"Home" is where you are "from"

Someone asked me where I was "from" today. That lead to a discussion of where exactly you say you are from. If you have lived in multiple places as a child do you choose where you were born? Raised? Went to school? Started a life? What constitutes where someone is from?

I typically say the town in which I went to high school is where I am "from". Even though I technically lived in three other towns prior, I almost always say my high school town.  I only lived there for five years. After I graduated, I moved on.

It got me to wondering why I chose that particular place to say I was "from".  I came to the conclusion that "home" is where you are "from" and that "home" is the place with the warmest memories.  Do not get me wrong, those high school years were a nightmare for me in many ways.  And "home" certainly doesn't mean in my actual house. But that town had something to offer that I never found anywhere, which was comfort.  I found comfort in a few select relationships that for the first time made me feel welcome for who I was.

The first house I lived in for just about a year. I obviously have no recollection of that.  The second house I lived in until I was eight.  That house was filled with childhood scars and I was fine leaving it.  However I had a very close bond to my snow fort that year and do remember crying because I  had to leave it in the front yard.

The next house I lived in held a lot of bad memories and surreal moments. Even Lifetime couldn't have made up the things that took place in my world then.  I lived there until I was twelve when we moved into my father's childhood home.  I have conveniently blocked out the entire moving process as well as a lot of life in general back then.

I was not really fond of my high school town. My family did not meet the economic standards for living there which posed a lot of issues.  Our family was "grandfathered" in (family had lived in the same small run down house since the early 1900's). The town itself was like living in a bubble.  The people were ruthless and judgmental.  However, through it all I found pieces of myself and connected to others.  I found families of friends that were the family I never had. I found partners, love interests and people that genuinely wanted to be in my space, not felt obligated to.

When I say I am from that town it is because the most tender memories of my young life reside there. It is because the tragic memories of my past did not follow me.  It is because in some people I had found "home".

Do I look like a boy?

In 1973 I wanted a haircut.  Maybe it was 1974.  I was in kindergarten. My hair was long, always in pony tails and a part of me that didn't seem to fit right. I wanted short hair. Not quite like a boy but not quite like a girl.  I wanted something in between.  Something that felt like me.

My mother denied me my haircut for the longest time.  She spent countless hours with detangler sprays, combs and brushes.  She made sure every hair on my head was perfect.  If one piece of hair was out of place she would sigh, rip out the rubber band and start all over again.  It was an awful lot to go through for something I didn't even want.

After relentless persuasion I finally got my hair cut. I would like to say it went down like this:

Me: "Mom I reaaaaaallllly want my hair cut short. Please???????"
Mom: "OK honey."

However, it went more like this:

Me: "Mom, I reaaaaalllly want my hair cut short. Please??????"
Mom: "Fine. If you want to look like a friggin boy I will chop your hair off like a friggin boy!"

And while I do not remember the exact haircut taking place, or the ride there and back, I can only imagine with great force and anger I was grabbed by the hand, thrown in the car and taken to the shop where I am positive the girl was told to make me look like a boy, but a really ugly one.

The only memory I have is arriving back home with my hands over my head screaming and crying and my mother slamming the front door in my face.  I do know it was early morning and it seemed like the neighborhood was not yet awake.  I went next door and called up to the window of the teenaged girl that lived next door.  Her opinion, and company, was very important to me.

Me: "Do I look like a boy?"
Girl: "No, you look like a cuter version of you. It doesn't look like a boy or a girl.  I think it fits you."

It was the worst haircut ever. But at that moment I didn't care. That is what I needed to hear.

My GAY Cape

I was asked to mentor some high school kids working on writing business plans.  I cheerfully accepted. I love working with kids, in any capacity.  I always walk away knowing my experiences have taught them something.  It's a great feeling.

When I walk into the school to meet these kids, I know I will immediately scan the group with gaydar. Even if they don't know that particular thing about them, I will.  I will hope the students that I detect will be part of my team.  I want the LGBT kids, I just cannot ask for them.

Whenever I am in an situation where there are kids, I want to whip out my "GAY" cape and don a T-shirt that says, "I am here. I am grown. I survived, I can show you how. Just ask me"

I want to be the voice for them, the confidence they lack, the tough exterior they need to ward off society.  I want to be the future that looks bright, the sign of possibility and the determination that often slips from their grasps in frustration. I want to be their hope.

