Am I Numb?

I took a Tylenol a few minutes ago. It’s an ironic drug, considering that I’d been totally desensitized to the anti-gay rhetoric my mother was spewing just moments before.

She called us downstairs to “talk” to us. Anytime my parents say, “I want to talk to you,” I can sense their motives and intentions. In some cases, my mother prefaces this statement with a signature exhale. This time it was nothing serious. She simply wanted to have prayer. That’s not a big deal. I’ve been doing it since I was old enough to know that I liked Ralph Lauren.

She began to talk about sin, and how, as a family who grew up in the church, decisions to disobey God were especially dangerous. I’ve heard this before. But this time I knew that she was talking about. At least for me, she was talking about being gay. She used the subject to talk to me, or rather at me. She also called the Presbyterian church’s decision to allow gays and lesbians to serve as pastors a “false doctrine.”

This is where she and I diverge—strongly. First, I was taught that God loves all people and can touch everyone’s life. I’m not wrong in that belief. Nor do I find it acceptable to make exceptions for certain groups, without biblical support. The only support that is offered are scriptures that deal with male prostitution and temple rape. When religious individuals who claim to know God cite those scriptures without historical context, in order to shame me and other gays into fear, I cringe. I know that this understanding of God’s function is hateful. I know that it doesn’t reflect the love my parents have for me. That is the false doctrine here.

Still, I wonder why I wasn’t more angry. I’ve become sadly numb to my extended family’s consistent, underhanded persecution of who I am. What’s saddest is that many of them don’t know that I am gay. More important, many of them do not know the pestering hurt they cause when they spew that sort of rhetoric.

Perhaps when my mother sees my Mr. Future Husband and I with her grandchildren, she’ll realize that I’m still God’s child as well as her own. I’ll be waiting for the day.

Christmas Is the Best Holiday

As I sit around wasting time like a fat bum, I’ve found myself longing for the Holiday season. Everything about it seems right for the now: the cold weather, the clothes, the Southerners scrambling to Harris Teeter to buy milk and bread because of the cold weather.

There’s even a true sense of importance, as if people need to be doing what they’re doing. When my mother and I cook during the Christmas season, we always have a sense of purpose. Everyone must leave the kitchen as we genuflect to Martha Stewart’s mastery of the roast duck breast. “It’s so succulent. Namaste, hallelujah, praise Adonai,” we might wail. Even before December, I assume a serious mission to hit the mall after Thanksgiving. At this point, nothing else matters. Once I’m caffeinated or otherwise fulfilled by some other pharmaceutical at 3:00 AM, we’re on the move.

What I truly like about Christmas, however, is how I can wear practically anything extravagant without worrying about the value judgements of non-fashion people. Christmas weather permits this style of dress, as does the overall craziness of the season. When I was young, I had a striped Ralph Lauren jumpsuit. I wore it for three years. Looking like an extra from Querelle, I would always glide around the living room dictating style to my younger siblings. I don’t remember exactly the conversations surrounding these actions, but I imagine that they went something like this:

“You look ridiculous,” Monica would say.

I’d reply with something along the lines of “so does your face.”

This is essentially the dialogue of a healthy sibling relationship. Whenever she comments on my clothes in her accusatory tone, I always find myself longing for Christmas. I expect that this is because her claims have no validity once the season rolls along, in all its fattening cheer. Along with our society’s magical ability to spend sums of money on Barbies and slutty lingerie comes my license to wear what I want.

Take for example the camel, cashmere sweater that hangs in my closet. I can see it now as I write on my laptop. It’s by Ralph Lauren. This $200 creation of expensive knitwear is my way to connect to whatever silly glory I enjoyed at a 7 year-old. When I try to wear it outside the broad group of weeks we call the Holidays, I feel awkward. People look at me weirdly. A sloppy teen my age in a white tee shirt and jeans might say, “you look so fancy.” When people say this, everyone else in the vicinity feels entitled the burn wholes into my skin with their gazes. “I’m innocent,” I think to myself. “I just wanted to be chic.”

These problems expire in December. “Nice sweater” is the comment I often get during the month. Of course, I still feel uncomfortable at the thought of those compliments. I’m never sure whether to trust their opinions: do they know anything about fashion. Worries aside, the freedom to wear practically anything—from $50 underwear to the most exquisite of sweaters—is what sets Christmas apart.

This Christmas, after returning from the disgusting nature of college food, I will genuflect to the case of cookbooks yet again. Without the fear of ridiculous comment, I will look chic doing it. In the mean time, there will be a closet of otherwise “appropriate” clothes waiting for me to select them.

Living Black

Some of the people I talk about recount the difficulties of being Black and gay and religious, too. It’s a pervasive question among friends of mine who live this conundrum every day. One friend admits to “questioning” the matter. I question it as well.

