To Be Young, Fabulous, and Mormon

I've never been too much of a party guy. I like to go out approximately once a month to remind myself that I'm still in my twenties and because my gym shorts have gotten too dirty to wear around the house. It's a nice reminder that I have other clothes not meant for sleeping or work. But all in all, bars and clubs are not where I thrive because in DC, it's a whole bunch of overworked twenty somethings that like to dance along to a sped up version of Sam Smith's "Stay With Me," while buying copious amount of overpriced drinks. They're sad and tired and horny, and that makes me uncomfortable. I pray for them every night I get home from going out.
However, I do love a good house party. It's nice because rarely ever is it too loud and you can bring your own libations and drink directly out of the wine bottle. It gives you an opportunity to actually speak to the people around you, which is a lost art with my generation (which probably explains why bars and clubs are so popular). In college, I was in a fraternity, and I tried desperately to turn our parties into classier affairs with themes and decorations, but the closest we ever got was a theme called "Mythical Creatures and Substitute Teachers," which devolved into college students grinding about each other wearing thick rimmed glasses and fairy wings. Before DC, a house party ultimately meant that there would be a lot of Bassnectar and tequila shots. I just turned on a Bassnectar song to refresh my memory, and I literally got alcohol poisoning.

Literally a picture taken at my house last year. Or
from Brothers and Sisters. Whatever.

So last year, when I moved in with Mormons (long story, short: Craigslist is a sneaky bitch), I considered the idea of the house party obsolete. They were older, and I had long forgotten my hopes of a refined, well-planned soiree. I would live with the Mormons, and from time to time, I hoped that maybe we would gather to watch a rerun of Seinfeld and talk about how crazy those Jews in New York are. But it turned out to be more isolating than I could ever imagine. In the first couple weeks, I was invited to a small dinner party on our back porch, and it was gorgeous with white Christmas lights strewn about the tree that hung over the patio. There was conversation and laughs and it was incredible. It was like sitting on the set of Brothers and Sisters, except everyone was painfully conservative and the closest we came to even mentioning sex was when I accidentally grazed my friend's boob reaching for the green beans.
After that lone dinner party, I was essentially banished to live a life of solitude. I will always wonder if it's because they saw that infamous boob graze. After a couple of months went by though, I slowly began to befriend the other guy who lived upstairs. He, too, was Mormon, but he liked to bend the rules a bit--I found this out after I discovered that he lifted by wine glasses for a date that he went on. After I discovered his secret about drinking and presumably fornicating, he slowly brought me into the Mormon fold. I mean, I would scarcely be allowed to enter a Temple or do anything that involved the Mormon religion, but he did watch Survivor with me on occasion, and he spoke to me when he came in the house, and that was enough for me, ya know?
Another month went by, and suddenly an event invite popped up on Facebook. My roommate David had invited me to "AN AUTUMN AFFAIR." It was handily the most elegant event title that I had ever received an as I opened up the event page, there was a slew of information about a baking competition and musical acts and a "rustic fall dinner." There was even a hashtag for the event--I died. When I came back to life, I called my friend Liz and said, "We officially have an in to fancy DC life. Come to this party with me." She immediately agreed and we spent the next two weeks coordinating outfits. A couple days after I accepted the event, the host of the party "liked" that I was going, and like a high school girl, I called Liz and said, "He liked that we're going! God, we're so in, I can't even handle it."
But as the day of the event came closer, I began to wonder if we should even be going to the party. It was at someone's house we had never met, and it was way above my social class. It was clear that there would be no Bassnectar or grinding to be had. This was everything that I dreamed of, but everything I feared at the same time. And for the event to be so high scale, it also said that it was "BYOB friendly," which opened up a whole plethora of questions about the evening. Should I bring wine or liquor? Definitely not liquor because that requires some kind of mixer, unless you want to come off as a full-fledged alcoholic. Beer? Maybe, but nothing that comes from the low-class end of the beer aisle. It would have to be something craft, or seasonal at least. Eventually I settled on wine because, duh.

What in the world even is this?

David offered to drive Liz and me to the party with him, which is good, because we probably would have not been able to find the place otherwise. We parked on the street and walked around the back of a gorgeous two story house, and there it was in all its glory. Paper lanterns filled with candles lined the sidewalk that led up to a huge burlap banner that had "AN AUTUMN AFFAIR" written in cursive with fall-colored accents. Liz leaned over to me and whispered, "What is this even?" and we scampered inside. It was every white girl's fantasy--as if Serena van der Woodsen literally vomited out perfection into someone's backyard. There were pumpkins and corn stalks and a HAND BUILT STAGE made out of distressed barn wood. In the back were pots of chili and soup and pans full of fall-themed desserts. It was everything that I had read about in books and seen in television shows, but nothing I thought actually existed in real life. At the beverage station (because that's a thing that people do, I guess), we were told we could put our drinks down. That's the moment when I started to doubt the party that we were at. There was a small ice bucket tucked neatly under the table with two bottles of wine and a bottle of apple schnapps and about four beers. As for the table itself, it had water and Diet Coke for days, but not a drop of alcohol out in the open. I shrugged it off and figured more people would bring libations as the party got more full.
I didn't notice the table for a while though because Liz and I were making our way through the party--around the bonfire to the table of chili and fancy cheeses and baked goods. Everything matched and had name cards, in case you weren't sure exactly what kind of upper-middle class cuisine you were about to eat. The disposable flatware and plates were the nice kind--the type of stuff that my family might have tried to wash and reuse if no one were looking. It was a world that I didn't quite understand, but I wanted to be part of it. We were careful about what we said and who we spoke to, already hoping that if we were on our best behavior, we might be considered for next year's invitation list, but there were simply things we weren't prepared for. Liz and I stopped to talk to a couple and they seemed to like us. I told them about my job in marketing and Liz talked about working in public relations, and then they asked,

Oh, are you two married?
Oh.. no, we're not married.
So, you're dating?
Nope. We're just really good friends.