I am not extraordinary. As a matter of fact, I am pretty much ordinary.  These kids cant tell where I have come from, they cant see where I have been. They will most likely never realize I have been where they are now. They will go on about their days with their feelings unexpressed, their fears mounting and their options seemingly nonexistent.

I was that kid.  I wish someone would have worn that GAY cape for me.  I wish I had known someone, anyone, that made it through.  Someone that validated the confusion, the self loathing, the lack of understanding.  A person, that through words or actions, could have assured me what I was feeling was right, OK and potentially amazing.  My gay super hero would have been a phone number to call when I spent days crying in my room to my posters.  They would have been someone who could help me see that childhood is really such a short period of time even though it felt like an eternity passing through.

Recently I had a conversation with someone regarding the lack of resources for LGBT kids in my neighboring communities.  Fear was the main reason that came up again and again for keeping them away.  Parents fear for their gay children exposed in a public place. Students fear for their safety from hate filled classmates.  Administrators fear liability. Liability.  Who is liable for these kids' well being? For their sense of self? For their understanding of love? Who is liable when these kids commit suicide?

When I walk into that school I will scan the group. I will look for that familiar face staring back at me.  I will wish I had my cape on. I will try to tell them silently that high school is completely different from real life.  I will try to convey that the feelings they are experiencing are real and OK. I will try to say "just hang in there. These people will mean nothing compared to what you will mean to yourself someday".

"Break the cycle"

I watched Oprah's Master Class last night. Jane Fonda was telling her story.  At one point she mentioned her mother, or lack there of, and all that she went through as a child.  Tales of childhood sorrows resonate with many of us. Naturally I thought about my own childhood and my own mother.  She went on to say that when she realized her mother had been a victim of abuse as a child herself, it all made sense. Of course she used more words than that and described her emotions with great detail.  The point of it was that her realization somehow relieved her of her own pain, and her mother's accountability.  I wanted to buy it.  I really did.  But I couldn't.

My mom, for a lack of better words, was a real jerk. She was demanding, a perfectionist, self centered, too strict and emotionally draining. She belittled, complained about, and was obviously ashamed of me. I could never have measured up, not to her expectations anyway.  She had issues.  And thanks to her, now I do. At one point in my young adult life I tried, very hard, to relieve her of the guilt I felt she should be feeling.  I told myself that she too was a victim of an overbearing, unreasonable and simply crazy mother.  I wanted to excuse her behavior because "she didn't now better",or "that is how she was raised".  But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't do it.

I am a mother now myself.  I was raised by Godzilla who was raised by Godzilla, and yet, I am not Godzilla.  Certainly some of my parenting style has trickled down from the zillas, but I do not emotionally or physically hurt my children.  I know better than to be that to them.  Surely at some point, my mom could have said, "I don't have to be this. It didn't feel good to me, why would I do it to them".  But she didn't. She had the ability, she just didn't have the strength or desire.

At some point childhood sorrows needs to stop being a crutch and an excuse. My mom never used it as an excuse, but every one else did in her defense. (actually she still has yet to acknowledge her behavior) I feel sorry for her and what she endured.  I really do.  However living through those scenarios does not "entitle" someone to be behave improperly towards another. We all have heard the slogan "break the cycle".  There is no reason it couldn't have started with her.  But I am very glad it started with me. I am sure my children feel the same way.

Be True to Yourself

As you may or may not know, I am working on a new project.  After my epiphany (I have way too many, way too often), I realized what I wanted to do more than anything was to be a story teller. A teller of human interst stories.  I love to read about people, to learn about them, to figure out what makes them tick.  Had I been a better student and could actually have afforded school, I would have been an amazing phych something (insert some initials after my name here).

Everything about us is because of something else.  We simply would not exist if we haven't had experienced. Everyone comes from somewhere.  Sometimes its a great place, sometimes its horrific.  Be we all come from somewhere. All those somewheres create who we are right now. Even what you did mundanley ten mimnutes ago shaped who you are right now.  Every breath, everything we eat or drink, each time we use any of our senses. 

Most of our daily movements go unnoticed.  Its only those that create memory that have power, both good and bad, over us.  If we fail to remember, we fail to be effected.  Or so our brain would like to fool us into thinking. We have an uncanny ability to forget things. Especially when they are painful.  And those painful things we cannot forget, we tend to blame for hanging around making us miserable. 

All of these things we experience, whether we remeber them or not, create our story.

Since beginning this project, I have had the honor of reading and writing some very powerful stories.  It was a leap of faith for people to share such intimate details with someone they dont even know.  With nothing other than a promise to tell their story and a hope that it lifts some emotional burden, my mailbox filled with a chance for the opportunity. It was quite humbling.

