Wooly Bully

I watched a documentary called Bully a little over a week ago--if you're ever looking for a solid reason not to have kids, you should watch it. Essentially what it boils down to is that kids are freaking terrible little creatures. And apparently, they're getting smarter, or adults are getting dumber, or something. Either way, it's getting completely out of control. Apparently, kids take to Twitter and Facebook now, and hell, I'm assuming they probably use Snapchat to send little messages like, "Go kill yourself," and then afterward, it just kind of goes away. And what was worst about it is that these parents have no idea what to do. I'm not saying there's a clear cut answer--God knows that having children is one area that I am not an expert in.
But the difference between these kids' experiences and mine is that their parents seemed lost as to how to fix it. And I guess there's not really a sure fire way that works when it comes to your kids and what happens to them at school--I'm sure if there were, a lot of girls I went to high school with wouldn't have ended up so pregnant by senior year. But my dad had a way of dealing with things--whether I liked it or not.
But I didn't always go home and report my bullying because that would have been all that I talked about, and I really liked to talk, so I had to ration out my topics. Most of the time I only reported general, blatant hate crimes--kind of like when Lindsay used to shake me in first grade or when Andrew tried to give me a haircut by cornering me with scissors. Ironically, the scissors were never going toward my hair, but rather my cheekbones... I like to think it was less about malintent and more about poor execution. But those were the good ol' days when bullying was pretty basic, and if your kid did things like that to other kids, it basically meant you were just raising a little asshole.
But later on, the basics were the least of you worries. hardly on my mind at that point.
I found myself in the crux of bullying--that awkward transition between making fun and full blown Internet warfare. Most everything pre-middle school was physically based. No one went out of their way to put me in a category--it was just kids being terrible on the playground. But it was in sixth grade that the big guns were revealed. Sitting in gym class, I was there rocking out my windbreaker pant/jacket combo when Megan Johnson came up and told me, "Josh Davis said you want to give all the boys in the sixth grade a blow job." At the time, I had no idea what a blow job was--actually, because someone in my house dropped the ball on anatomy, I thought everyone had a penis so any form of sex was
Being an inquisitive child, I pretty much went straight to the teacher to ask what a blow job was. Unfortunately, no one would answer my question because, well, it is not on the curriculum to explain those kinds of things to a sixth grader. So eventually I had to take it home and ask my parents, and in doing so, I had to explain why it was that I needed to know. And that was the first of many bully-related blow ups that happened in my house. I think I caught the gist of what a "BJ" was, but it was completely overshadowed by my dad's reaction to what had happened. Obviously, I didn't want to go around doing that to anyone in the sixth grade. I wanted enough lunch money to get pizza and corn from the cafeteria on Friday, and I wanted to always be picked to answer questions in Social Studies. Basic--I knew what it meant, and I was good.
After my dad left to calm down, my mom tried to explain to me the basics of sex, but she gets just as nervous about intercourse as I do, so eventually she gave up and just decided to give me double mashed potatoes at dinner to compensate for the rest of the sex talk. My dad came back into the room and told me, "Tomorrow, you're going to go to school and knock the shit out of him." Negative, Wendell. Contrary to the rest of my family, I'm not a fighter. I don't think it's because I ever feared what the pain might feel like or how much trouble I would get into--I think I was primarily concerned about my face. And I was right to think like that because I have a pretty symmetrical face. Later on, I would go to find out that a very small percentage of the world has perfect facial symmetry, so I think I ultimately made the right call.

A nice little sketch picture we got at the mall once
when I was in middle school.

