Love, Marcus (Blog #504)

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For lunch yesterday, I paid with cash, and my change was SUPPOSED TO BE $21.06. However, the waitress only brought back $21.00. No six cents. This is a HUGE pet peeve of mine, but still, I let it go. Or rather, I didn’t say anything at the restaurant then stewed about it for thirty minutes after. (Those pennies belong to me, damn it.) Anyway, last night I watched a movie with a friend of mine and picked up pizza on the way to his house. Well, get this shit. The pizza was $18.64, and I gave the girl $19.00. So I watched her go to the cash register, and the computer screen attached to it–in big, bold letters ANYONE could have read from the other side of a football field–said, “Change due: $0.36.” But the girl just shut the drawer and turned around, as if she were done. Seeing me still standing at the counter, she raised her eyebrows.

“May I have my change?” I said.

“Oh,” she said, and turned back to the cash register.

What the hell, people?!

The movie I watched last night was called Love, Simon and is the story of a high school senior (Simon) who is in the process of 1) coming to terms with his (homo)sexuality and 2) coming out. I honestly didn’t have high expectations. Maybe it’s because I’m thirty-seven, single AF (as fuck, Mom), and took forever to really come out, but I simply wasn’t jazzed about the idea of watching a tween with flawless skin discover his true self AND fall in love in the space of a calendar year. (Well that’s just great–FOR YOU!) That being said, I was pleasantly surprised. Not only was the movie adorable, it was also (mostly) “real” or true-to-life.

I laughed. I cried. It was better than Cats.

Toward the end of the movie, after Simon comes out to his family, he has a conversation with his mom and asks her if she knew. “I knew you had a secret,” she says. “You used to be so free–but these last few years I could almost hear you holding your breath.”

Wow. I know what that feels like, to not be able to fully relax, to always wonder what other people–your friends, your family–will think of you, to constantly feel as if you have to hide. (They don’t call it being in the closet for nothing.) With my journey, I first came out to my dad, then some friends, then my sister. Everyone said, “We know. It’s about time. Pass the ketchup.” It just wasn’t a big deal to them. But it was a big deal to me. It’s always a big deal to exhale, to realize that the world isn’t as scary as you made it out to be, to know that you are loved and accepted for who you are.

Personally, I think we’re all in the process of coming out and learning to exhale. Not necessarily with regard to sexuality, but with regard to something. Because we all have secrets, parts of ourselves and our lives that we’re ashamed of, things we’re deathly afraid to share with others. After all, what WILL people think? Plus, it’s difficult to live life without apology, to be willing to stand out in whatever way. In the movie, there’s a character who’s not only out, but also obvious, so he’s an easy target for high school bullies. To his credit, he always has a comeback, a witty retort. But surely it would take a lot of energy to live like that, always on the defense.

In my experience, my strength comes and goes. Plenty of days I feel like putting in my earrings, doing whatever the fuck I want to do with my hair, and strutting around in the shortest shorts I own. Yes, I’m gay. And this is how I dance, and this is how much I weigh, and this is how I live my life. And if you don’t like it, you can go get high. But plenty of days I feel like blending in and not being noticed. (Sometimes I feel like making a fuss about six cents; sometimes I don’t.) I just finished reading a book about the moon, and apparently the moon and I have this in common. Some days we shine brightly, some days we disappear completely. The book’s author, Carolyn McVickar Edwards, says it like this–“I bless my capacity to hold both the light and the dark.”

So.

In all things.

I’m trying to not hold my breath so much.

To breathe in AND out.

Just as the moon waxes AND wanes.

This is the change I’m really wanting.

To hold on to the light, then let go of it.

To gracefully move from one phase to the next.

To relax.

To move freely through the heavens.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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Cheering Each Other On (Blog #169)

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Currently it’s before midnight. Mom and Dad are watching television, I’m doing laundry, and the most interesting thing we’ve talked about all day is how much dog hair the vacuum cleaner sucked up earlier this week. I mean, I saw the evidence in the yard this morning–it looked like a toupee. Anyway, it’s not exactly a Friday night to be envied, but I’m planning on getting up early tomorrow, and that’s why I’m writing now and not watching Netflix with my imaginary boyfriend.

Speaking of which.

