The Divine in Drag (Blog #973)

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Today is Thanksgiving, and I’m grateful for my family. This afternoon we ate at Village Inn. We’ve done this the last few years, gone out to eat, then met back at home for dessert and coffee. It really is the perfect thing. Everyone can eat what they want–today I had turkey and dressing, and my Dad had a cheeseburger and fries–and you don’t have to do the dishes. Of course, going out to eat means that others (like our sweet waitress today) are NOT with their families. This reminds me to be ever more thankful for being able to be with mine and for those who make our gathering together possible. So this one’s for the staff at Village Inn.

Especially for whoever makes the pumpkin pie. (It was delicious.)

Fun fact: the local manager today told me they’d sold about 1,400 pies in the last three days. Coincidentally, sweat pant sales are up at Walmart.

This Thanksgiving, as is often the case, our family hosted non-relatives–friends, lovers, neighbors. You know how it goes. Not everyone has or can be with their loved ones, but everyone needs a tasty meal, a slice of pie, and good company. I’ve personally been hosted by other families for major holidays before and know how that made me feel (welcomed, accepted, and loved), and this is part of the reason I love that my family has always opened its doors and shared with others. Today at Village Inn I ran into one of my old psychology teachers and later remembered that another one of my psychology teachers told us that he once spent Thanksgiving at 7-11, the convenience store. I think he’d been through a divorce, but at the very least he was lonely. “I knew I could talk to the cashier,” he said.

My mom and I were talking about this sort of thing today, the fact that some people don’t have a place to go on major holidays (or ever) and that even if they do, they’re not always accepted for who they are by those who ideally should love them the most. We both know people who are gay and are either shunned by their families or loved conditionally (like, just don’t talk about THAT, or bring your lover over, or let the neighbors know). Recently one of my mom’s gay friends told her, “I wish I had a mom like you,” I guess because she doesn’t judge him for being different.

For being–himself.

A word that kept coming up today was “embarrassed.” One of my relatives mentioned being embarrassed about how they (sometimes) look, and someone else said they were embarrassed about their voice (because they’ve been made fun of for it). I’m assuming this is the deal with mom’s friend’s mother. She’s embarrassed by (ashamed of) her son’s sexuality. Of course, when you’re embarrassed or ashamed, the natural response is to hide, put on a show, or try to change yourself or others. (Just don’t talk about THAT). Alas, none of these strategies work for very long. We are who we are.

No one can effectively hide.

Getting back to being embarrassed, I know that I’ve often been embarrassed by my family. Especially my father because he’s always trying to get a laugh and doesn’t mind throwing his children under the bus in order to get one. For example, he used to tell hot waiters, “I’ll give you a hundred dollars to take my daughter on a date. She can’t get one on her own.” (Is it any wonder I didn’t come out sooner?) Tonight at my aunt’s house while we were eating pie, my family covered a whole range of–well, very personal–topics. And whereas I’ve been prohibited from blogging about the specifics, suffice it to say that if you’d been a fly on the wall, your face probably would have turned red.

As I was growing up, this sort of chatter (which happened both at home AND in public) was enough to make me want to run away. But as I’ve gotten older, it’s one of the things I appreciate MOST about my family. First of all, talking about you-know-what, at least the way my family does it, is hilarious. We laughed our butts off tonight. Second of all, the fact that no topic is off limits is precisely why no person is off limits. In my family anyone is welcome. We don’t care if you’re gay, straight, poor, rich, religious, not religious, sick, healthy, smart, or dumb. It’s come as you are. Pull up a chair. Have a piece of pie.

Just don’t stay in the bathroom too long. We only have the one.

I remember as a kid being totally ashamed by my family’s open door policy. My dad would invite into our home kids from the projects near his drugstore, and I didn’t handle it well. They were poor, dirty, and uneducated, and I guess I felt better than them. More than that, I was scared. Deep down I think we all know–That could easily be me. The truth is I’m fortunate to have what I have. That’s what I think whenever I hear stories about homosexuals who aren’t welcome–and celebrated–by their families. I really lucked out. ANYONE who’s allowed and encouraged to be wholly themselves–that is, loved unconditionally–by at least one person has totally lucked out.

Likewise, anyone who loves another unconditionally gives an unspeakable gift.

My psychology teacher today said, “Remember Pavlov?” Of course, I did. Pavlov rang a bell whenever he fed his dogs, and eventually they salivated at the sound of the bell even when there wasn’t any food. I’ve been thinking about how this Pavlovian Conditioning applies to the way one person treats another. Like, as a child out of fear or embarrassment you shut down your heart to another human being (just like you), and years later that’s what you keep doing–shutting down your heart anytime you see someone different. You don’t even stop to consider whether or not you COULD love them. Because that’s the deal. It’s not that we’re incapable of unconditionally loving our children, our neighbors, and fellow human beings. Indeed, our hearts have been designed for precisely this. It’s simply a matter of–when you see someone who’s different from you–not shutting down your heart, but connecting to it.