But that wasn't enough for Dad because how can you just sit back and let some other kid at school hand out sexual favors on behalf of your son? In retrospect, if one of my dad's coworkers promised fellatio to all the other gu
ys on the construction crew on behalf of my dad, I wouldn't be too cool with it, either. But with limited options, there wasn't much to be done. I refused to fight, and I pleaded and pleaded with my parents not to take it to any of the teachers. The teachers couldn't do anything, or at least that's what I though.
So the next couple years were filled with stories like Josh's and mine. And they would all lead back to the same conclusion--no intervention: no fighting, no teachers, no nothing. Instead, I would go home and take a sheet of notebook paper and list random people from school: sixteen to be exact. And then I would sit for hours and decide how they would be voted out. That's right--I madSurvivor charts back home, and every challenge I would win immunity, and then I would be voted winner at the end of every game. By the time I was done with middle school I had about 247 million hypothetical dollars.
e fantasy
But eventually, the bullying didn't stop at school. Public access to the Internet was still pretty fresh out of the gate, and one of its earliest contributions to society was AOL Instant Messenger (AIM, lolz). Anyone who was anyone had an AIM screenname (rocketdog485--you're welcome) and a totally jazzed out away message to accompany it. It didn't take too long for the guys at school to get ahold of it, and eventually, they started sending me messages over that. They would call me fag and tell me how no one liked me, and eventually, they told me to kill myself. Yikes!
And that is where the buck stopped. I made the fatal error of telling my mom about the situation, who then told my dad, who then let everyone in a three mile radius know via uncontrollable yelling, and then it was settled. We were going to have to take a trip over to this kid's house. Somehow, in my mind, the only thing that seemed worse than being made fun of and having people tell me to kill myself was my dad going over to Matt's house to have a conversation about it... with him and his dad. And my dad wasn't really the type to ask for a cup of coffee and sit down in the den and "talk things through." No, my dad was more the type to show up with a cup of his own coffee, and then throw it in someone's face. I imagined what would happen--how the cops might be called. And God, what would the people at school say?
So, my dad loaded me up in the truck and drove down to this kid's house. I remember looking over at him--he hadn't even changed from work. Grease on his jeans and a tee shirt from the work day. Dad's always been a really hairy guy, so he had this monster sized beard, and his back hair was creeping up the collar of his shirt. At a glance, he kind of looked like an animal--especially when you took his words into consideration on the way there. He was pretty much silent, which is a sure fire sign that he's about to have a total meltdown. Occasionally, he would nod to himself and mutter something like, "Yep. This is going to get fixed. Tonight." I was 74% sure that I had shit in the passenger seat, but I didn't want to say anything because, honestly... who wanted to throw any more gasoline on that flame?
We pulled up to Matt's house and my dad started walking to the door. I stayed in the truck, partially because I had little to no feeling in my legs, partially because I couldn't stand to see what was going to happen. He stopped about halfway to the door and turned around and stared at me. I knew what he wanted, but I wasn't going to do it until he told me I had to. "Get out of the truck, you're coming with me."
Mortified, I made my way to the door--my dad opted to not use the doorbell, but instead just went straight for the full blown bang on the door. Not a little "shave and a haircut" knock, but more like a "YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GET OUT" knock. Eventually, this scrawny looking man in glasses comes to the door--the adult version of what I imagine his kid would have looked like once he stopped pantsing people in the locker room and using the term "fag" so freely in public. He asked if he could help us, and my dad cut right to the chase, "Well, your son has been picking on my son, and it needs to stop." Of course, his dad very calmly suggested that we go back to the beginning, but there was no time for that. We were here on a mission--a Kirkland mission--and that mission didn't need to take any more than five or ten really, really terrifying minutes.
Eventually, the man called Matt to the door, and there he stood--looking angelic as ever, as if he had just got done brushing the dog or doing homework or something completely unlike himself at school. His dad asked him if he knew who I was. "Yeah, that's Justin. We're friends at school." And that's when I got angry. Friends at school? Hardly. My friends were the acquaintances that I put on my Survivor alliance at 4:30 when I got home from school. This kid was not my friend.
Then his dad asked him one of the stupidest questions that you can ask a kid, "Son, are you making fun of Justin at school and on the Internet?" Oh yes, father. I call him all sorts of names. Names you might not have even heard of! Isn't it grand? "No, I would never do that." And that's when Wendell, formerly known as my dad, took over the conversation. "Don't stand here and lie to me, you little son of a bitch." Apparently, in most common suburban neighborhoods, calling a child an SOB is not a readily accepted term of endearment. Then again, SOB is not a term I heard very often back home either--it was usually reserved for our neighbor who would shoot turkeys behind our house and our pet rabbits whenever they would scratch Dad. The kid's dad looked back at us and said, "I don't think it's appropriate to say that," and then Wendell responded, "Well, I don't think it's appropriate for him to tell my son to kill himself online." And then, because my dad knows how to prepare for a situation, Wendell pulled out a stack of papers--printed out AIM conversation between myself and Matt. The jig was up--Matt had officially been busted.
His dad looked at the papers and then down to Matt, and said, "We're going to have a serious conversation about this, and you're probably going to be grounded from the computer for a while." Solid parenting, if I say so myself. But the conversation was not over, because Wendell did not find this a suitable enough warning. I could see those backhairs raising up, like a mountain lion about to pounce. He pointed his finger at Matt and said, "If this ever happens again, I'm going to come back here, and I'm going to beat his ass. And then I'm going to beat your ass for raising him." And then, he pulled out one of my favorite Wendell Kirkland moves, which I like to call the "Why Haven't You Said Anything Yet?" After he's said something like, "I'm going to kick your entire house's ass," he gives you about two seconds to process it, then raises his eyebrows and slightly shakes his head, as if you were already supposed to come up with something to say in response. It's his final way of saying, "I've won this battle. You can leave now." As a teenager, I was the victim of a couple of these responses when I did things like not get up in time for school, or a blatant disregard for cleaning the pool.

And this is what he's turned into today.