For my birthday two different friends sent me a GIF of Zac Efron blowing a kiss and winking at the same time. One of them posted it on Facebook, which–I often forget–my mom is a member of. So the next day my mom referenced the GIF and said (and I quote), “I bet you could look at that all day.” (Take all the time you need to stop laughing.) I said, “Aren’t you cute?”

See what I missed out on by staying in the closet so long?

I’m planning to get up earlier than normal tomorrow in order to do yard word for a friend. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, mostly because I’m used to getting up about the time the sun is going down, and it’s pretty difficult to weed eat a lawn by the light of the crescent moon. Plus, yard work is hard work. The older I get, the more drugs it requires. Most importantly, I don’t really have the clothes for it. When I had my estate sale last year, I got rid of all my yard work and painting clothes, said, “Fuck this shit,” and haven’t looked back since.

Until today.

Leave it to a homosexual to get hired for yard work and wonder what he’s going to wear. I actually thought about going to Walmart tonight to buy some crappy clothes that I wouldn’t have to worry about messing up. But then I remembered I have a pair of shorts that are falling apart and a four-dollar v-neck t-shirt I’m really not in love with. I thought, Okay, but what am I going to do for shoes? Well, my dad’s feet are smaller than mine, but–on a long shot–I asked if he had any old shoes that would fit me, and he did. Turns out it’s handy to have an aunt who works at a hotel where she periodically gets to raid the lost and found.

So, to the–I’m assuming–elderly gentleman with slightly wide feet who left your velcro shoes in Van Buren, thank you. My fashion standards have officially be lowered. As for you dear reader, if you happen to see me in said velcro shoes this weekend, please pretend you don’t know me.

Tonight I taught a dance lesson to a student who can be pretty tough on themselves. I mean, as a dance instructor, it’s pretty common to hear someone say, “I’ll never get this.” In response, part of me is always cheerleading at work, saying, “You can do it,” so it usually feels like I’m one pom-pom away from sleeping with the quarterback. (Wouldn’t that be nice?) Sometimes people think all my encouragement is bullshit, just an act to earn a dollar, but it’s not. Almost without fail, people exceed their own expectations (and I get to be right). Often less than fifteen minutes after doubting themselves, they’re doing the thing they just said they couldn’t.

I say, “See, you did it!” (Raw raw sis boom bah!)

“Yeah, but I won’t be able to do it again.” (GOOOOOOOO team.)

As a teacher, self-talk like this is hard to hear. Having worked with hundreds and thousands of students, I absolutely know that anyone can learn to dance. At least they can learn to dance better. In over fifteen years of teaching, only once have I thought, How did you walk up the stairs? Here’s your money back. Use it to go bowling. But even that couple, who only came to one class, could have improved. It would have just been a matter of desire, practice, and time. And really, it hurts to see capable, talented, intelligent students put themselves down and not believe in themselves.

So.

A couple days ago one of my friends sent me an email. In short, he said that after reading several of my blogs, he walked away with the crazy notion that sometimes I don’t think I’m good enough or good-looking enough. He said, “If I’ve misjudged that, I apologize.” Uh, no, you read that right. My friend then shared something a friend of his once shared. He said, “If you could only see yourself like I see you, like many other people see you, you’d never think another negative thought about yourself again.” Then he added, “You are more than your body.”

I haven’t written my friend back yet, but his email has been such a beautiful reminder to be kind to myself. Just today I’ve felt not good enough, not good-looking enough, and overwhelmed because–I don’t know–pick a reason. Some days, some years, you’re single, living with your parents, carrying a few extra pounds.

I don’t know why it’s easier to see beauty and potential in someone else than it is to see it in yourself. I have friends that I could easily forward that email to, people I think the world of and love without condition, and I can Hip Hip Hooray all day long for my dance students. But sometimes it’s difficult to extend that unconditional love and can-do spirit to myself. Still, it’s getting better, and I’m grateful we’re in this together, holding each other up, cheering each other on, and blowing each other kisses–whatever it takes to remember how beautiful we all are–even in velcro shoes.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Healing is never a straight line.

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the person beside me (blog #11)

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Usually, at some point during the day, it becomes clear what I’m going to blog about. It’s like an idea shows up, and part of me just knows—that’s it. Well, it’s two hours to midnight, Cinderella, and so far that idea hasn’t shown up. That being said, it’s National Siblings Day, so I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my one and only sibling, Dee-Anne. (That’s her in the photo above. She’s the pretty one. With long hair.)