Being black is hard for me. I often forget that what I people see, despite what I do and say. More important, I often forget that the majority of the American population doesn’t know what it means to live black. While some people think they do, their projections are only stereotypical and superficial.

Perhaps its because of the nature of how Black culture has developed. Few minorities are as homogenous as the African-American group. Even the Asian and Hispanic factions have diversified a bit. But there aren’t groups where everything seems to be a given common point: religion, music, which athletes we like, sexuality, food, books, who we support politically. The list goes on. For me, my opinions on these subjects has caused tension in my family. When I supported Hillary Clinton, no one could bear to debate her merits. It wasn’t about politics. It was about race.

Sexuality seems to be the strongest point of contrast. While I’m not out to my extended family—which spans some 11 aunts and uncles and 30 cousins—I picked on the fear of my development into who I am today. When I was young, my aunts used to uncross my legs and stress the importance of what men “had to do.” Pairing their actions with the fact that my maternal grandparents were pastors, it’s not surprising why 62% of Black protestants oppose marriage equality. Being gay is seen largely as a “White” thing. It doesn’t bode well with glorified images of Barack Obama, Martin Luther King, and Malcolm X—strong, godly, heterosexual men.

What’s interesting to me is that Dr. King would have been a likely supporter of gays. But the community into which I was forced by birth is so skirmish. I’ll never know the cause, I guess.

It’s a Black thing, after all.

My daughter’s name will be from the following list:

• Alana
• Rafaella
• Sophia
• Diana
• Diane
• Andrea
• Franca
• Sonia

I Don’t Hate You. I Disagree with You.

I have problems with conspiracy theorists. I don’t hate them. But I find their opinions to be irrelevant.

My favorite teacher of the moment is my History teacher. He is tough, but he is also dedicated, witty, and opinionated. He once said he was a “political atheist,” but those who know better know that this isn’t true. Yesterday, he claimed that IBM aided Nazi Germans in death camps. I don’t know enough about the issue to comment, but the source of his information seems iffy. He also implied that secret deals led to the construction of the United Nations in New York. When I heard this, I was alarmed. Is he now a conspiracy theorist? And if so, why is it important to me?

His claim alarmed me because I find that such ideas are irrelevant. Now, my teacher is not a conspiracy theorist in the slightest. In fact, I have no way of knowing. But his implied commentary on the matter made me think about conspiracy theories in general. Saying that the U.N. is run by a secret society is just as valid as claiming that Abraham Lincoln was gay (yes—there’s a theory for that). But the question has to be whether such theories fit in with reality or are at all sound.

The beauty and ugliness of history is that contortionist opinions are easy to develop with a couple of strong facts. Or more accurately, with the interpretation of those facts. However, knowledge is often developed by consensus. And while the idea of trusting the majority has its pitfalls, it’s much more appropriate than flying on a wild tangent.

My issue with conspiracy theorists is this: many believe that they can reject reasoned empathy, consideration, or political correctness simply because of their “free thinking.” This is obviously wrong. If you want to make your point, make it. But there is no need for disrespectful behavior and ad hominem attacks. Those actions are what poison our political discourse.

Mini-Obsession

Being a fashion writer/blogger/opinionator, I’m attracted to trends. I like to seek them out, take them on, and throw them out. However, I’m having trouble discerning whether my taste for Black boys is a trend or an authentic desire.

I’m also not sure why I’m suddenly into black boys, who were a solid “2” in the rankings, behind white boys. This preference isn’t intrinsically racist or self-hating; it’s just a preference. Anyway, the tides are shifting, and black boys are now tied with the top seed. One of the possible reasons for this shift is that I’m crazy and this is just a deep-rooted sexual urge, tied to a lack of boyfriend. But the more probable cause is that my tastes are changing. I’m not completely denying my thing for white guys, but I’m acknowledging that, from all the things that we see daily,  we develop new desires.

In fashion, these developments happen all the time: they’re called trends. Desires are meant to change. No one has an overriding desire for Wonder Bread, even if it is what they started with. There are other options that we are introduced to in life: pumpernickel, for example. For me, this principle works, yet is a bit contorted. I never started out with white men in cashmere sweaters as my fantasy. In fact, I didn’t really start out with any examples, except for my parents, who were quite far from the typical, Black mold. My childhood was centered on deep multiculturalism, so I never had broad experiences with people of my own race. Many of my friends were white, Asian, or Hispanic. That’s the true source of my original white dreams.

[…don’t know where to continue…]

I cannot deal with any of you right now. Get out.

The first part of my nightmare came from watching Queer as Folk in December. But I’m not sure where the rest came from. And I’m also not sure why Justin died. Bizarre.