We got back in the truck and he looked over at me and said, "I think we got that taken care of," and then Matt never spoke to me again. Before I was out of middle school, we repeated this routine two other times with two other kids. Those kids don't speak to me either. I think by the time I was a junior in high school, most everyone knew that if you really went after me, my dad would show up at your house and essentially threaten to burn it to the ground. People always said things--bullies never really go away. They just knew when to stop.
Looking back on it, Dad's approach might have saved me from something really bad down the road. Sure, it was pretty ridiculous that your dad would go to your schoolmate's house and reenact an episode of Maury to get the point across, but every parent has their own way of getting the job done. Eventually, bullying pretty much came to a stop--somewhere near the end of high school. But to this day, if something bad happens at work or if I pass a jerk on the street, I think twice about whether or not I should tell my dad about it, because the last thing I need at this point is for my dad to show up at work to let my boss know who the boss really is.

Pumpkin Spice, Miley, and the Trouble with White People

White people must have lost their minds today. It's been so hot outside and now, out of no where (or rather the residual effects of the underwhelming Hurrican Karen), the temperature has suddenly dropped. This anti-spike in temperature is surely going to signal a turn toward fall. The leaves will be falling soon and hoards of Caucasians will be heading to the pumpkin farm or the corn maze, adorned with scarves (though it's not cold enough) and pumpkin spiced lattes (though they're overpriced), and mmmmm, it will just be wonderful. It's what we do every year around this time, because, well we're a predictable race. Similar to bears, fall time is the last hoorah before white people go inside for the winter, only to emerge again to Instagram everything about spring. We run to craft stores and collect as many holiday-themed collectibles that we can and then we craft our asses of. Hobby Lobbys and Michael's across the nation feel our wrath as we leave their stores in shambles to craft and craft and craft, and that's where the problem comes in.
As of late, there has been some public conversation surrounding cultural misappropriation: let me explain what that is. It's when one race (white people) take something from another race and then claim it as their own without actually claiming it as their own. I first started noticing the term when white people in office spaces across America would simultaneously burst into Grand mal seizures while "The Harlem Shake" would play in the background. Black people responded by going on MSNBC and instructing white people how to actually do the Harlem Shake, which for the record, requires you to keep the Grand mal seizure specifically in your legs. A couple months later, white people misappropriated "twerking," a la Miley Cyrus. Again, we were doing it wrong. I'm still not exactly sure what twerking is... I believe the jury is still out on that one.
But let me clarify: saying that white people are stealing the Harlem Shake or twerking is like watching a thief rob a bank and then drop all the money before they get out the door. White people aren't stealing anything. And I would hardly say it's cultural misappropriation. I took a lot of creative writing classes in college and people would come in all the time with terrible strings of words that they would call poetry. I guess I could say that they were misappropriating poetry, but instead, I just liked to tell them in workshop that they were doing it wrong. Misappropriation is not where we should be focusing our efforts, guys. Focusing on things like that is like when Congress was freaking out about gay marriage as our economy was going down the drain. Bigger fish, y'all. Bigger fish.
I'm guilty of it, too. I'm sitting here on my eggshell colored couch, watching The Walking Dead, while working on a blog. The whiteness is getting out of control. There's a pumpkin sitting on the island in my kitchen that I plan on carving tomorrow. I'm a 23 year old man. The answer does not lie in making sure that cultural traditions are kept separate from one another... it comes in stamping out all this whiteness everywhere. I come from a home full of guns and deer heads and camouflage, so obviously my journey away from whitehood has been quite a process. However, I like to believe that I move toward becoming less and less white every day. I've always had the privilege of having a "racially aware sensei" for most of my life, guiding me through the ups and downs of what it means to be fighting a life of whiteness. It started in middle school with my friend Kierra, continued along into college where Sean took over, and finally led to post-grad where Krystal has graciously taken care of me... and that's where the story leads to: Krystal, me, and a racially charged glass of alcohol.
For my 23rd birthday, I invited all of the friends I had made in DC at the time (approximately 2.7) out for dinner and drinks. Only 1.7 of them showed up, but that wouldn't stop me from celebrating my 23rd year of life. The only issue with this birthday is that I had never been "out for my birthday" before, and I was pleasantly surprised that people tend to buy you drinks on your birthdays. My drink of choice has turned out to be a long island tea, which was apparently my dad's drink of choice when he was trollin for honeys at Buster Mugg's back in the 80s. Like father... sort of like son. Anyway, that's what people kept bringing me all night. Eventually, I was right at the point of not being able to keep any more drinks down (because birthdays are hard, get off my back), and I was sitting with Krystal and her boyfriend, Skip. My old roommate, Andrew, came over with another long island tea and offered it to me... and it was at that point that all my feelings about whiteness came bubbling over. You could say that the spirit of black America had entered my body, but that is probably a little bit presumptuous and a lotta bit racist. I'll just tell you what was said:
"I told you no," said Justin.
"But it's your birthday drinking," said Andrew
"Why are you trying to keep us down? You're always trying to keep us down," said Justin
"Who?" said Andrew
"Us," motioning to himself, Krystal, and Skip, "Us black people," said Justin
To Krystal, "You know I'm not racist, right?" said Andrew
Krystal gave the side eye.
The conversation did not stop there, as I spent at least another ten minutes explaining how Andrew was constantly trying to bring down the African American race, while calling on no other specific example other than the fact that he tried to bring me what must have been my tenth long island tea of the night, but inside, I felt like I was finally conquering the issue we've all been facing. It's not that he was taking anything from me, self-appointed representative of the African Americans. It's that he was trying to force his whiteness on me... and overall, on us. That's when it hit me. The problem with race in America does not exist because of lack of integration... the problem exists because white people are just trying to cross too many lines.
It came to my attention even more as I was checking out at Trader Joes with an organic pumpkin, some cranberry apple butter, pumpkin ravioli, and a bouquet of marigolds. I was the problem. Look at me whiting up Arlington even more than it already is. For those of you who don't know, Arlington is one of the whitest places in America. It's full of bicycles, mom and pop shops, people who are excited to take public transportation, and mostly coffee. What we need is to invite a couple of diverse friends over... no strike that. First, we need to make our traditionally white places seem less unsafe to our diverse friends, then invite them into our world. So white people, I leave you with this: leave your carts in the aisle. The organic food will be waiting when you get back. Walk out of that Trader Joe's and go wade in the water. Wade in the water, children.