They stopped for a minute and just kind of looked at us, "Oh, well that's nice, too," and then the conversation was over. I looked over at Liz, confused as to what we had done. We live in DC, so everyone is all "all the women, who independent, throw ya hands up at me," but this time, it was almost like... not being married to Liz was somehow wrong. I was about three glasses of wine in, and Liz wasn't far behind, and that's when we noticed. The party seemed to be split into parties of two, all of the commingling with other duos, and the biggest difference was that not a single person had anything other than a Diet Coke in their hand...

Hand. Built. Stage.

My second family back home is Mormon, so this wasn't my first rodeo. I started putting all of the pieces together. The elaborate spread of food that an entire army couldn't eat, a party theme that emphasized the accents of the season, party favors that had an especially strong reliance on DIY projects, background music that leaned heavily toward the folk and indie genres, and most of all... Diet Coke. Diet Coke all over the damn place. This was not a regular party. This was a Mormon festival, and I hated myself for not being able to tell sooner. I mean... there were candles in MASON JARS. Everything screamed that this was put together by a Millennial Latter-Day Saint follower, but I was too encapsulated by the presentation. It was more over the top than anything I had seen before, and as soon as I told Liz, we ran in search for David. We needed shelter. We needed direction! We were lost lambs in a pack of... well, lambs.
But as we ran up to the porch, he appeared. Not David, but the host of the party. We hadn't been introduced yet, but it was clear that he had planned it. He was a vision in plaid and thick-rimmed glasses, encapsulated in a ray of light making him appear as Joseph Smith, Martha Stewart, and Carson from Queer Eye from the Straight Guy, simultaneously. Yes, that is correct--my suspicions were correct: this was more than just a Mormon party. This party was designed by the most powerful of creative forces--a gay Mormon. He welcomed us and asked us if we had a drink. It seemed like a trick question, so we just kind of stared at him. There were no right answers anymore. He just kind of looked at us and said, "Well, the beverage table is over there." I looked back over and there was no more alcohol than before. There might have been more Diet Coke, but definitely no more alcohol. Diet soda everywhere, but not a drop to drink.
Seeing that we were confused by the notion that we could continue to drink, he ushered us over to the beverage table and made us a drink that we later named "fallmosas." He mixed apple cider with champagne and said, "I have some people you might like hanging out with." He walked us back over to the porch, and then around a corner tucked away from the rest of the party. There stood three gay guys and a woman who clearly loved Merlot. It was obvious that we had been relegated to the sinner's corner of the party, but it was okay, because these people seemed to understand the importance of "the sauce." We exchanged notes on how we had come to arrive there. One of the guys had found the host of the party on Grindr and then invited a couple other friends along. The wine lady knew him through some kind of Romney campaign effort. I told them the story of how I was living in the Mormons, and they all waited with bated breath, wondering what interesting facts I would reveal.
But the truth is, there wasn't a lot to reveal at that point. I was only a month in or so, and nothing about my roommates was interesting because they were Mormon. The best stories I had about them were simply because they were just really strange people in general. Liz and I watched the rest of the party unfold from afar, tucked safely in our corner of shame. We both knew that this would be the last time we'd ever be invited to a party this nice, unless one of us threw one ourselves... which essentially meant if Liz threw it, because there's no way I could stay invested in an event long enough to pull off all of the stops this party had.
For the rest of fall, we reminisced about the party and attempted to recreate the fallmosas well into November. We admired the domesticity needed to put together such an event and would sometimes wonder how someone could have enough time to plan something like that out. While there are hardworking gay Mormons out there building distressed barnwood stages and planning out elaborate fall meals, I'm blogging about them and/or eating Nutella directly out of the jar while watching The Help. I suppose we all have our place in this world.
I have long sense moved out of the Mormon house. David moved to Colorado and has been spotted exploring the mountains of Brazil (no, seriously. He just posted a picture next to Christ the Redeemer, like it wasn't a big deal. If you ever read this, you're one of my favorite people I've ever met--you are missed). After that, I was banished away to live three months in my upstairs room alone with only a Roku and a bottle of hot sauce. I eventually received a text explaining that I would not be invited back once the lease was up. But that party will live in infamy. As for my own party planning aspirations, I will just leave that to the experts. Some people are meant to construct a party that balances the seemingly complex combination of gingham and burlap, and some people are meant to just admire it.