One parrticular person that found their way to my mailbox was someone I knew over 25 years ago.  We were not friends, but we shared the same small high school.  The last time I saw her was probably 1986, so this is how I pictured her in my head.  And as I read her words I saw that young girl. I could so easily place her in the story.  I felt bad. Bad for what she was going through, but worse because I was going through so much then too.  I felt bad that we didnt know each other.  That we werent able to share with our peers.  That we probably would have been friends if only we had been honest with ourselves.  We shared some very similar experiences that shaped who we have become.  And yet not once would I have ever thought that she was feeling what I was feeling.

I suppose my point of this ramble is that we need to teach people that you can find friends and support in the most unlikely of places.  That we really have no idea what is happening inside someone else and they have no idea what's going on inside you.  It's not the clothes or the circle you associate with that makes you who you are. It is OK to step outside that box and open yourself up. You just need to be true to who you are and tell your story.

I am a storyteller

I had an epiphany in the shower today.  So much happens mentally in the shower.  In ten minute windows, I slowly change my life, one reflection at a time.

This morning I was feeling guilty. Guilty of not writing. Guilty of not producing the volume of articles I would like to.  Guilty of holding people up that relied on me for their web content. Guilty for thinking I was not being passionate about things I know I am passionate about.

As I washed my  hair I thought about my declining health, how it is effecting me mentally and thought perhaps I was just too tired right now to care so much.  However I know better.  No matter what the world throws at me, if I am on a mission, I will give 110% always. And I am still on a mission. The mission to write. 

I am a writer. But of what?  What do I write? Why do I write? These were the questions to myself.  I write articles. I write reviews. I write opinions. I blog. I write song lyrics, poetry and love letters.  Pretty much in that order now a days.  And that, my friends, is why I am in a rut.  I have put the very things I am most passionate about,  the topics, the subjects and the feelings, at the end of my writing priority list.  Somehow I have allowed what was once a passion in itself, writing, to become a job. One I do not get paid for.

When I began blogging and opening up my world to others, I was passionate about my feelings. I reached out and was met with open arms from many communities.  I took solace in them, and they in my words.  I was fueled by the stories, the feelings, and the injustices. I found common ground with people for the first time ever.  I learned so much, and shared even more.  I connected.  I found a place for my story and listened to theirs.  And then it hit me.

I am not a writer.  I am a storyteller.  I want to tell my story. I want to tell yours.  I want my story to effect you and yours to effect me.  I am passionately interested in sharing what brings us together and what keeps us apart.  My opinion matters and so does yours.  This is why I write. 

I am interested  in the news and what is happening in our communities.  I am thrilled to see sucessful LGBT artists portrayed in a positive lilght.  I am excited at the advances in legislation, albeit slow.  I am sickened by the injustices and the phsyical attacks on our communities.  I am just not a writer of it.

I am the writer that takes those physcial and mental scars created by the news events and shares it.  I am the writer that talks about the feelings you get when seeing couples marry after being together decades. I am the writer that opens the door to my story and encourgaes you to open yours. 

I do not feel guilty for stepping back from that which stopped feeling passionate. I am not just a writer. I am a storyteller. I have a renewed passion, a new mission and a new goal. 

Hey Kid - A letter to myself

A friend posted a short, yet brilliant, note to her child self today that made me think.  We all could benefit from writing to our young selves.

It seems the things that bother me most now, or have since childhood, might not have had as much power over me if I just had a chance to tell myself then what I know now. Obviously I got the wrong messages from those in my life.  What if I had received the right ones? Would I be at all different today? 

I think back to the young child being verbally and emotionally assaulted at the hands of her own mother.  During those years her mother's words were all she ever heard. I would have liked to say, "Hey kid.  Someday you will have your own children. Your kids will be awesome.  Everything she says to you today will make you a strong and determined mom.  You will know better than most, just how painful words and actions can be. And you will try your hardest to make sure no one ever makes your children feel like you do right now.  Her words are empty.  Your heart will be full. "

I think back to the kid that never quite fit in.  That was everyone's sidekick and no one's hero.  I would like to tell that kid "Hey kid.  You are not less than them.  When you are wishing you were someone else, someone was wishing they were you.  Believe it when people say they like you. Trust me, waiting until you are in your 40's to like yourself has severe disadvantages."

