Make It Stop

I have been working on my presentation for an anti-bullying event being held next week in Texas.

For months I knew this was coming. And for months I had an idea of how I wanted to present my story in order to  inspire others to find their own "awareness".  For days I typed and deleted.  I was trying desperately to say "Hey!  Look at me.  I have a story to tell.  I WAS that kid." Blah blah blah.

And then it hit me.

This has absolutely NOTHING to do with me.  While my story may be inspirational, it alone will not save another child from dying. There will undoubtedly be people in that audience that connect and relate to where I have come from, where I presently live within my own head, and what my desires for the future are.  However, me feeling sorry for myself and asking others to take that pity train with me surely does no good.

When I realized that the angle of what I had to present was just as important as the content, the ideas flowed.

As soon as I took myself out of the equation and replaced me with our young people, it became so obvious.

Spreading awareness isn't about telling your story, or where you have been.  It's about showing people, first hand, what that story has taught you. It is about creating a place where tolerance is not something we try to teach, but a value we possess and pass on to others through our own actions.

We all have a story to tell.  And it is an incredible thing to do so.  But not this time. It is our young people's turn to be spotlighted, not the young person I used to be.

For more information on the event visit Make It Stop.

"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.