Mother Teresa once said, “Every day I see Jesus in his most distressing disguises.” I love this. Also, I’m deeply disturbed by this because it challenges me to love more than I’m used to loving, to not just care about those who are familiar and like me, but also care about those who are drastically different (in thought, looks, status, and behavior) from me. More and more I see “the different ones” as the divine in drag, asking, “Can you love me like this? Can you love me like that? Can you–will you–open your heart and home MORE?”

[On a personal note, today is also my mom’s birthday. Happy Birthday, Mom! Thank you for the unconditional love you give me and so many others. It makes all the difference.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can be more discriminating.

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Uncle Walt’s Wisdom (Blog #64)

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This evening Bonnie and I went to a swing dance. For the first hour, I did what I always do when I’m in a new dance environment–I judged people. Comparing myself, I can almost always objectively say that I’m no slouch on the dance floor. I can almost always think that I’m shining at least as bright as ninety percent of the room. (It’s not like tonight was my first Lindy Hop rodeo.) But on another level, I’m almost always insecure and self-critical, wondering if I’ll be good enough, if I’ll be accepted, or if I put enough gel in my hair.

As if all that weren’t enough, I’ve been really self-conscious about my body odor the last few days. I guess it all started with the antibiotics, so it’s probably a yeast problem, but it could be something else. Google says that sweat that smells like ammonia can be caused by liver disease (oh shit) or too much protein and not enough carbohydrates. Considering how tight my pants have been lately, I REALLY DOUBT IT’S A CARBOHYDRATE PROBLEM, but I ate this angelic croissant/donut thing this morning just to be on the safe side.

Whatever the problem is, I couldn’t stop thinking about it at the dance tonight because I ALMOST ALWAYS SMELL GOOD. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but as a dancer, people are in my personal space pretty often, and they tell me I smell good on the regular. (I’m just stating facts.) So tonight I was hyper-aware of that fact that my armpits smelled like bleach. I mean, Lindy Hop is a happy thing, and I like to wave my arms around A LOT. Maybe I’m being a drama queen, but all I could smell when I raised my arms was funk, so I kept thinking, “This is disgusting, Marcus. YOU are disgusting. No one will want to dance with you.”

I heard recently that the ego HATES being humiliated more than it hates anything else. I hadn’t really thought about that term–humiliated–before, but I have thought a lot about this one–embarrassed. Maybe being embarrassed isn’t the same thing as being humiliated, but it’s close enough, and I feel embarrassed all the time– about how my much I weigh, how I look in pictures, and even how I dance. (I could keep going, so just one more thing.) Lately, I feel embarrassed about my smelly armpits.

Sometimes the best I can do is look my ego square in the eye and say, ‘Would you shut the fuck up already?’

Well, clearly my ego can give me a pretty hard time, so sometimes the best I can do is metaphorically sit my ego down, look it square in the eye, and say, “Would you shut the fuck up already?” In practice, that basically looks like not giving into the thoughts about being embarrassed that are constantly running around in my head.

For example, I kept telling Bonnie tonight that I was worried about my nasty pits, and she said, “I’ll let you know if I smell something gross, but so far your shirt still smells like Tide.” So I forced myself to believe her. Plus, in that moment, I couldn’t do anything about how I smelled, how much talent I had, or whether or not I’d be accepted. So over and over, I got out of my chair, walked across the room, and asked someone to dance.

Well guess what? Everyone said yes. What’s more, everyone smiled, so I can only assume they were having a good time and not wishing they were somewhere else (like close to an oxygen mask).

Here’s a picture of Bonnie and me right before the dance ended. Thankfully, it’s not scratch-and-sniff.

When the dance was over, we went for a snack. Well, Bonnie went for a snack, and I went for a burger and fries (just to be even more on the safe side). When we finished, Bonnie requested an Uber, and within three minutes there was a Ford F150 on the other side of the street, and a guy named Chris had his head out the window shouting, “Bonnie? I’m just going to whip this around.” And then, with his muffler roaring like my dad’s stomach after he’s had Mexican food, he did a U-Turn in the middle of the street, ran up on the curb, stopped, leaned across the cab to open the door, and said, “Don’t worry. I’m a good driver.”

Well, I’m not sure that was a true statement, but I can say that Chris was the most interesting Uber driver we’ve had all week. He had what basically amounted to an Uber Disco Ball on the hood of his truck, and he could make it change colors with a remote control. Plus, Chris was dressed in a suit and tie, and what Uber driver wears a suit and tie at one in the morning? But the thing that really caught my attention was the fact that Chris smelled like an entire can of Axe Body Spray, something that should never be the case for anyone over the age of fourteen. I kept gagging, sort of grossed out, sort of wondering if I should borrow some to spray on my armpits.