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.

Falling in Love Outside of Your Race (Or, Mother Do I Have a Milkshake?)

I think my parents always expected me to bring a nice white, Christian girl home one day and announce, This is the woman that I'm going to make my wife... or at least that's what they hoped for. In reality, I've brought home just about every variation of that equation except for that one. Casey and i never left a lot of room open for prejudice in our house because we were apparently really bad at following direction. And in started early for both of us. Casey's first major crush was on Amber Logan, a girl in our eighth grade class, and while Amber was extremely nice and extremely Christian, she wasn't by any stretch white, and once they had lost Casey, my parents began to reevaluate the characteristics they would hope for in our future mates. To come from the extended-Kirkland-clan (who made racist jokes into sport over Christmas dinner), my parents taught Casey and I how to love a little more freely than even they expected. We didn't see color or religion or any of that stuff, and there's no way that Kathy and Wendell could have prepared for that.
But being the trailblazer that I am, I opened up the door for Casey when I fell madly in love late into seventh grade. It was a process because you don't just jump from an incidentally all-white elementary school (with the exception of John Kearney and his biracial brother) into a melting pot such as South-Doyle Middle School. But once I had acclimated as a sixth grader and moved into seventh grade, I realized that the myths were untrue: black people are actually not only safe, but friendly. As a seventh grader, I was allowed to apply for and join Cherokee Television (CTV), which was the morning broadcast put on by middle schoolers to inform the school what was going on. If you were accepted into the small ranks, you were essentially a school-wide celebrity. Originally, I was placed in charge of the soundboard, but because of my inability to keep from pressing random buttons, I was quickly moved to an on-screen position. At the tender age of 12, I was placed as co-host of Homeroom Feud with Sydney Cross, my first black friend. We were quite a duo and groundbreaking in terms of CTV history. Never had South-Doyle had a multiracial duo hosting Homeroom Feud.

"And they're like, it's better than yours."