I think back to the kid that only wanted to love someone, even if everyone thought it was the wrong someone.  I would like to tell her "Hey kid.  Love who your heart tells you to. It doesn't matter what they look like, what their gender is, who they are related to, or where they come from.  Missing opportunities to love and feel good out of fear is just letting them win. "

I think back to the girl that was sure she was both a boy and a girl at the same time.  I would say to her "Hey kid.  You are whatever you feel in your heart you are.  And it doesn't matter if you stand or sit to pee. Most people will not understand you, but the important ones will. Don't ever be something you are not for them. "

And I think of the kid that sat planning her suicide, because no one took the time to tell her these things.  "Hey kid.  I love you. You might not know that for a long, long time.  So I am telling you now.  If you leave here, you will change the world forever.  There will people that never got the chance to feel the love they would have shared with you.  There will be incredible children that never got the opportunity to be here.  And most importantly, you will miss an awesome journey that ultimately takes you to a place where you finally "get" yourself.  And even though you think now, and will many times later in life, that no one would notice if you were gone.  They will. I need you to stay. "

I will never know how different life would have been if only I could have had this time with myself then.  I am not so sure I want to know.  What I do know is that it is never too late to help your young self heal.

What I want for Xmas

You asked me what I want for Xmas,
     and here is my reply

I thought of things I'd like to have,
     but can't afford to buy

I love the smell of fancy leather,
     the look of brand new shoes

I pictured diamonds on my hand,
     and sailing on a cruise

Electronics always catch my eye,
     you know I have a few

But what I really want this year,
     I've already found in you

~EB 2011

Freeing Myself

Did you ever have one of those days when you think, I just want to be free to do what I want, when I want and how I want?  I am not talking about staying in bed late, taking the day off of work or jumping out of an  airplane.  I am talking about allowing yourself the freedom to do what comes naturally, or wants to come naturally.

We have become a society of constant editing.  Every move we make is based on someone else's potential reaction. 

I commute to work. Many times while driving I will shut the radio off and ask myself, "what do you want to do at this very moment?"  Not something on my bucket list, but honestly what I want to do at that very moment. The answers vary; scream, cry, make stupid faces, pick my nose etc. I am not really looking to answer my question, I am looking to allow myself that freedom when there is no reason to edit myself.

It's not as easy as you think.

Yesterday I looked a little deeper into why I feel so uncomfortable doing what feels like it should be natural.  Why I am afraid to sing at the top of my lungs, cry buckets of tears, or dance, even when alone.  The fear of criticism waiting in the wings is powerful.  The reality of it may have been over 30 years ago, but the wounds must still be fresh.  It sucks.

If I could do what I wanted, reacted how I wished I could, allowed myself to the freedom just to be, life would completely different for me.  My self editing has molded me into someone that now I am realizing is very different than who I should have been. 

I am making progress in my attempt to free myself, not from the holds of the past but from who I have allowed myself to be because of it. 

I am so much more. 

Beer Muscles

Recently I have been anazlying the cyber relationships I watch unfold and unfortunately fold here on Facebook.  I pass no judgments, just make what I like to call observations.  Those observations tend to lead me to opinions, but not judgement.

I think back to my own relationship that started online in a chat room over 15 years ago.  The online world gives people a false sense of security and what someone recently referred to as beer muscles.  Similar to the beer goggles one might wear after a few drinks at the bar, beer muscles enable you to feel more secure, confident and powerful than you typically would without them.  That being said, I have never felt that beer goggles or beer muscles resulted in thoughts and actions you otherwise would not take, I believe they make you a truer version of yourself by wiping out the inhibitions that we place on ourselves out of morality or even fear.

In that chat room 15 years ago I was very confident with my beer muscles.  I was able to let who I was out honestly (with a few embellishments) and openly within the context of what I wanted to be seen.  Being online enables you to click, delete, or escape when an uncomfortable situation arises. If life had such provisions, we all might be a little truer to ourselves. For me, online relationships were a great way for me to feel out my different sides with people that I grew to trust and "know" but didn't have to face if it went all wrong. 

The problem I am seeing is when online relationships morph into real time ones.  Suddenly the confident, flirty, sometimes arrogant person you fell for in IMs is only capable to showing you the meek, unsure, and wishy washy person they are in real time.  It is easy to feel short changed after investing time and energy into someone only to find out they not at all who you thought they were. And although we all are who we portray online to some degree, what we feel confident showing on the Internet may be the least of what we show real time.