It Don't Matter If You're Black or White

I ran down to the bank in Chinatown so that I could grab my rent money for the month... nineteen days overdue, but what can you do? Living in DC has made me nearly blind, as people are nothing more than obstacles on the sidewalk that I'm trying to dodge while getting to my destination as quickly as possible. I rounded corner, passing under the Chinatown gate, and I always take a minute to look up at it: it's design is so ornate and colorful--nothing like the rest of the city. About a block down, I walked into the BB&T, wiping my face of the 99 degree sweat from outside.
As I stood in line, I was texting my roommate, begging him and his friend to come have lunch with me because no one came into work today, and then it happened. This man turned around and asked me, "What's it like to walk into the bank and not be profiled?" I looked up and there he stood, an African-American, about my height and approximately 300 pounds. I knew what he said, but I wanted to make sure. "Excuse me?" So, he repeated the question, and I couldn't come up with any kind of answer. I felt my stomach drop to my shoes. I looked to the teller ahead for some kind of answer, and she just shook her head at me. She, too, was African American. I looked around, and there wasn't a single other white person in the entire bank; it was as if the public statement of white America had suddenly been laid on my shoulders. As someone in the public relations industry, I assumed that I would be able to handle such a feat, but instead, I broke the most important rule of the trade. I had nothing to say, so I just stared.
He decided to continue without me, "I walk into this bank, and they act like I'm going to rob the place. Last week, I brought a 6,000 check in here, and they looked at me like I had stolen it. They act like they're scared of me." I glanced at the bank teller as she closed her eyes, "It's not right, man." I looked at him and felt my mouth drying out. The television in the corner was reporting on the Trayvon Martin case when I responded, "I agree. It's not right. I hope that one day we live in a world where it's not this way." He stared at me like what I had said was not enough, like there should be something else more qualifying in my words. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I know what racism looks like. I've seen women back home in Tennessee clutch their purses as a suited black man walks into a restaurant. I get it; I know that it's real. But for me, it's not how I live my life. I never thought he was going to rob the bank. I barely even noticed he was standing there. Before I proceeded to the next teller, I looked at him and said, "I'm so sorry," but I wasn't sure what for. Apologizing for the racism of white people when it didn't seem clear that there had been any racism exacted? Apologizing for privilege I never asked for?
And the privilege is complicated because it only carries over until something else takes precedence. Today, I'm wearing a bright purple polo, with matching Chuck Taylors. My voice opened up to the teller to reveal the slightly high-pitch tone that didn't quite fully mature through puberty. My usual demeanor, enthusiastic, is ever present, and on days like this: with the matching outfits and the voice and the demeanor, it's easy to assume the stereotype--he's a homosexual. It's a common assumption I've dealt with my whole life, and one that has, at times, had an effect on the way I was treated. But Abu at BB&T didn't seem to take offense, nor did he seem to offer support or condolences. He simply gave me my rent money, and I left on my way. But this morning, when I stopped to grab a pack of cigarettes, I walked up the counter smiling, and the cashier looked me up and down and pursed her lips together. Afterward, she barely made eye contact. Could I assume what she was thinking? Sure. Will I ever know for certain? No.
I turned on my computer once I had gotten back to my office, and Facebook was pulled up. A friend had posted an article entitled, "What Should Trayvon Martin Have Done?" And my retort to that would be, "what should any of us do?" It's complicated and complex and nearly depressing if you think about it too much. I had this unconscious flow of emotion as this man asked me about my privilege at the bank. It automatically began with guilt, though I had done nothing wrong. I wanted to offer some kind of resolution or apology, without proper evidence that an infraction had been committed. And then it turned to nervousness, similar to when an entire class gets in trouble for one student's actions. I know that there's wrong in the world, but it was me who was having to provide an answer for it. And then, it turned to a confusing mixture of sadness and anger. The anger stems from the fact that someone can look at me and see exactly what he or she wants to see; in this case, a tall, white man. It was assumed from those three identifiers that I had never been profiled. Not for my socioeconomic status or religion or sexuality. It was assumed that I was living the white man's fantasy. But the sadness is even worse because it's the startling realization that the progress we're making toward equality is incredibly slow. We spend so much of our time comparing our circumstances to one another that we get lost in the semantics. We fail to recognize that not a single one of us should take importance over the other.
I wish I had an answer for that man, because other than his painfully abrupt sociological discourse in line at the bank, he seemed like a very nice guy. I wish I had an answer for the Trayvon Martin case, a nauseatingly complex case full of details we've overlooked in pursuit of some kind of racial reasoning. I wish that we didn't judge people based on their race or gender or sexuality or religion or anything else. There's a lot of things I wish for the world because I believe we would better for it. Instead, I just do what I can. As I entered my building, I could feel someone behind me, so I walked in first, held the door for him or her, and closed my eyes. Why? Because it shouldn't matter who you were doing it for; it's a person, and that's reason enough.

Our Favorite Sins

My friend Anna and I were in her bed watching Grey's Anatomy one night during my junior year. Callie's mother told her that she would not be attending her wedding to Arizona because she couldn't stand the thought of her daughter marrying a woman--she couldn't stand the thought of her daughter, who she loved, spending the rest of her life in Hell. I immediately became disgusted, while Anna literally cheered the mother on. Immediately, I turned around and looked at Anna as if she had slapped me across the face. Anna is one of my best friends, but there she sat, cheering on a fictional mother as she told her fictional daughter that she would be spending her eternity in Hell for... marrying a woman. Anna and I immediately got into discourse with Anna's greatest defense being the morality of the Christian religion, her upbringing, the book of Leviticus, and the very limited references made in the New Testament (let it be noted, none were said by Jesus). I, in response, quoted a theme that occurs repeatedly over the course of both the Old and New Testaments: judgement. We'll discuss the aftermath of that conversation later.

This week, Jason Collins of the Wizards, formerly the Celtics, made the very bold announcement that he is gay--the first athlete of America's four biggest professional sports. I wasn't going to put much commentary in the conversation because I had already tried to state my position last year during the whole Chick-Fil-A debacle (oh, you didn't read What a Waste of Waffle Fries?!). I actually defended the idea of purchasing food from Chick-Fil-A. But what inspires me to address this Jason Collins issue is the comparisons that have been drawn throughout this week. I hear about how Tim Tebow has been persecuted for being a Christian and how terribly he has been bashed as a Christian player, while Collins is being revered for being an openly gay athlete--and that's where my issue comes up. Tebow, a Christian, has been bashed? As a child, I used to try and make the case about what it was like to be white or to be a boy or to even be a Christian. There's a lot of prejudice in the world, and I'm not saying that there's not prejudice against white people or men or Christians, because there is. There truly is. But in my twenty-three years of life, I can say that I've never been told that being any of those things was wrong, and I was surely never told that I would go to Hell for them. My eternal damnation was never on the line because of my race or gender or religion. And I dare say, this is not the Crusades anymore. Christians are not blamed for blowing up buildings; Christians were not gassed or burned in small confined spaces. If the Christian religion's biggest current hurdle is being criticized on MSNBC, then I think we're doing okay.

