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)

"There are a lot of benefits to being right here, right now."

On Thanksgiving and Options (Blog #602)

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It’s Thanksgiving night, and for the last several hours I’ve been hiding away in my room, tucked under my warm covers reading a book, scrolling through social media, and searching Google. By “searching Google” I mean “looking up my medical problems and scaring the shit out of myself.” It’s been a delightful evening. Actually, it’s been a delightful day.

This morning I woke up and ate breakfast (after which the morning was over). Then this afternoon I watched the final two episodes of the FX Series Pose, which is about homosexuals and transsexuals in the late 1980s in New York City. Ugh, what a fabulous show. I cried during the last episode. All evening I’ve been thinking about the characters–their hopes, their dreams, their challenges, their fabulous wardrobes. I can’t wait for next season.

My therapist said once that when you binge watch shows and identify with the characters, that’s called a “para-social relationship.” As I understand it (after reading this slide-show about them) para-social relationships are one-sided relationships a person develops with celebrities or book, television, or movie characters and can be positive because they provide a certain amount of social and emotional stimulation without all the hard work and fear of rejection. Like, Harry Potter will only be there for you. He’ll never tell you to “go jump off a bridge, jerk.” Anyway, my therapist also said that if you, dear reader, get any benefit from what I share from my sessions with her, then this blog would be a “para-therapeutic” relationship for you. “It’s obviously not the same as actually going to therapy,” she said, “but it would be like a quarter measure.”

You always have options.

My therapist has this thing about measures, that is, quarter measures, half measures, and full measures. Like, let’s say you have a problem with someone and want to do something about it. A quarter measure response might be to not see them as often or simply say, “I’d like you to stop texting me when you’re drunk, Grandma.” A half measure response might be to write them a letter or have a serious come-to-Jesus meeting and say, “Just who the hell do you think you are, Beatrice?” A full-measure response, however, would sound more like, “Eff you, lady, and the horse you rode in on. I don’t ever want to see you again.” My therapist’s point being–you always have options and don’t have to go all the way in every situation, especially when going part-way will get the job done.

But back to Thanksgiving.

Late this afternoon my parents, my mom’s sister (my aunt), and I went to Cracker Barrel. This is becoming a thing in our family, going out to eat on holidays. It’s fabulous; no cooking, no dishes. Anyway, because we went later in the day, we didn’t have to wait long (just ten minutes) to get seated. Immediately, my dad started harassing our waitress. “Are there free refills? On the food, I mean.” Then my mom put a prescription bottle from Walmart on the table, and I thought, The holidays have arrived. I texted one of my friends about the bottle, and she said, “Xanax for everyone!”

“I should be so lucky,” I replied. “It’s probably something for irritable bowel.”

For dinner I had the traditional–turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and cranberry sauce. It was like a deal–$11.99–and included a free drink and even a slice of pumpkin pie. And whereas it all tasted super great, I couldn’t get over the fact that the stuffing came in the shape of a tennis ball (because it was served cafeteria style, with an ice-cream scooper) and the tablespoon-sized serving of cranberry sauce came in a cup that looked like it should be used to give hospital patients their medications.

After dinner, while Dad and I were eating our respective desserts, an old lady passed by our table, and we smiled at each other. It was just the sweetest thing. Then as she kept walking, Dad pointed out that her shawl was partially tucked into the back of her pants. I guess she went to the bathroom and didn’t get everything put back together quite right. I can’t tell you how much we laughed about this. Honestly, I’m still laughing about it. Out loud.

Anyway, there we were, my whole family, cackling like hyenas, and Dad said, “I’m going to go tell her.”

“No, Ron!” Mom said. “I’ve done that before with toilet paper, and she’d be so embarrassed if a stranger said something.”

“That would be embarrassing,” I said. “And I’ve walked out with toilet paper on my shoe too.”

“No, I had it tucked into my pants,” Mom said.

And so we laughed some more.

Now I’m ready to go to bed, and my stomach’s upset. It’s been upset for months now, and–honestly–it’s not any worse than it normally is. But because I’ve been searching Google about it, I’m kind of freaking out, like, This is never going to get better. And since I’ve tried some quarter measure things like home remedies and prescriptions from my doctor (the latest prescription for a full day now), I’m thinking of trying a full measure thing like a restrictive diet or colon surgery. You know, I like to be dramatic. But something tells me to calm down, Sally, and go with a half measure. I’ll let you know how it goes.

But on today especially, I’m thankful that I at least have options.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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I don't think anyone came to this planet in order to get it right the first time. What would be the point?