It took weeks to get over the fact that I wasn't selected as the primary host of CTV, or "the Katie Couric," as I would come to call it. But I made the best out of my position... that is until Sydney and I started having communication issues. I was always a precocious child, but in the purest ways possible. I could have a conversation with an adult like it was my job, but when it came to people my own age, sometimes I fell behind. Up until this point in my life, I had only listened to country music, so when Sydney walked in singing My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, I was a little taken aback. I asked Sydney who this song was by and what a milkshake was, but she denied me an answer. I was very obviously out of the loop, and it was upsetting to know that this milkshake double entendre was like a special club that I couldn't be apart of.
I went around asking people Will you tell me what a milkshake is? I asked my regular information sources: teachers, cafeteria workers, anyone with the slightest bit of authority. No one seemed to understand this "milkshake" either. I went home and asked my parents, but they didn't understand what was going on. So, in desperation, I turned to Google. I had prepared a list of preliminary questions, just in case I found out the answer:
--What is a milkshake?
--Do I have a milkshake?
--Is this the kind of milkshake you can drink?
--Why does this milkshake bring all the boys to the yard?
--How do you compare milkshakes?
Sadly, I don't think my query was specific enough, so for months, I was left stranded with the cliffhanger: what is a milkshake? I had decided that without Sydney's help, I was essentially out of luck. That was (and I didn't realize how mildly racist this was until now) until I met my second black friend, Kierra. She was everything that I had hoped my second black friend would be, and she was much less crass than Sydney. From the time that I started CTV to the end of eighth grade, I had been through three co-hosts, but no surefire fit. I was just a Kathy Lee looking for my Hoda, and there she was. Naturally, the first thing I did was ask Kierra what a milkshake was, and she quickly obliged and educated me on Kelis' ways. It wasn't long after that I started having the deep, raw emotional love that only seventh graders can feel, and then it happened: I had fallen in love with a black girl. I had no idea how I would ever tell my parents, but I knew that I had to. Kierra, for all intensive purposes, was supposed to be the love of my life. No matter the race, when you find a woman who willingly tells you what a milkshake is and compliments you perfectly as co-host of a low budget middle school television program, you love that woman with all of your heart.
I promised myself that I wouldn't kill my parents' dreams of snow white Aryan babies until I had to, but when I told Kierra that I liked her, she told me that she didn't "like me-like me." Little did she know, she set off a chain reaction in which I would spend the majority of middle and high school without any physical or emotional contact with anyone, followed by my college years when I would scandalously make out with just about anyone... regardless of race, religion, etc. The pain has died down since, but it just recently hit me: Kierra, my second black friend in the world, used her milkshake to bring 12 year old Justin to the yard, and then denied me. The personal alienation that followed, the scandalous/somewhat loose college years, my inability to commit to people: it all dials back to one thing... the milkshake.
But in time, all wounds eventually heal and time has a way of changing things. Kelis would go on to release much more provocative music before finally fading out into oblivion; I like to believe that her and Macy Gray share an apartment somewhere in inner-city New York. Kierra is off at college finishing up her undergrad; I like to think she's made friends that aren't nearly as ignorantly racist as I was as a twelve year old. Me on the other hand, I wander the streets of DC without any regard to any defining quality of a person. I just want someone to love--someone who will use their milkshake to bring me to the yard, teach me, but not have to charge.
And in the long run, I don't think my parents even care if I bring home a nice, white, Christian girl home anymore because I did that once, and that was the one girlfriend that I've had that both Kathy and Wendell didn't really like at all. In reality I think Wendell, who at one point could have arguably been classified as racist himself, dislikes white people more than he does any other race. Our Thanksgivings are void of color requirement (and religion and sexuality, for that matter) at this point. Raising Casey and me opened their eyes to a new world, and they've learned that there are much more important things in the world than a small defining quality.