My relationship moved to real time with the premise that the dynamics would be only what we shared online. There were no expectations other than that. Time and establishing other dynamics between us AFTER the Internet is what kept us together and let us grow to where we are 15 years later.  For many people, the meeting for the first time comes with expectations.  False ones.  The butterflies you get when you see that special someone pop online, the anxiety waiting for your Email to load hoping for a letter, the dozens of emoticons you send back and forth don't transfer well to real life.

It is very easy for someone to say they will take care of you.  It is simple to convey strength and love in text, even on the phone. But until you are faced with the reality of who you are and who you can comfortably be in front of someone, you cannot possibly know how it will work out.

Each day I see the lovey dovey status' of those courting from afar. I watch, eagerly rooting for the couple to actually be a couple someday. Unfortunately I see the misery that often comes when they realize they were courting someone completely different than who showed up on the doorstep.

I believe we all are what we show people, to a degree.  Even the unkempt man in his dirty underwear pretending to be a 13 year old girl online is who he portrays, somewhere, somehow, inside.  And maybe life experience and maturity enables some to be confident enough to show their true selves upon a meeting.  But for many I think the online romance far outweighs reality.

I am grateful for the online world enabling me to find someone who otherwise I would probably never have crossed paths with.  But I am just as grateful that I waited to show who I really was when the real time time was right.

The Zen Den

I was watching a film short on Oprah's new network the other day. A group of people erected (I will refrain from giggling as my prepubescent behavior dictates) what was essentially a room made from PVC and white sheets on the sidewalk of a bust city street.  Inside the "Zen Den" were a variety of items at different times during the day ranging from bubbles to an exercise bike to a drum set.  The film simply showed people entering the white sheeted confines and ultimately how they chose to spend their time in there with the props provided.  My first reaction was the only people they could entice into the den were the free spirited who typically have a way about them enabling moments of free expression anyway.  My prediction proved correct for the first handful of people that entered.  However, my thought process shifted direction when I saw the business suit enter.

After a few minutes I had seen a plethora of people doing what instinctively came to them when presented with the props and a certain level of anonymity.  The raw energy these people emitted could be felt on the screen. I witnessed the release the banging of drums allowed and the return of memories, most likely good and bad, the act of blowing bubbles created. An elderly lady entered and simply laid down for a nap.

For a while I was envious of them all. Each person that stepped out of their comfort zone by entering the unknown was able to find a place where all inhibitions could be let go of and raw reaction was appropriate.  It reminded me of just how much we hold each other back. Of how guarded we keep ourselves in hopes of self preservation.  We have learned that freedom of expression is many times met with judgement and that judgment many times feels bad.  By limiting our expression we lessen the blow.  Or do we?

I started wishing that every street corner had a zen den.  That my job had one, as well as my home.  I thought about how much more peaceful the world would be if we had an nonjudgmental outlet for what we were feeling in the moment.  How having no stimuli but your own self and what you are doing would allow honesty within your own soul for a few moments.  How we wouldn't do what we assumed those watching want us to.  How cause and effect would never be negative.

I am not sure what I would do in the zen den. But I would love the opportunity to let my feelings and my energy show me.

Now that I have found "me"

I have another facebook account. It is my vanilla, accountant, mother of two page.  "Friends" on that account consist of family, people I didn't care for in high school, co-workers and a very small handful of very important people in my life.  Very few of them are privy to who I am here; the writing, genderqueer, oftentimes unstable Echo Brooks.  Those that I have allowed to take the ride with me both here and there are the few that either know who I really am or would at least be OK with it.  I appreciate those that I haven't had to compartmentalize and hold at arms length.

This morning I posted a song lyric and some comments on my other account. An ex partner of mine made a comment about not realizing I had become so sarcastic.  At first I wondered why she even said that.  Of course I am sarcastic. Everyone knows that.  Don't they?  I stated that surely I had been witty and charming back then. To which she replied  "No you were sincere and heartfelt".

I was quite thrown by that comment.  At first I was concerned that people no longer saw me as genuine and caring.  That concern soon gave way to wondering when I changed.  Apparently I had.  I felt the need to explain myself.  Explain that if she really knew who I was today she would know my sarcasm is a defense mechanism. That my witty remarks keep me from having to be serious with people.  That the chivalrous charm I used to carry with me has been tainted and replaced with mocking charm.  I felt the need to say life has made me this way.  The need to protect myself made me this way.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized she knew me as a young adult just out of childhood.  She knew me before I learned me.  She knew me before the pain of life caught up to me.