As I write this now, I’m in the room that was hers when we were children. All of her furniture is gone, the walls have been repainted, and there aren’t many signs of her left, save a bookend of a teddy bear. The bear has its legs spread far apart, heels to Jesus, so I don’t know what that’s about. In the closet, there’s her Teddy Ruxpin, as well as a dry-erase notepad with two more teddy bears on it. Both of them are wearing leotards. (It was the 80s.)

Obviously, Dee-Anne had a thing for teddy bears.

It’s weird being back here, living in the house I grew up in, staying in her room. Even without closing my eyes, I can see where her canopy bed used to sit. I remember getting a spanking in here once, by her nightstand. I remember where in the room she and her friends used to play with Barbie dolls and I wasn’t allowed.

Memories for me are almost always related to space. Like, when I think about things that happened at my dance studio, I always remember the thing and exactly where I was standing when it happened. It’s like that with everything. I remember the spot in my grandparents’ front yard where I was standing when I saw the smoke from our house burning a few blocks away. Just that one memory of the smoke and the spot in the yard is all I’ve got. Nothing else comes back, other than I know that my sister was there beside me.

Sometimes I walk through the house, and it’s like a dream. In reality, Mom and Dad are in the living room watching Days of Our Lives, but I see my sister and me there the night that Dad was arrested over twenty years ago. We watched it on television together.

There’s a wall in the living room with pictures of us, most of them taken about twelve years ago, when I opened my dance studio. Dee-Anne was my first dance partner, and we took a lot of pictures for publicity. But there are also a lot of pictures from when we were kids, as well as one when I was a senior in high school that’s airbrushed more than the cover of Cosmopolitan.

As I think about it now, I realize that my sister was my first friend, one of the first people I met when I came into this world. And I guess we did all the normal things that siblings do—double bounce each other on the trampoline, go to each other’s ballgames and ballet recitals, fight with each other in the backseat of the car. But there were certainly all the not-so-normal things that happened, like the time we walked the streets of El Paso as teenagers, searching for a Western Union, because Mom’s purse was stolen and we needed cash if we were going to be able to visit Dad in prison. (I really should have started therapy sooner.)

After my first nephew was born, I came out to my sister. I think I had just broken up with my first official boyfriend, and I was such a fucking mess that my parents had asked what was going on. So I told them, then decided Dee-Anne should know too.

So we’re driving to the grocery store, and my nephew is in a car seat in the back, and I just blurt it out. “So this probably won’t come as a surprise, but I’m gay—now you say something supportive.”

And then my sister stuck her hand in the air (like a Pentecostal on a Sunday morning) and said, “High five for finally saying something.”

Later that year, for my birthday, she sent me a card that said, “I’m sorry for not letting you play with my Barbie dolls.”

I always tell people that I’ve been really fortunate in terms of my sexuality. My family is over-the-top accepting. Just today, my mom made a point to tell me how handsome she thinks Don Lemon and Anderson Cooper are. More than little things like that, I know that I can be myself. I know anyone I choose to date or spend time with is welcome here. But that’s not always the case, of course. I know gay guys who have been kicked out by their mothers, thrown up against the wall by their fathers, told they can’t see their nephews by their sisters.

And all I can say is that I’m grateful. There’s something special and humbling about being able to be fully yourself around your family, the people who have known you the longest, that have been through hell with you. It’s so easy to put expectations on people you’ve known forever, to insist that they don’t change or even grow up. But I think if you really love someone, you love them no matter what. And it doesn’t matter if they get sick, or go to prison, or come out of the closet because sure, people change, but love doesn’t. That’s the thing that stays the same.

And if someone changes and you stop loving them—well, that’s not love.

So if I’ve never said it before, Dee-Anne, thank you for loving me. Thank you for being my first friend, for standing beside me during the very worst moments of this life, and thank you for dancing with me, and for that high five and the retroactive invitation to play with your Barbie dolls. I definitely would have taken you up on that. But then again, had I come out sooner, I also would have stopped you from wearing those jeans in the eighth grade.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you want to become who you were meant to be, it's absolutely necessary to shed your old skin. Sure it might be sad to say goodbye--to your old phone, to your old beliefs, anything that helped get you this far--but you've got to let go in order to make room for something new.

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