Fat Like Me or... Writing on Girls With Markers

I've always had a theory that skinny people were just people that shouldn't be trusted. And then I get soft, and I start letting skinny people into my life because they seem nice enough. Yes, they have their downfalls: they run and can't fit in small places, but ultimately they're people, too. It's hard for me to overcome my ultimate distrustful nature of skinny people because I know if it came down to a natural disaster like a tornado, they would never have my back. Yes, thick boys like myself have a better chance of staying grounded in a funnel cloud situation, but I can just imagine a Helen Hunt F5 size tornado coming towards me, and all my friends are playing a life and death version of sardines just staring at me from a tight space right before I get pulled into the sky. I'll never be able to fully give my heart to a skinny person because I know that all they'll do is steal it and hide it in a place that I'm too large to get into... most likely a crawl space or an inconveniently narrow alleyway.
But knowing all those facts about skinny people doesn't stop me from wanting to reach out to them anyway. After meeting a girl in my class, an obviously natural-born-skinny, I decided that even though she had her moments in class, she was worth giving a chance. She tends to dominate conversation, but I thought that it was maybe because she had a Rachel Berry/Lea Michele personality--I didn't want to blame it on her being skinny until I had to. But tonight, we were talking about the footage that broadcast journalists use as anchors and reporters do the voice overs... the particular one we watched had a flurry of obese people walking around, but the camera cut off their heads, probably to hide their identity. I asked how ethical it was to use stock footage of obese people who probably didn't know they were filmed as the image of obesity in America. That soon followed with a woman in my class, Sunset, talking about how her daughter was measured for her BMI in front of her classmates and went home and told her mom that she was... ugly.
I automatically went into mommy mode and shared my absolute disgust with Sunset. It was as if my imaginary daughter had been called fat, too. Then, out of the silence, Skinny chimed in. She stated, You know, if a seven year old is obese then someone needs to tell her that she is. Someone needs to explain that she is going to get diabetes and that her weight is a problem. I know it's not related, but when I was in a sorority, we did the same thing. Then the guys from the fraternity came in with markers and marked on our bodies where we needed to lose weight, and it was embarrassing, but it was also motivating. I've tried really hard to be a mature adult in grad school; I mean, for God's sake, I wear sweaters vests and cardigans. But I couldn't help myself; I could feel that chunky middle schooler fighting from the inside as I yelled/laughed/cried Oh... oh no. Yes, Skinny is a grown woman and can allow whomever she wants to draw on her with a Sharpie, but you can't impose that kind of behavior on to an impressionable seven year old. If I ever found out that someone had called my child's BMI out in front of class, let alone drew on them with a sharpie, I would find a special place for that sharpie that even the skinniest person couldn't get to.
I started having flashbacks to sixth grade when we were forced to run a mile in under sixteen minutes. Everyone had finished, and there I was jogging (or walking, I can't remember because after the second laugh, my vision started to go) on my second lap just hoping to finish before the time was up. Middle school was not a time that we cheered for each other; middle school was a time to mock Anna G and I for not being able to carry our body weight for a mile. The whole thing was mortifying, and I promised myself that if I could just finish that mile, I would convince my parents to buy me a Hoveround, and I would never walk again. I hated all those skinny people because even when they finished, they continued to walk around like standing up wasn't even a big deal. They didn't understand what it was like to be like me, and they sure weren't open to the idea of trying to picture it.
And I suppose that anger has subsided a bit since I've gotten older. I came to terms that I would never be one of those tinys, but as I got older, I've pretty much maintained the same weight... it just distributed itself better the taller I got. Even now, as I continue to lose weight via my diet of cigarettes and cubes of cheese, I still understand the struggles of those that have a little more to love. I identify with people who understand what it's like to fluctuate between "beautiful" and "beautiful plus some." I'm inspired by people like Kirstie Alley, Josh from Drake and Josh, and the ongoing weight mystery that is Oprah Winfrey. People who are naturally large have to actually work at being skinny, which is frustrating when you're around people who can eat like fourteen hot dogs, a honey bun, a five gallon bucket of 7-11 Slurpee and then say, Wow I feel so fat today while sporting what looks like a premature food baby at best. When I meet people like that, they don't make me want to lose weight... they make me want to eat them.
So, if you're skinny... first and foremost, shame on you. Okay, maybe not shame on you... more so, consider what it's like to walk around feeling less. On top of all the comments you get throughout your day, you're the first person that sees you in the morning. You already know what people are going to say because you say it to yourself first. If you're a little bigger, remember that no matter what size you are, you are important. You should never feel like less of a person because you're a bit larger than the rest. And if you're a bigger person moving toward a skinny life based on nicotine and a couple bites of bread a day, don't do it because you want to be skinny... do it because you don't have money or because you forget to eat, like me. And if you do achieve that point of skinny-sin, then I hope you remember all the people that stared at you because you were fat. Don't forget how it felt to be stared at as you bounced much more than everyone else as you ran laps on the track. And for God's sake, don't justify telling a seven-year-old that she's going to have diabetes one day in front of her peers. If what motivates you is having a man tell you what's wrong with your body by drawing on you with a marker, maybe you need a different kind of mirror to assess what might need some work.