Posted the morning after the Collins
announcement

And I say we because I, myself, am a Christian. I find my religion to be immensely personal and not the topic of frequent conversation. My prayers are mine and God's, my beliefs are only applicable to me because I don't think it's my place to determine the rights and wrongs of others. I struggle enough doing right on my own. But I find it hard to explain to agnostics, atheists, non-believers what our message is and who we want to be when in the midst of our own "persecution," we use announcements like Collins as a "general reminder" that homosexuality is a damning sin. 
I don't write this to defend the followers of my religion or to convince others whether homosexuality is a sin or not. And I definitely don't write this because I'm a lover of sports. I'm an atypical cookie cutter man--I find very little interest in sports. I recently joined a volleyball league in DC, and it's practically a miracle that I did that because sports were the source of my unhappiness for the longest time. When I tried the whole sports thing in elementary school, that was the first time someone called me a girl. Toward the end of elementary school, when I wasn't coordinated enough, that was the first time I was called gay. When I moved to middle school, that changed to faggot. I wanted nothing to do with sports because when you weren't good enough, that's the kind of thing you became: a joke, a mockery, what others observed as a second rate human--and then after getting called that long enough in the sports setting, it began to stick. I was called those things outside of the game, and then it was my eternity that was in question. I went from not being good at sports to being eternally damned.
So when I saw the story of Jason Collins this week, I nearly cried reading it. He spoke of why he kept his sexuality a secret for so very long. He talked about how no one had done this in a major sport before him. He brought up the way that gay people have been viewed in the sports community, and then just for a paragraph or so, he talked about his faith. He spoke about his religious roots and how he still holds on to those things he learned, and he spoke about judgement. But when I think about Collins' proclamation to the world, I don't see it as some giant thing for the professional sports world--though it is. I don't expect a string of players to come forth and announce their homosexuality. I do, however, anticipate that this is the beginning of a new normal--where it's no longer okay to call someone a faggot on the playground because he doesn't know how to properly throw a football. Because calling someone  gay should not be an insult. And for the gay kid that does know how to throw a football (please teach me--I can't throw a spiral to save my life), I imagine that this is the beginning of a time when we'll evaluate his skills and not his personal life.
So, back to Anna. I left Anna's room that night out of frustration. We didn't go back to discuss the conversation because there was no way I could convince her and no way she could convince me. We didn't even mention the topic for months. And then one night, she sat with me on the porch of our dorm and she began to cry. She told me that everything she had ever known had been turned upside down. She explained to me the gay people that she had met and how great of people they are. She told me, If you ever told me you were gay, I just couldn't believe that alone would send you to Hell forever. I just can't believe that, and it doesn't make sense to me anymore. I don't look at that conversation as a victory--like I had beaten her or something. I did, however, look at it as a victory because her world had been challenged and for once, the idea that one sin could damn someone to Hell forever became incomprehensible to her.
And that's what I urge the world to do--to quit putting weight on your favorite sin, or any sin for that matter. Worry about yourself and quit trying to interpret what God views as okay or not okay in other people. Do not use the triumph of humanity as a crutch for an unrelated agenda. We did not tell the world this week whether or not it's moral to be gay--that's honestly not a question that anyone should be discussing in a public forum. But with it being such a point of contention, ask yourself if you are moral--in every sense of the word. Ask yourself if you've sinned, and then cite James 2:10. I do not see homosexuality as a sin, but I do see the persecution of others in the vanity of your own beliefs to be. We moved forward this week--we're one step closer to eradicating the terrible stigma that comes with "being different." And I don't think Jesus could be happier about it--his words in The Bible are meant to push our humanity forward. It's surely not meant to be used as a roadblock to keep us further separated.

Handsy on the Metro

When I was planning on moving up to DC, one of my fraternity brothers who had lived in DC before asked me what I was most excited about.

The metro. Definitely the metro.

And I mean, he tried to warn me. He told me that it would be fun at first, but that it would get old. As a recent graduate, I built it up to just be the jaded attitude of adulthood. The metro was awesome. The metro is how the cool kids go places. And you know... maybe it is. But the thing about the metro is that you have to know what you're doing; it's kind of like walking into a gay club or a drug deal. You don't go to "ya boy's boy Demetrius" and go and ask him what kind of illicit materials he has available this week. That's pretty much how the metro works. You don't go to mingle and conversate, and you don't dare mosey. You get on the metro to get shit done.

But very similar to my first drug deal and gay club experience, the metro took some getting used to, and it didn't come without it's fair share of errors. As a young resident of what some (okay, very few) have come to call "The District,"all I wanted to do was talk to people, which seems like a natural thing to do considering that back in Tennessee I have fifteen minute conversation with gas station attendants. But I quickly learned that no one wanted to talk back to me. Occasionally there would be a man with an airbrushed Obama shirt or a disheveled homeless man up for some incomprehensible rapport, but on the up and up, the metro just wasn't the place where you had conversation.
I made a series of errors on the metro in my first week that could have gotten me arrested and/or killed. Occasionally, when I would get bored, I would take pictures of myself with sleeping people to see if I could get away with it. Once when the doors were closing, I stuck my leg inside thinking that it worked like an elevator, but all that happened was that my leg was closed inside the door, like an unforgiving guillotine. Essentially, what I'm trying to say is that there is nothing fun about the metro. It's not a game, and it's not a social site. Most of all, it's not for children or people without direction.
It wasn't long until I became "one of them." I had a bonified metro pass with reloadable features, and I judged people who used paper passes. Once I descended into hell the escalator, I make eye contact with no one. People do not watch out for each other once they are underground; you are simply on your own.
Today seemed like any other day--I talked to my mom on the way to work, scanned my metro pass to get in and board, and just like every other mid-week venture, the metro was absolutely packed. I wore my colorful sweater and corduroy pants, you know, because it seemed like that kind of day, but with it, I wore my blue Chuck Taylors. I always try to wear something against the norm because DC is a boring place when it comes to fashion. People wear the same black slacks and loafers every day, so it's important to find some kind of way to stand out. The person standing fartherst from me couldn't have been more than a foot away, but the rule still applies: no looking and no conversation. The man standing directly in front of me was looking down at my shoes; it wasn't surprising to me--like I said, people don't really wear things like that to work.
But after the first stop, I could feel someone staring at me. You know the feeling... that pressing awkwardness when someone's eyes are quite obviously fixed upon you, and when I looked up the same man was staring at me. He was probably around my age, Hispanic, and a decent looking guy. I nodded at him and gave him a brief smile, then quickly turned away. But the longer I stood there, the more pressing the feeling became. He is still staring at you. You can feel it. So, I glanced back in his direction, and indeed, he was still staring. Feeling a little more energized this morning than usual, I decided to play his game.
We held each other's gaze for about fifteen seconds, and then he lifted his hand off the bar he was holding and gently put it over mine. For a second I was stunned... I mean, you don't look at people on the metro, and you definitely don't talk to people on the metro, so I can only assume that you are under no circumstance supposed to purposefully touch anyone on the metro. I glanced up at his hand, and glanced back at him, and he was still staring at me... smiling. The woman next to us looked at me, then at him, and gave us this knowing smile as if to say, I support your decision to be homosexual together. Congratulations. I did something akin to a smile/mouth stretching exercise and slowly pulled my hand down by my side. Yes, I risked the possibility of eating it on the metro, but it seemed kind of worth it to avoid this awkward situation with [this stranger/creeper/my new boyfriend].
The man immediately apologized, and I said, I mean, it's cool. I'm not bothered. Thank you. It's not a big... okay. And then I just kind of turned perpendicular to him and tried to evaluate what had just happened. Yes, a good sixty-five percent of me was really weirded out by the whole ordeal, but there was this other thirty-five percent that was oddly appreciative. People in DC, and a good number of people in my life, do not show emotion, let alone physical affection. I don't know if the guy was interested or potentially blessing my hand with some odd Hispanic ritual, but something compelled him to do it.
Because DC is DC, I'll probably never see my mysterious hand-holder ever again, but if you ever read this, I will never forget the thirty second visual exchange we shared, and the five seconds that woman thought we were a couple. And for a number of reasons, I hope that you're the only random man who ever caresses my hand on the metro. Let's be honest--it just wouldn't be the same with anyone else.