"

I Can Still Taste the Deviled Eggs (Blog #238)

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It’s nice living back home for the holidays. Today is Thanksgiving, and this morning I could hear my parents up and about before I got out of bed. Having not quite figured out the power of technology, Dad was yelling into the phone as if it were a tin can with a string attached to the bottom. Mom was running up and down the hallway. Ten minutes after my alarm had gone off, she knocked on my door–time to get up. If it’d been any other day, I would have headed straight for the kitchen. Instead I took a shower and put on some clean clothes, intentionally starving myself in preparation for The Big Meal.

When I was a kid we used to pile in the car and spend Thanksgiving at Grandma and Grandpa’s. The adults would sit at one table, the kids would sit at another, and I can still taste the deviled eggs. Grandpa always made oyster dressing, Grandma made a mean pumpkin pie, and at least once it was all served up on paper plates with plastic forks. It made for easy cleanup, of course, but it was anything but fancy. If only I’d come out sooner, I could have insisted on china and proper flatware.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s a small regret.

I do think there’s something magical about the holidays, and I don’t just mean the deals on Black Friday. I think there’s literally something in the air. Even if there’s family drama, families get together and people try. Sometimes they fail miserably, of course, but at the very least, they eat together. More often than not, everyone is on their best behavior, the food is delicious, and no one’s in a hurry to leave. This is the magic I’m talking about–it’s like time slows down. Cars linger in the driveway, eating gets stretched out for hours, fathers fall asleep on couches.

This year my family opted for eating out, which–if you think about it–is a convenient way to celebrate the pilgrims without having having to clean the oven. Anyway, we piled as many people as we could into my car, Tom Collins, and pulled into the parking lot of Furr’s Fresh Buffet in Fort Smith at 2:23 PM. Y’all, there were so many people there was a line out the double doors. It took fifteen minutes just to make it inside, and then the lady behind the cash register said, “I’m going to need you to stand against the wall while you wait.” It was like she was herding cattle. I could have sworn I was at the state fair. The only thing missing was a sign that said, “Must be this tall to ride” in front of the salad bar.

It took a while, but our party of eight eventually got seated together. One by one we took to the crowded buffet lines, filling our plates with turkey, corn on the cob, and mashed potatoes, all warmed by high-powered heat lamps. Back at the table, my Aunt Tudie had a plate full of stuffing. My dad (her brother) said, “Why did you put ranch dressing on that?”

“Well shit,” she said, “I thought it was gravy.”

For over an hour we ate and visited, ate and visited. Our drink waiter–a guy–kept calling the women at our table “honey,” so I made the assumption that he was gay. Not really something you hear many straight men say in the south. (Right, sugar?) Anyway, I did a lot of people watching. Just in the time we were at the restaurant, there must have been hundreds of customers come and go. It was like every person in the tri-state area had come out for the mediocre pumpkin pie and endless refills of soft-serve ice cream. I kept thinking, Was NO ONE here willing to cook?

My Aunt Carla (my dad’s other sister) said, “I just want to know what I have to do to get on your blog.”

“Just take a selfie with me,” I said. “It’s really that simple.”

After The Big Meal, everyone else went their separate ways, and Mom, Dad, Aunt Tudie, and I came back to our house for coffee and pie. Y’all, this was the first dessert I’ve had in three weeks–so good. My insulin didn’t know what to do. Anyway, for a couple hours, Dad and Aunt Tudie talked, Mom surfed the internet, and I read a book in the oversized chair I’m about to pass out in now. (It’s four in the morning.) Then my aunt went home, and Mom and Dad and I binge-watched recorded episodes of Will and Grace for over two hours. Considering we’re all pretty much retired, this is something we could technically have done any day of the year. Still, since we did it on Thanksgiving, it felt special.

It’s not where you are, it’s whom you are there with.

Again, this is the magic I’m talking about, the way we slow down and spend time with each other. All my grandparents are gone now, and it’s funny–sometimes I don’t remember what their voices sounded like. But I remember Grandpa called everyone “children,” and Grandma kept her teeth on the bathroom counter just as much as she kept them in her mouth. Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me what kind of plates we ate on back then. Twenty years from now I won’t care whether we ate at home or went to a buffet this afternoon. I didn’t care this afternoon–we were together. What’s important is not where you are, but whom you are there with. This is what makes some days more special than others, the thing that makes time slow down, the thing that makes the taste of deviled eggs stay with you.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Obviously, God's capable of a lot. Just look around."