I'm Curious About The Help

Being a housewife is something that takes a lot of hard work, but I know that I'm dedicated to perfecting it because if my plan works out and I marry into money, then that's what I'm aiming to be. In a perfect world, I'd like to sit somewhere all day and watch "my stories," drink some wine occasionally, and spend the rest of my time writing... books, poetry, essays, hate letters... anything that involves a pen/paper or rather, keys/fingers. But I don't want to be the basic kind of housewife; I don't want a maid. There are three things that I don't trust people with: my bathroom, my laundry, and most importantly... my food. Plus, having a maid reminds me too much of human elitism, which reminds me of slavery, which really kind of bothers me.
And you would think that human elitism is something that most of us have come past, but I'm sadly reminded in small ways every day that we're not. For instance, my friend Jamila used to cut a great deal of people's hair in the building I lived in during college. Whenever I needed a precise buzz cut, I would consult Jamila and in ten minutes flat, I would have a neat hair do with trimmed up sideburns and neckline. Most people would offer to pay her, but she would never accept it. And then, another one of our friends asked Jamila if she would give cutting her hair a shot; it all seemed pretty normal until she wanted to discuss Jamila's ability. Just for a point of reference, Jamila is black, so there was a little extra weight when her "customer" sincerely responded, Wow, Jamila. You do a great job cutting hair; did you learn from your mom? Is this something you guys do in your family? Jamila, like a trooper, entertained all of her questions. I sat on the sideline amazed that she would even ask... It was as if the only two times she had ever had contact with an African American was through the movies Friday and Beauty Shop. I mean, did she know that she was playing into a giant stereotype or was she just oblivious. I decided on the latter when she responded, Did you start practicing on colored hair? Like, do you usually just work with colored people? My eyes had to be the size of saucers, as I looked at Jamila. I imagined that she would raise up her scissors and jam them into the back of this girl's neck, but she maintained her composure, as if these questions were more of a game than anything.
And it only grew from there because it was as if once she knew that the door was opened to use the word colored as a culturally acceptable way to refer to black people, she dropped the word as many times as her mouth would allow. I sat in amazement, wondering what absurd thing would come out of her mouth next... Are your colored scissors colored sharp enough to cut colored hair? Colored, colored, colored. I often found myself very thankful to be living where I was from as the person that I am because most of the prejudice I face is only from the far right... which is actually kind of most of East Tennessee, but whatever. I've never had something about myself that I couldn't hide or pretend wasn't existent; I've never had to deal with something so obvious about me being scrutinized or even ignorantly mocked. Well, until lately.
Yesterday, after coming home with Patrice from the mall, my roommate, Andrew, told me, My friend Jill wants you to cook her fried chicken tonight. She really wants it; she is going to come over tonight. Flabbergasted and exhausted from the day, I looked at him and said, Is she going to bring chicken over because I know I'm not going to go and buy it. I knew it wasn't just cooking dinner for a couple of friends... this was more like a cultural experience for her and her boyfriend, who may I state... are very nice people... but nonetheless, this was more about being able to say that they'd had "southern fried chicken." And when someone brings me chicken and offers to give me some in return for cooking it, which is more than Minnie could have said in The Help, then sure... I'll cook your chicken up. I was never really worried about the cooking of the chicken; it was more of the difficulty of explaining the process.
I knew that the night was going to be interesting as soon as Andrew told me, and Andrew knew it to. He gave me, I'm sorry, I love you eyes because he knew that if someone else was buying this chicken, then I was going to need to not just meet expectations, but exceed them. As far as I was concerned, this was not just another night of making fried chicken... this was the Olympics of Southern fried chicken, with opening ceremonies from Dolly Parton and Kenny Chesney and appearances by Tommy Lee Jones, Paula Deen, and potentially someone connected to the Johnny Cash bloodline. And you know, no one could have really prepared me for what would come last night because, like I said, I've never been at a place where I was so noticeably different from everyone else.
Andrew was helping me make dinner as Patrice and Brad watched from the counter, and when Jill and her boyfriend showed up, the festivities began. Everything was essentially done except for the chicken, but considering that there were 14 legs to cook, dinner was hardly ready. And of course, before the first leg hit the egg mixture, they were peering toward the frying pan asking questions, How do you get the breading to stick to the chicken? Oh, the egg? That's so cool! and Is this your special recipe? Did you come up with it on your own; did you learn this from your family, or have you just always known? And all of a sudden, I realized how difficult it must have been for Jamila to have not said anything because all I wanted to say back was Nope, I just shot out of my mom with a frying pan in hand. Soon, they wanted to know things about the South like if I hunted and fished, which inspired me to do the one Southern tradition that I embrace more than food: fix a rum and coke. They asked if Southern people really had all the regular narrow-minded sentiments, and as I entertained their questions just like Jamila, the grease in the pan popped out and shot onto my hand. I grabbed my hand and said, Ahh! Damn! Jill's boyfriend responded without missing a beat, That's the Southern snap I was looking for!
I was never aware that there was such a thing as a Southern snap... actually, the only Southern snap I had was one that I had desperately tried to avoid so not to perpetuate any stereotypes unpopular for a Southern boy. My Southern snap was less of a cultural thing and more of a Tyra Banks inspired masterpiece. But, what made it all okay is that it seemed like they really thought that all of these things existed, and back home, I like to believe that my Dad was sitting on our rickety porch, whittlin' a piece of wood into toys for my nineteen brothers and sisters, most of whom are married to one another. Sure, there are some things about the South that are a little awry, but all in all, I like to believe that we live like most of the rest of the nation, even if we do have a couple more banjos than the rest of the world. And I think that the biggest lesson is learning not to assume that someone's identifier is not always synonymous with the stereotype associated with it. Not all black people cut hair, and not all Southerners can cook fried chicken... especially like me.