In Regard to Bullshit

As I was leaving work today after my serving test, I was absolutely exhausted. Jumping from one job then making it to the next one can be quite trying. I spent the morning working on some last minute PR work for the first job, then I had to pass the final serving test for the restaurant I work at so I can legitimately begin serving. I apparently passed about halfway through with my only critiques being: 1) Be more confident when you approach the table, and 2) When you don't know the answer to a question, don't try to bullshit people. Personality will only take you so far. Psh. Personality runs the world.
Just in case that wasn't a proven fact, as I was walking back to my car completely relieved that the day was over, there was a small man with an electronic notepad in his hand. I saw him walking around my car when it hit me. I didn't pay my meter. I ran in my serving uniform up to my car and announced, I'm here! I'm here! I'm here! The officer, completely unamused turned around and said, I'm here, too. I knew that I had to do one of two things... convince this man that I had never done anything wrong in my life or talk to him so much that getting away was more desirable than actually giving me this ticket. On impulse, I channeled every bone of bullshitting skills in my body and began, Listen, you look like a nice man. You have kind eyes. You "can" do this, but you don't want to do this. He looked at me and said, You didn't pay for the fare, I have to give you a ticket. I responded, But you don't. If you let me get in my car, I will pay every meter I ever park at. Maybe even extra! We can all forget about this.
He looked me up and down and said, Get in your car. At that point, you don't say thank you or God bless you; you just get in your car and thank the deities of sarcasm that you somehow managed to get out of a fifty dollar ticket. And on my way home, I realized that even though most would say that I'm personable and intelligent, the majority of my life I've ridden on having strikingly blue eyes, an infectious smile, and the ability to tell people things that they want to hear. I have navigated through life on one slippery slope of bullshit, and for that, I will be forever thankful.
That's not to say that I'm not sincere; I'm usually always sincere to some extent... like, I fully intend to pay every meter that I park at, not to appease the parking gods, but rather because that's a nice civic thing to do. However, when the cards are all out on the table, and I need to put on my poker face, it's kind of a no holds barred situation, which is what happened to me at the end of my sophomore year when I inadvertently came out to a dorm party in college. I had been away at my fraternity initiation the weekend I came back and was informed about how one of my fellow RAs had gotten wasted at a campus party and apparently announced that I was a homosexual. Sweet.
So when I came back to campus, I naturally confronted her about the issue because that's not something you go an announce at a party. In comparison to some of my other adverse reactions, specifically the ones paired with some bottle shelf tequila, I like to imagine that my distaste for her announcement was quite mild. However, the story about my addressing of the issue quickly escalated from me being angry, to me being angry and threatening her, to the eventual resting place of "Justin got over me in my bed, threatened my life, and yelled at me." Most people would akin my normal demeanor to that of a bear, or possibly a labrador retriever. Never had I been referred to as an "attacker" or "defendant," so it was all pretty new territory to have an order of protection placed upon me.
As I met the officer in the parking lot of the Chapman Highway Wal-Mart to get my "papers," he told that if I wanted to, I should definitely try and fight it. I could feel his hopeful vibes coming my way; if accurately executed, I could bullshit my way back into the light of justice. It would have to take some finesse, but if I could pull it off it would easily go down as my best performance in history. After considering the several angles I could use, I decided one completely stereotypical, but beneficial ideology: you can be gay, or you can be Chris Brown, but you can't be both. My plan for the morning of the trial was to do the opposite of everything I had been prepped to do my entire life. It was time to channel every gay bone in my body, and when I was called in front of the judge, I needed to work that courtroom like a runway, and it better be fabulous.
That morning, I wore my dark rimmed glasses and my subtle, yet plaid, pants. I put as much product in my hair as the follicles would allow and found the tie with the most feminine pattern I could on it. Everything had to match, but it all had to say, Hey guys, the reason this matches so well is because I'm a stereotypical gay man, which is ironic. I had spent years perfecting the kind of mannerisms and clothing that would convince someone that I was not gay. I hadn't made any clear cut decision about who or what I wanted to be, but I was sure that up until that day, if there was one thing I never wanted anyone to think I was (joking or not) it was gay. And that's a travesty, the idea that anyone would spend their life hiding from something because they've been convinced that the world hated them.