I have come a long way since the 1980's.  I have grown and have evolved.   I am still sincere and heartfelt, just guarded.

Now that I have found "me", I need to go back and bring the rest of the pieces along for the ride.

One Man's Trash

Last weekend we finished the demolition of the old, and raising of the new, shed.  I opted to spare the new shed some of the old shed's contents and made several trips to the curb with handfuls of who knows what.

On one of my last trips I saw a woman walking up the alley.  She looked weathered and I suppose natural, for a lack of better words.  Her skin had seen a lot of sun, her shoulder length hair had no meaning other than to exist and do what hair does, and her clothes were dumpster at best.  She reminded me of what I would assume someone who has committed themselves to studying wildlife in Africa might be like.  Although disheveled and messy, she seemed clean enough to be healthy and exuded an air of calm and peace.

As she passed the enormous amount of bundled old shed wood and rubbish, she quietly said, "
Oh, old racquetball rackets. Mind if I take a look?".  I found it incredibly odd how she managed to see the very tip of the handles poking out of one garbage can and was able to recognize that not only were they old, they were racquetball rackets.

"Help yourself" I said a little bewildered.

In that moment I ran a gazillion thoughts through my head. She pulled the rackets out of the can, looked them over with what appeared to be the knowledge of a professional antique racquetball racket appraiser and said "I will take this one if you don't mind. You know, one man's trash is another man's treasure".

I happily obliged her request and nodded at her commonplace words of wisdom.  As I was turning around to head back through my gate into the backyard she stopped me and said "and I don't mean just garbage".

I turned and studied her face for further clues. "That applies to all things in life, including people. Remember that." Again I nodded and spun to go back into the yard.  "Nice art work" was the next thing she said. She was looking at the tattoos on my arm.

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't have to have a tattoo related conversation with someone.  I prepared myself for my standard answers.  When asked I explained that I did them myself she said "are you an artist"? To which I emphatically said "no", with a chuckle just to seal the deal.  She looked at me quizzically and said "you know, it is never too late to be what you should have been".

With that she walked away up the alley.  I watched her wondering who she was, why I had never seen her before, what she was doing behind my house and most of all how she knew those little bits of racket handle belonged to a vintage racquetball racket. 

I am not an artist.  I do not desire to be an artist.  However her words resonated with me so much over the past week that I had to write them down. "One man's trash is another man's treasure" and "It is never too late to be what you should have been". 

I couldn't agree more.

High School

The last of my children started high school this year.  Thinking of high school always makes me cringe.  While some of the best moments of my life happened during those years, some of the worst did as well.  The best live as fond memories that I recall every now and then.  The worst I live with every single day, even 25 years later.
I think back to the bullying; the chants, the spray painted driveway, the eggs on my car.  All things that seemed to just go with the territory of being openly homosexual in the 1980s.  Time has moved us forward, unfortuanetly I cant seem to grasp that, at least not the feeling of it.
Until the other day when I listened first hand to some incredible high school kids talking on the subject of gender and sexuality, I had no idea that being gay no long carried the stigma it used to.  Even as much as I write and speak to people about LGBT issues, I never realized how accepted kids truly are of their peers.  And while we have a long way to go and a lot of bullies to put out of commission, I am seeing that we are winning the fight.
In a conversation with a coworker about this I actually got choked up as I tried to explain what life was like for me; family that disowned me and friends that took my membership card away.  I tried to say, "Do you have any idea how that feels? How it feels to be unworthy in so many people's eyes?". But I could not get it out, doing so would have made me cry.  I pride myself on fighting emotion and never allowing my past to creep up and make me feel weak, but it got the better of me.
When she told me a friend of her sons parents told the friend that he better not (insert any 'act gay' behavior here) in high school or the kids will beat him up, she said she was stunned, as was her son.  "They would never do that just because someone was gay" was their thought process.  And while I know that is not the truth I was amazed that the thought that someone would not get abused for their sexual orientation came before the thought that surely they would.  It's progress. Progress I wish I had experienced then.  I wish I could feel it now.
The emotions that surfaced that day were not sparked by self pity, but rather envy. Envy mixed with relief.  Relief for the kids that will be able to experience high school as a person instead of a label. I wonder how different my bullies from that day would feel if their own children were enduring the people they used to be.

Parking Lot Lesbians

We had what might have been the most stereotypical lesbian drama unfold in our work parking lot yesterday.