There’s a beautiful poem by Uncle Walt (Whitman) from Leaves of Grass that says,

“I believe in the flesh and the appetites;
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from;
The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer;
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.”

Well, I’ve seen pictures of Uncle Walt. You can’t tell me the man took a bath every day. You can’t tell me the man used Axe Body Spray. But I love the fact that he was so in touch with his divinity that he considered every part of him, even his probably smelly armpits, to be a miracle. And of course, he was right. As the song says, “Everything is beautiful in its own way.”

For I am a universe–large–just like you are, and there is room here for all that we contain.

Personally, I know that I forget this fact a lot. I get focused on what my body doesn’t look like, doesn’t dance like, doesn’t smell like. I start listening to my ego and get embarrassed by all those things and more. In the process, I forget that I too am a miracle. After all, I’m alive, and I can dance–no matter how well–and I can ask another miracle to dance with me. For I am a universe–large–just like you are, and there is room here for all that we contain, more than enough room for any smell or embarrassment. An ego, of course, is small, and it is disgusted and humiliated by the smallest of things. But a universe is bigger than that, much too big to judge itself or another, much too big to ever question how bright it is shining.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

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on being embarrassed (blog #31)

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Today I woke up at two in the afternoon. I should really start doing that more often. It felt glorious. Alternatively, I guess I could start going to bed earlier, but I really think God intended things like blogging and eating tacos to only be done after midnight, under the cover of darkness. (Isn’t that one of the commandments?)

When my aunt woke me up this afternoon, she told me that she’d come into my room earlier to make sure I was still breathing. She’d read last night’s blog about my talking to Jesus and taking a Hydrocodone, and wanted to make sure I hadn’t overdosed on either one. (I’m currently picturing one of those witty church signs saying something like: Prescription—Jesus, Side Effects may include heaven.)

Once I got around, my aunt took me to lunch with my cousin. At one point, they were talking about a flower arrangement my cousin had given my aunt, and when she realized that he’d made the arrangement himself, she said, “You did good!” And then my cousin, totally deadpan, looked at her and said, “Mom, I did WELL. Superman does good.”

Isn’t that amazing? Superman does good. I nearly spit out my third cup of coffee. (And I wonder why I have trouble falling asleep at night.)

After breakfast (that’s lunch to you), I walked to Utica Square to do some shopping. Well, even though it was cold, I wore shorts because they fit better than my jeans. It’s like this little mind-game I play with myself. The tighter my pants are, the fatter I feel, so if my pants aren’t tight, that must mean I’m not fat. Well, that logic works for a while, at least until it’s fifty degrees outside and the only pants that fit you turn out to not actually be pants at all.

Even though I tried on six or eight items of clothing, I didn’t buy anything because everything was either too short, too tight around the shoulders, too not perfect. And whereas I actually do need a few more things to wear, it was nice not to spend the money and end up with something I wasn’t really gung-ho about. I’ve blogged about it before, but this is one of the perks of minimalist living—more money, fewer things I don’t adore.

Back at my aunt’s house, we spent the evening in her living room, just chatting. A few times her dog Benny climbed up on me, looking for some attention. This is what I love about animals. They just ask for what they want. (One time in therapy, my therapist suggested that anytime I wanted a hug, I could simply ask my friends for one, so sometimes I do that. So far, no one’s refused.)

My aunt pointed out that Benny has some benign lumps on his body, and the biggest one (about the size of a baseball) is in a rather personal area. And then my aunt joked, “If he knew any better, he’d be embarrassed.” So we both laughed, and then my writer brain went to work thinking about all the times I’ve been embarrassed and whether or not I could make a story out of any of it. And the only memory that came to mind was when I was in my early twenties and got hit on by a millionaire.

I’ll try to be brief.

When my dad was in prison, he met a millionaire (a guy in his sixties, maybe) who was in prison for something to do with taxes. So when they both got out of prison, the man invited our family to visit him. And I guess a lot of guys in prison brag about having big houses and a lot of cars and antiques, but it’s usually all bullshit. But this guy actually had all that stuff.

Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?

Well, we had a great time, but looking back, the guy hit on me a lot. I guess I knew it at the time, but I was pretty naïve back then, so I didn’t fully see it for what it was. At one point, he straight up told me that I had a nice ass, and I guess I blushed or started stuttering. I don’t remember what I said, but it must have been something like, “I’d be too embarrassed to say something like that.” And I just remember the guy saying, “Why would you be embarrassed to say you like something?”

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. And although I’m not saying I think everything the guy said and did was socially appropriate, even now I’m struck by his confidence, his lack of shame. I used to think that his confidence had to do with his money or age. I’m sure it all helps. But in my experience, the more I accept myself, the less ashamed and less embarrassed I am. I’m still not where Benny is, but maybe one day I’ll be completely okay with a few extra pounds, or a pair of pants that fit too tight, or asking for what I want. I mean, why should anyone be embarrassed about something they can’t immediately change? What’s more, why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Help is always on the way.

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