The day I walked into the courtroom, I was obviously nervous, but I had spent hours upon hours rehearsing what I wanted to say. I mean, for God's sake, I wanted to run for office one day... I already had Rebecca's ousting to deal with as well as all the deer heads back on the walls at home, the last thing I needed on my political platform was a one-time order of protection. It wasn't worth explaining at the Democratic National Convention, so it had to be extinguished now. I walked up to give my testimony, which is apparently not very conventional in an order of protection hearing as one or both parties usually lacks the ability to speak coherent English, and answered every question asked with grace and poise. For all intensive purposes, I was essentially a contestant in the Miss American competition. I decided to defend myself, partly because that's what an A class actor would do in a big budget Hollywood movie... but mostly because my family had absolutely no money. My closing argument was I don't think we should worry about whether I'm going to hurt this girl; I think we should be worried about this girl hurting herself. Beautiful finish, and the judge and what people were randomly strewn across the courtroom had nothing to do but sympathize with this eloquently-spoken, outstandingly-matched homosexual boy who just ended up getting outed at a vulnerable time in his life. The charge was eventually dropped, and my reputation slowly returned to the sparkling clean image it had always been.
But if I learned anything from the situation, it's that bullshit, if properly utilized, is the strongest drug of all. We're talking Schedule 1 kind of addicting.
And essentially, I owe a great deal of my life to bullshit because as I've learned in recent months, hard work and dedication... even intelligence... just puts you in a category or somewhat upstanding people. I've sent out 15 resumes and only heard back from one job, and that was to tell me that my experience wasn't relevant enough for the position. I was only able to score one PR job, and that's for 10 hours a week. The whole thing is a little devastating because you want to believe that determination will send you shooting to the top, but sadly, that's not always the case. However, the one characteristic that has never let me down is the ability to bullshit, and when you pair that with all the other qualities, you really can't go wrong.

Turkey and Dressing (Up in Drag)

Southern Etiquette (which is a magazine that I completely made up for writing purposes) clearly states: "If there's something that you would like to say to someone or a conflict that you would like to resolve, it's best to not address it until that person is out of the room. At that point, you can talk as freely as you want without the person actually hearing it. Eventually, you will have told enough people that you feel like you have an army of people in your corner, obviously proving your validity in feeling the way you do, and then you don't have to talk about it anymore." And I suppose, when it comes to my extended family, there's a lot of quiet time at family gatherings.
In looking at the statistical breakdown of my family, there are thirteen cousins on either side: 4 of us graduated high school, 1 of us went to college, 7 of us have either been pregnant or aided in the gestation process, 5 of us have done jail time, and 1 of us left our baby on the side of the road (hashtag faux pas). And when I say "us" in that exhaustive list of familial accomplishments, I am not included in that "us" after the college stat. I keep tabs on this information in case I'd like to ever kill someone or needed to come out as gay to my family. These facts and figures are my ace in the hole... yes, I stabbed that man fourteen times, but I didn't have a baby out of wedlock! You remember that next time you say you're disappointed in me. I remember my freshman and sophomore years of high school as all the Kirkland kids were heading/dropping out; I did my best to salvage the name--with mine and Casey's work combined, we did what we could.
But with all those numbers, there's some things that are terribly difficult to dodge. Like, if I legitimately killed someone, I think that my crime would override all the out-of-wedlock babies produced, even the ones named after Disney princess characters (i.e. Belle, Jasmine, etc). As for the "gay bomb," if I ever needed to tackle it, I believe that would be one that I could probably maneuver around given the amount of ammunition my family has given me. I mean, the odds would definitely be in my favor, but I would imagine that a meeting with a bomb that size would be very calculated. For instance, I would probably wear a cardigan and some nice jeans... possibly my dark-rimmed glasses. I would bring laminated copies detailing all the things that my generation of family members had done, and I would follow with a finely printed thesis statement containing the heavy news at the very bottom of the page. I would remove all sharp and/or explosive objects, and I would make sure that all hot liquids were out of reach: coffee, boiling water... or gravy, which is why I was so surprised when cousin Matt/Demitrya decided to make his drag debut to our family on Thanksgiving.
And looking back at our family history, this never should have been a giant surprise to anyone. Matt was easily my favorite cousin growing up, taking the number one spot with ease from 1994 all the way to 2007. There was really nothing that he could have told me about himself growing up that would have made him any less in my eyes, but in retrospect, I should have picked up on the tell tale signs that would eventually lead to that plot twist of a Thanksgiving in 2007.
Matt/Demitrya would watch us in the summer when we were younger, probably to make sure we didn't burn the house down (or more accurately because I proved myself unworthy of staying at home because I would repeatedly try and make Casey think I had died by laying the floor and acting unconscious). At times, he would stay with us for an entire week without going home, and it was amazing because it was like having an extra older brother at my disposal. Despite Dad's attempt to involve Matt/Demitrya in other activities like hunting or fishing, our summer activities always returned to watching Spice World at least 25 times or doing an uncomfortable amount of research on Cher. And don't get me wrong, I personally hold strong to the philosophy Every boy, ever girl, spice up your life! but more than anything, I wanted to hang out with him. If he had suggested we go steal a car and go drive off a cliff, I would have emphatically tagged along. After several months of summer research on Cher, we decided that the "piece de resistance" would be seeing her in the last of a string of farewell tours.
If you go back and ask my Dad, who accompanied Matt/Demitrya and I to the concert, his opinion of the affair, he would most likely respond, Cher was sexy as hell, but those women around us sure did have big feet. It took me about three years after the concert to realize that all those women were actually men: men with green tinted hair and giant high heels. Apparently, sans a gay pride parade, there is no larger central location for drag queens than a Cher concert. But with all those subtle nuances, it shouldn't have surprised us when Matt showed up as Demitrya (known to her closest fans as the shortened Demi) for Thanksgiving. Mom had taken me into her bedroom and prepped me on the situation, obviously detecting that one day I would be going into public relations and would probably need to pull out as much charm and fluid communication as possible so that our doublewide didn't explode off the top of Evans Road. So, I waited nervously by the door for his arrival, trying to guess what kind of outfit he would be wearing. Throughout most of high school, Matt was known for fitting into the "Goth" category; for anyone who is not a Generation Y member or an avid fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the Goth subset of high school society lent itself to a collection of black clothing, paraphernalia from bands associated with popularized school shootings, and chains.
As the final trimmings were being put on the deviled eggs, Demitrya approached the door in a stunning, yet slightly predictable hybrid of lady's clothing and Goth fashion. A solid play for her first showing. I remember staring at the top, noticing the black wig and subtle (if you can legitimately call any drag make up subtle at a South Knoxville holiday gathering) make up first, then the black cami-style top, which led directly into the black skirt accompanied with fish net stockings. Oh yeah, and there were platform boots; I'm no Anna Wintour, but the outfit definitely made a statement... amateur in comparison to the complex stylings of Demitrya today, but enough to not only drain all the blood from my dad's face only to send even more surging back five minutes later. And the most fantastically awkward part about it was that it was treated with the same social decorum as if someone had farted in the room. And in my world, where I treat everything as if it is a television show... there really couldn't have been a stronger November Sweeps episode that season.
I scoped the immediate location for weapons, and it made me more nervous than if I had closed my eyes and guessed. As my family is a firm believer in second amendment rights, there were at least five guns readily available, as well as all the steak knives, numerous hot liquids for Thanksgiving purposes (namely, the gravy... I kept imagining my dad impulsively grabbing the gravy and just throwing it across the room), and last but not least, an assortment of deer and duck calls on small ropes. My concern for the animal calls was less to do with the call itself and more the durability of the small ropes that could be used for strangling purposes. I was sitting in the middle of the most fabulous game of Clue I had ever seen, and my main suspect was my dad (who bears a striking resemblance to Colonel Mustard). Though we all had taken the advice of the fictional, but still appropriate, Southern Etiquette, it could go down as one of the most awkward Thanksgiving feasts that has ever transpired.
As the years have gone on, Demitrya's talents have become less taboo in the family than they were five years ago. More children have been produced out of wedlock; more people have gone to jail. But like any public relations practitioner, I have my opinion inside the office and outside the office. On that Thanksgiving, all I wanted to do was keep the peace. The last thing I wanted was someone to non-chalantly bring up fish nets, whether it was to do with clothing or the actual art of fishing. However, throughout my college career, I would coerce my friends to go to gay clubs around the area, in hopes that I could spot Demitrya in action... it was like some mystery that I had to solve. I would go to one once a semester looking for him as if he were a rare Pokemon, like a Chancey or a Mew. And like all my pursuits of Pokemon Blue, Green, and Silver, my pursuits came up empty-handed.
Luckily, I've never been compelled to wear women's clothing; actually, considering the Birkenstock Trend Disaster of 2001 when my dad's repeatedly questioned by sexuality based on my desire to fit in and wear the slip on sandal that is probably one of the most disgusting things I've ever seen, I've tried to stay away from any unisexual clothing I can. But, if for any reason I ever did, I appreciate Demitrya taking the inaugural heat on that lone Thanksgiving back when. Luckily, I haven't had to drop any bombs like that yet, but with the cushion that my family has placed under me, the landing is ready in case I ever need to take the fall.