One of our facilities backs up to a field as well as a small highway.  An employee, while walking to her car noticed two women in the field chasing after a small dog seemingly topless (the girls, not the dog...well him too). After putting on her glasses for a better look my co-worker realized indeed the girls were shirtless. They grabbed up their little dog (a cat would have made the story perfect) and walked across the parking lot to where.....yes.......their U Haul was parked. While one put the dog in the car, the other took the liberty of stripping off her pants and waving them over her head while facing the highway traffic.  Free spirits? Methamphetamine?  You decide.

The police were notified mostly because there is a day care center on the premises.  While waiting for the police to address the situation, and all employees' eyes on the U Haul, the one girl climbed into the back of the U Haul and laid down. The other, straddled her crotch and began to do the deed. The audience not a deterrent, the girls proceeded to enjoy each other until the police arrived. They were cited for indecent exposure (although I believe none of the peering sets of eyes found anything indecent about it) and were being assessed for possible intoxication (ya think?).

Our COO arrived right after the police (he was off site). After stating "I thought you said two naked guys were in the parking lot", he decided the situation was under control and didn't need his attention.  Thank you for clearing up any question some workers still had about your orientation Sir.  No charges were pressed, the young carefree and most assuredly inebriated women were sent on their way to their new destination and I was left wondering if now everyone who witnessed that scene pictures me on the top or the bottom?

My Type

Someone asked me "so, what's your type?"  I answered that I don't have one. And that is the honest truth.  If they had asked me years ago, and I mean many years ago, I would have been able to describe my "type" to anyone.  In my teens it was blond women with big hair, beautiful eyes, a rocking body and an edge.  She was straight and dying to "try it out" with a woman.  I would step in, be their hero, show them a world they never imagined possible and become the person they speak of still today.  That was my type, not my reality. In my twenties it was pretty much the same woman, just a brunette.

In my thirties my life, love, priorities and self began to change. Somewhere on my journey to self discovery, my "type" became those that fed me what I hungered for, despite their looks.  I would like to say maturity lessened any sense of shallowness I  had, but I do not think that was it. I attribute my change in taste palette to be caused by my self-centeredness.   My needs far surpassed what I could get from the small, practically non existent pool of my "types" I could choose from.  I honestly wasn't really interested in happily ever after or handing out toasters to the incoming lesbians anymore. In my thirties I started to embrace who I was. I began to learn who I was, albeit very slowly.  I found ways to interact with people that had absolutely nothing to do with bed post notches.  Sex became an end result of a much larger picture or not at all.  It no longer took the front seat.

I am now in my forties. What I learned in my thirties was vital to my life today, even if it took me a decade to figure out how to use that knowledge properly. Today I don't have a type, I have an understanding.  My understanding comes in a package that is neither blond nor brunette, without big hair, with extra pounds and no sharp edges. My understanding frustrates me endlessly some days but is still understanding.  My understanding has allowed me room to grow into who I wished I had been all along. My understanding does not fit a "type". And for her I am thankful.

I used to be a gentleman

We all change over the course of our lives. Situations, relationships and environment shift who we are.  There are times when you wake up and wonder, where the heck "you" went. And times when you thank the powers that be for getting you to the other side.  Either way, change is inevitable and certainly shaped by situation and maturity. I don't like change. It upsets my OCD.  However I love personal growth.  I have grown more in the past couple of years than I think I have my entire life combined. And while I love getting to know myself honestly, I am having difficulties looking back on the changes that have taken place previously that I am not so happy about.

Once upon a time I truly cherished and loved my women. I was a gentleman in everything I did. I gave 110% to whoever I was with, oftentimes obsessively so.  I expected nothing in return other than for them to acknowledge the fact that they knew they were treated well. Their happiness was my happiness. Somewhere that stopped working for me.  Someone found a way to take everything I was and everything I offered and make a mockery of it.  That someone, who I care nothing about today, managed to effect who I am and how I continue to live my life. Sadly every relationship since has suffered.  I doubt those I was with felt short changed because that is the only way they knew me. However I know the potential I had as a partner, and the amount of "me" they never got.

The change I experienced and have carried with me was because of my environment, not because I wanted to change.  Now that I am "finding myself", I think I need to be open to the idea of reversing negative change and allowing my personal growth to include the pieces of me taken at someone else's hands.

Boxer Briefs and a Bra

I haven't spent nearly as much time writing my thoughts as I have been thinking them.  With so much happening these past couple of months I must admit I run out of time in the day before I run out of things I need to accomplish.  Sometimes taking the time to write feels selfish when there are so many more important things to be doing.  Today, however, it is rainy and dark and nothing else seems like a better idea then sharing my thoughts.

