? Take this cock home today!” Lips are licked as dollars are thrown on the stage like lamb chops to wolves.

On a more serious note–when I do go to gay bars, I go to socialize and connect with people I wouldn’t normally be able to recognize as part of the gay community–I go to feel supported. Because in an area where the gay community is so small, it’s nice to have somewhere to feel encouragement and a place to share pride in who you are. I don’t go to hook-up with random people or to get solicited for sex in the bathroom while sounds of someone defecating accompanies the scene like dramatic background music. It’s as if I’m viewed as merely an object, not an actual person with feelings and thoughts.

Honestly, whatever happened to values and taste? I’m all for fun times, but I’m also embarrassed to take any of my straight friends out to a gay bar because I don‘t want them to think that the gay community is all about sex, drugs, and lust–even though I question it, myself. I don’t feel the pride at all–it makes me feel almost cheated as a human being to think we‘re disrespecting ourselves so willingly. Is this what the gay men and women fought for when they were being spat on? Is this what we’ve become? I wonder: when did we replace ‘class’ with ‘ass’?

Instead of standing together for equality and love, we commune in environments looking for the next good lay while gossiping about anyone and everything. We have no respect for others at all, and we‘re beyond selfish and superficial–we‘re hedonistic. Instead of sharing a single voice in the fight for gay rights, we’ve gone mute when it comes to the important issues when we should be fighting against the bid for the ban of gay marriage in West Virginia constitution that was recently proposed. Where are those voices? I mean, I hear people scream ‘cock’ and ‘pussy’ so freely. Really, are we fighting the right battles, or are we the ones shooting ourselves?

I’m all for being who God made you and I’m not one to judge, however, when your list of good qualities only relates to your exterior, you have to step back and reevaluate yourself. As people, we’re so much more than flesh, bone, or what’s between our legs. And if you measure your worth by the size of your external body parts, you’ll never grow as a person–you‘ll always come up short in the end.

Truly, I’m proud of who I am, and it has taken me a long time to feel comfortable in my own skin. That doesn’t mean I haven’t had many battles of my own along the way. But the thing is: I fight. And when I look at the rainbow flag proudly waving in the wind, I know those colors transcend more than sexuality–each stripe stands for something. The only question is: what do we stand for?

By the way, the colors of the pride flag consist of and represent: hot pink - sexuality, red - life, orange - healing, yellow - sunlight, green - nature, turquoise – magic, blue - serenity, violet - spirit.

devinlee3582@yahoo.com

the correct level of respect for the importance and value of your personal character, life, efforts, or achievements.

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Sex and the Supermarket

       You can buy anything at your local Wal-Mart, from cheap imported clothing to groceries and condoms. It’s also a fact that you can see anything and anyone at Wal-Mart, from clearance-priced S-Club albums to bald midgets with head lice. At Wal-Mart, anything goes as long as you have a shirt and shoes. (Curiously, there’s no mention of a requirement to have underwear or pants on the sign.)

       While walking through my local Wal-Mart while grocery shopping, I was lost in my own little world with my list in hand and my phone fixed between my shoulder and my ear to pass the time and distract me. Soon after walking through the frozen aisle, I noticed, in my peripheral vision, a well-dressed, muscular man checking me out. This caused me to do a double take, and I immediately held the phone in my hand to avoid appearing like a person with a neck and shoulder disability. Upon seeing him, not only was I surprised there was a hot guy checking me out at Wal-Mart, but I was surprised there was even a hot guy in my area to begin with. (Sadly, the only attractive men I’ve seen as of late have been in magazines or on billboards.) The fact that he was well dressed was already a fuse lit on the wick of homosexuality so this excited me even more. However, as I wheeled my cart closer to where he was standing, my dream was crushed. Like two sagging testicles dangling between his legs, two children emerged from nowhere and stood close to him. Immediately, I squealed the tires of my cart and hurried down an aisle to avoid him. When he saw me do this, he took his cart and wheeled it past me, checking me out yet again–quite openly, I might add–before wheeling it back to check me out once more. At this point, I was not only disgusted that I was being stared at like I was going to be eaten, but I was even more disgusted that it was by a married man with two small children in tow. I imagined him whispering, Let’s go down this aisle and check out this hot piece of ass, kids; Daddy has needs–as if he were prepping them to get ice cream.

       I’ve never understood some people’s fascination with having sex with a married person. I guess it gives some a thrill to know they’re doing something they shouldn’t with someone who is supposedly ‘straight.’ But to me, having sex with a married person would be like licking a newborn–not only is it wrong, but you should know from where they just came out.

        Honestly, I have no respect for a person who cheats, period–in a marriage or a committed relationship. Not only is it breaking sacred vows and trust, it is risking the spread of disease to innocent people who really have no idea who they‘re with. And helping someone cheat is just as shameful. Do we not have more respect for others and ourselves?

        What really annoys me is the fact that most closeted married men who cheat on their wives don’t consider it cheating since it isn’t with a woman. Excuse me, but sex is penetrating an orifice. It doesn’t matter the gender. Cheating is cheating, and excuses are excuses.

        I abruptly left Wal-Mart soon after my encounter. Apparently, you can pick up ‘fresh meat’ at their deli and ‘used meat’ in any always-low-priced aisle…

 Devinlee3582@yahoo.com

 

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