What a Waste of Waffle Fries

Most of the time, my posts are based strictly on my life (with a little flare at times, because who doesn't love a little bit of a fireworks show), but on this night, I felt compelled to address this "Chick-Fil-A debacle" that seems to have closeted Christians and gay-rights supporters coming out of the wood work. Upon googling what I would hoped would be the supporting image for this post, I was delightfully surprised at how fruitful the search "Jesus Eating Chick-Fil-A" was. Sure, typing that into my browser felt a little sacrilegious, but when I think of all the things I've typed into my browser before (David Gallagher in 2012, Amy Winehouse No No Cat, How to Make Meth), I kind of feel like I had nothing to lose.

But I'm getting off topic; let's talk about these heathen Christians at Chick-Fil-A. Actually, no. I've tried to make a firm stance not to get too political on this thing; if anyone other than people that know me read this (I'm looking at you, 46 people in Russia that randomly follow my blog), there's no reason that anyone should know what I'm pro or con for or against. I want to talk about the politics of restauranting. You see, I have a decent amount of exposure in the restaurant business... and by that, I mean I worked at Quiznos for a couple years, and I currently wait at a small diner/cafe called Big Mike's in Seymour. I understand these people. The last thing I want to do is discuss my political and/or religious beliefs with anyone there. I don't need to know if Big Mike is a Taoist or not because I really couldn't care less. We all worship at our own bath houses, so to speak. We have our demons and our beliefs, and it's really none of my business. What I do care about is the struggle I've been facing in pursuit of my chicken product.
I like Zaxby's because it's secular and has that rustic feel. The stores usually find things that are quaintly (insert Zaxby's location) and pin it up on the wall. They know my order and extra ranches only cost 25 cents. Sure, they're pricey, but does it matter when you can go eat quality chicken strips (doused or not doused in your choice of five different sauces) without feeling like you have to adhere to certain specific verses from Leviticus or Romans? And then there's Chick-Fil-A. Not nearly as convenient because they're closed on Sundays, much more formally decorated, and has this air of pretension you don't find at other fast food places. I get the same feeling from a Chick Fil A visit as I do when I visit any of my friends that live in West Knoxville. It's intimidating, but damn... it's good. That Chick-Fil-A sauce is like nectar from the gods, and by gods, I mean the Christian God. The only God. So it makes sense that Chick-Fil-A doctrine should meet up with that of the Christian religion. I'm not saying that I agree or disagree with their extracurricular stances, but if it came down to my personal stances on political matters or my ability to receive Chick-Fil-A sauce, I'm not certain which one I would choose. Sure, there's always Zax sauce, but in a life that is already so short anyways, is there really any time to compromise on something that big?
And like most political blog posts, I'm sure that you can pick up what side of this moral debate I'm on, but in reality, eating Chick-Fil-A because of an anti-gay stance is a little extreme. It's not like they're making you eat a Bible, mostly because that would be sacrilegious... if anything, they'd make you eat a Qa'ran. But that's neither here nor there. The restaurant is just trying their hardest to uphold what they believe to be the moral center of the world, no matter how twisted or elitist that world may be. And in comparison, aren't we trying to do the same thing by supporting a world that recognizes all people as equals? We're all fighting the same fight, if you look at it through a very vague and obscure perspective.
When I walk into a Chick-Fil-A and get my eight piece nugget meal with waffle fries, I don't walk back to the table thinking that I've donated to an anti-gay stance; I walk back to the table making fun of the cashier for saying "my pleasure." I spend the next fifteen minutes making sexual innuendos until the person I'm with reminds me that I'm 22 years old and that I need to stop. If I really cared about the underlying issues of my consumables, I would have stopped drinking Fanta years ago, as it was originally a German soda that was in production to replace Coke during World War II. By drinking Fanta, I'm not supporting the genocide of Jewish people, just like eating Chick-Fil-a does not support the prolonging of legalizing gay marriage.
In short, there aren't that many places in the world any more that you can be without some kind of combative argument going on. Sure, it sucks that a place that makes such delicious food has such a narrow minded stance on something so trivial to the rest of us, but that's kind of what America is about. You can be as intelligent or ignorant as you want to be, simply because that's your freedom. I go into gas stations all the time where people say some of the most ignorant things I've ever heard. I still need gas, so I still go there. And when money is running a little short, or I'm looking to quench my thirst for that orgasmic combination of honey mustard, barbecue, and a dollop of mayonnaise (that's right Chick-Fil-A... I know), I'm going to continue going to the place that provides it.
And for the record, if you want to really help push the Christian agenda and the gay rights agenda at the same time, let's maybe focus a little more on these little assholes that are being raised into the world that believe it's okay to target children as young as kindergarten and first grade based on their "sexual orientation." For the record, I thought that both men and women had penises up until I was in the sixth grade... that may explain a lot. Or hell, let's maybe look at these grown adults on the street that do the same thing... probably the same grown adults that teach their children to treat their peers like this. There are bigger fish to fry than boycotting or supporting a relatively second-rate restaurant chain when there are more active approaches we can be taking, dare I say... together, to fight wrong doing and prejudice in the world. If you'd like to talk about it more, let's go to Zaxby's. Not because they're pro or anti-gay rights, but because they have this amazing Tongue Torch sauce that you just have to try.