As many of you know I recently had breast reduction surgery.  The purpose of the surgery was to alleviate some of the disgust I had for my body as well as get rid of a lot of what kept me from feeling like me.  I refer to it as chest surgery rather than breast reduction surgery because I feel more connected to me having a chest than I do breasts.  Actually I think I have a chest with breasts, or something like that.  The chest/breast confusion just mirrors the rest of the confusion I face within my gender.

The decision I made to have the surgery was never in question, the decision as to how much to remove was, and still is.  A lot of people dont understand the blurred gender I live within.  For most people gender is one or the other, even if they feel they are the 'wrong' one.  I never fit the matronly female body I carried, but I certainly would not fit a male body either.  So taking too much off would put me in just as much of an uncomfortable position as keeping what I had.  My quest was to make the breasts small enough to wear male clothes yet large enough to wear female clothes.  Most days I wear a little of both.  Although I wish the outcome was a little smaller than they ended up (or are at this point in the recovery), I am happy with my choice.

Since I write a lot on gender identity, it is no wonder I have a large transgender following.  I am a huge advocate for the transgender community and understand a lot of what they feel.  However, I am not transgender.  During the past couple of months as I have shared my boob journey, I have found myself feeling like I need to explain why I only took some off and not them all. I have felt the same misunderstanding about being genderqueer from the trans community as I have the gender conforming community. For once in a very long time I am experiencing the tiny place where those whittled out of the larger communities reside.

I am not a butch lesbian, I am genderqueer. I am not a transman that hasn't transitioned, I am genderqueer.  I am not a man or a woman, I am both and neither.  I wear boxer briefs and a bra.

The "B" in LGBT

In the month or so that I have been absent from here, a lot has been swirling in my head. I have started multiple posts but haven't actually finished a complete thought in any of them.  Since my surgery I have been focusing on healing and have found that even thinking is exhausting.  As the days pass by I feel a little better and/or different. I am back to doing some writing and even conducted an interview last night.  The conversation I held with this man has hopefully sparked enough thought to get my first back-in-action post out.

I was contacted by a promoter to take a look at a web series based on the "controversial subject of the blurring of gender known as “bisexuality”. And while I uncomfortably read that statement linking gender and sexuality, I decided to watch the series, look into the man behind the movie and have an open mind when reviewing it. The series was about a woman who identified as a lesbian but found herself interested in pursuing a relationship with a man.  The story takes you through the trials and tribulations of both main characters when dealing with their peers etc.  The series itself was engaging enough, but the man behind it was who got me thinking.

During our interview, the writer spoke about his life as a bisexual man.  I was quite candid about my feelings on the bisexual label and how they have morphed throughout my own maturity and self identity.  And while I am not bisexual, nor do I know many people that honestly identity as bisexual (outside of the fashion trend), I found it interesting that he faces the same challenges as many of us in the LGBT community, or most specifically the smaller subcultures of the community. He considers himself queer, as do I.  Queer itself is a broad label.  For me, queer allows me to be something other.  Other than what? It doesn't matter. Just other.  It made sense then that he identified similarly.

Up until last night I would have said that I have very little in common with someone who is bisexual.  It always seemed like they had their cake and ate it too; when the world came crashing down they could opt to jump on the "normal" bandwagon.  However I learned last night that the bisexual community does indeed belong to the bigger LGBT community and that they fit into society more sometimes only because that is what society has determined, not what they have.  The bisexual community is very much like the smaller gender queer and transgender communities in the fact that they seem to always be battling the very community they are fighting the same fight as. It makes me sad when I step back and look at the intolerance, when in fact we are all victims of the same intolerance on the grander scale.

I admit I have never reached out to the bisexual community.  But I also admit I never gave anyone in that community the opportunity to show me just how much we are the same.  We all want to know we belong, to be a part of something bigger, something stronger, something that will fight for who we are.  He too is an "other". And even if I don't understand it, I am tolerant and accepting of it and believe the "B" in LGBT does belong.

Chest Surgery / Breast Reduction

Call it what you will. For my surgeon it is a radical breast reduction. For me, a genderqueer, it is chest surgery. Join me in my photo/media journey through the process.

Chest Surgery Diary (click here)

I plan to update the media diary during the entire mental and physical recovery.

I hope you will join me.

~Echo