Reasons I Elected to Find a New Mamaw on Facebook

The last time I visited my mamaw, it was a spur of the moment thing. I was on my way back to school, and I swung by her house, even though it had been ages since I had stopped by. It didn't take long to remember why. I stood in the doorway, unsure as to whether I should sit down or not. I started in about school and everything that was going on that I thought she'd like to know. Soon, we got to the question.
"So, when you going to bring me a girlfriend up here?"
"Oh Mamaw, I've been focusing so much on school and all the stuff I'm involved in that I haven't had time to think of anything like that."
She gave me a look and walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a cold Natty Ice, Mamaw's drink of choice. She placed it on the counter and announced, "Yeah, you never really were that interested in girls." Bam. There it was. Mamaw was calling my bluff, and I wasn't sure really what to do. She cracked open her brewski, and I could have sworn I was transported. The sound of Christmas past.

All the Christmases that I had at the Kirkland house seemed really forced. I would fight my cousins for a front tree spot, but Maggie was always promised that prime real estate. Casey and I were never really able to force ourselves to the front; we were too small, too mild. We would sit in the back and await our Christmas givings. Even as a child, I like to believe I wasn't too high maintenance, but in comparison to the other cousin's gifts, I couldn't help but feel that maybe... just maybe... there was some underlying message behind the gifts we received. The first gift I remember was a VHS of the musical Annie, which in retrospect could be construed as Mamaw's first passive-aggressive jab at my alleged lifestyle. Nothing could compare to the year that followed. Casey and I unwrapped our presents. The other boys were pulling out pocket knives; the girls were pulling out make-up and Barbies. Casey and I pulled out a miniature can of Beanee Weenees and Spicy Vienna Sausages (respectively), and toboggans. Mine had hair in it. Sweet deal, if I ever saw one. Casey and I traded gifts, mostly because I knew that Casey had this weird thing for Beanee Weenees that I still don't understand. Mamaw asked us how we liked our gifts. Casey and I looked at each other, just a tender 8 and 9 years old, and agreed that the only thing we should do is nod enthusiastically. Mamaw patted me on the head and said, "Good. I know how you guys like to eat." Thanks a heap, Mamaw, for picking up that my favorite hobby was... eating. We attempted to go one more time, but that was the year that the family decided to have Christmas in the rec center behind the flea market. We respectfully declined.
Sometimes I kind of miss Mamaw, but I refresh my memory with all the memories that we've created, and I'm good for at least another 6-18 months. She pops up in the best ways; for instance, the first night that I ever drank, a friend offered me her signature beverage, and being the naive 18 year old I was, I announced to the group, "Oh cool! This is what my mamaw drinks!" She's always had the ability to add a little bit of extra flavor the conversation, even if it is the cheap kind that tastes similar to what I would imagine horse piss tastes like. She's the kind of Mamaw you would take to a kegger... that everyone's already drunk at... as long as there's no homosexuals in attendance. Yeah. That's about right.
Regardless, everyone wants a Mamaw that loves them without inquiring about his sexuality and/or eating habits. That's where Facebook came in. Eventually, I would start sending friend requests to any woman who shared my mamaw's name that could remotely qualify as typical "mamaw age." That's when I found Mamaw Joyce, a 69 year old living down in Alabama. So far, she's been present for my admission to grad school, my birthday, and my college graduation. It's not like she needed me; she has a giant family of her own, or at least what I can see from Facebook. She took me in, all filled with Beanee Weenees and resentment, and treated me as her own.
Even though I don't play baseball like the other Kirklands, nor have any desire to acquire a girlfriend, I consider myself adopted... kind of like a mail order grandson. Mamaw 2.0 seems to be working out fantastically. So, in turn, I just collect my own family. I find them and adopt them as my own, and sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to have them all come together. I like to call it "Fantasy Family," and it works in the same way a fantasy draft would for sports. You go and get them from other walks of real life, and then you keep up with them to see how they're faring. You know that you've won at the end of the day when you realize that picking your own family is a lot more fun than sticking with only the players you were given by chance. And damn it, I made sure that all of them know that I have no preference for canned pork and beans.