Appa Bahp

If I've ever been good at anything, it's talking. All my elementary school teachers told me so. I guess I was also good at taking a compliment because when Mrs. Henderson would shoot me eyes across the classroom and say, "You're getting a little too good at talking," I would immediately become filled with pride and consider my communication skills superior to the other second graders around me. It wasn't until I set an unprecedented record for yellow lights (an even split between talking excessively and my inability to stop crying) that I determined that my gift for gab may not be the best thing in the entire world.
However, coming from Tennessee, I never considered that my voice was any different from anyone else's. Sure, I talk a little louder than other people, but that's because so many people ignored my very important things I wanted to contribute to conversation as a child. Naturally, I spoke louder so that they could hear me. It wasn't until I was older that I realized that the way I say things may not be the way that other people say them. What I have never understood is the reaction that people have when there is a communication barrier. It's the same kind of lapse in judgment that people have when there's a bad connection on a cell phone; walking around a circle with a three feet radius repeating Can you hear me? is not going to give your phone any more bars than it had before. Holding it up fourteen inches above your ear won't do anything either.
When I visited a high school teacher after graduation, we sat down for dinner and began to talk about how life was in college. I told her and her husband about joining a fraternity, making Dean's List... all the basic things that people recap when you talk about your college life. She told me about things that were happening at school and all the things privvy to everyone except the students that actually go there. As we approached the end of the night, I collected my pea coat from the closet, fixed my scarf around my neck and said the fatal word: Goodnight.
In unison, they responded: Good knot?
I retorted: Goodnight.
Again: Good knot?
This literally went on for at least forty-five seconds. I explained how, for some reason, my teachers had not beaten the Southern accent out of me as a child, and when I use certain vowels, the drawl comes out a little more than it would regularly. As if I hadn't picked up on the hint, they went on to explain to me how odd my accent was. It sounded so... rustic, which is a politically correct way of saying podunk. Then it usually follows with someone saying how endearing my voice is, which is a politically correct way of saying, Hey, I'm really entertained by your voice. Let's draw some attention to it. It's a burden and a curse I suppose, but I've never really been bothered by it. That is... until appa bahp.
Last summer, a couple of friends and I decided to escape campus for a while and go grab a bite to eat. Smokey Mountain Brewery was a new restaurant in the area, so naturally, it seemed like a good option. We had decided that with it being a brewery and restaurant that focused specifically on Southern favorites, it only made sense to order something that would be specifically Southern. When our waitress approached the table she seemed nice enough: young, pregnant, and without a wedding ring... something not too uncommon for a waitress in the greater East Tennessee area. I find myself immediately attracted to people like this. She said she would have married her boyfriend, but she hadn't seen him since she told him that she was pregnant. She asked us for our drink orders, and I thought we had a connection. I thought she cared. I thought she wasn't obnoxious, but when I said that I wanted the "Apple Pie Moonshine," she put her hands on her hips and announced "APPA BAHP?!" Like I usually do, I repeated myself Um, the apple pie moonshine. And like clockwork, she responded APPA BAHP?! My friends couldn't get enough; what a funny joke it must have been. Completely unamused, I responded I don't understand. Like someone who can't quite find appropriate things humorous or who just has to tell everyone the last black joke they heard, she responded yet again APPA BAHP?! It literally went on and on for three minutes, the longest that I've ever seen anyone choose to be so blissfully obnoxious. I wasn't sure what to do because it seemed as if I was at that point in Mario where you don't really care enough to actually go into the green PVC pipe that takes you to the next level... you'd rather just throw your controller out the window. I didn't even want to get a drink anymore; I just wanted her to deliver the baby inside of her so I could shamelessly toss her through the window, then steal the baby and raise it as my own so that it would have a chance for an okay life.

Oh Meredith, what have you
done with your hair?

And I guess that my voice is no Dan Rather, but calling upon the distinctness of someone's voice, particularly someone from the South that could be deemed as "stupid," is kind of unfruitful if you make yourself sound like an idiot in the process. Unless you're in a debate with strategic facts and figures in between your statements, repeating yourself is something that kind of makes you look like a, well... a dumbass. To this day my vowels haunt me; some would say that it's my Achilles Heel--my weakness and my strength. My hope was to come to DC and use my accent as a distraction, making any "competitors" think that I am some dumb hillbilly and then skating past them when they're not looking. I think the plan has worked halfway so far, but without any opportunities to skate yet, it's more just people thinking I'm kind of dumb.
But at the end of the day, you should be proud of who you are and where you come from. Everyone in the world is so plain, so ordinary, so uninspiring. That's why Meredith's mom on Grey's Anatomy never loved her enough. She doesn't have an accent, her scrubs are never ironed, and she has a frumpy haircut. And that's a frustrating thing to see in your child, let alone another person. You honestly need something to make you distinctive from everyone else in the world because who wants to go through the world being just another person with a non-distinct personality/accent/face/haircut? Look at Matthew McConaughey; he can't act or do anything helpful for the human race, but he still gets hired for movies because of his voice... or his body. Whatevs. Surely you can't be that worthless; imagine the possibilities.

Jesus Loves You, Charlotte Howard

Sometimes, I look back on my time as a child and ask myself, How the hell did you get to this point in your life without being murderer for being such a little jerk? In my defense, I was the butt of a lot of jokes, a lot of which have been covered in previous stories, but like most stories, there's always another side to the coin. There are a lot of responses that a kid can have to being bullied, but one of the more ridiculous ones was one that I once gave a shot: bullying other people back. However, as the communication savvy young man I've always been, I made sure that I had a getaway, and what better getaway can you have other than the word of Jesus Christ? I mean, people have used him for years to do super shiesty things: all the way from the Crusades to Chick-Fil-A investments. And how am I to judge any of those people, when I, myself, have used the Lord as a weapon of destruction.

Eighth grade is hard; I was at the peak of my wind breaker phase, and my self-esteem was at an all time low. Other than having an exceptionally close relationship with my teachers, a weekly appointment with the guidance counselor to talk about my acute depression, and an anchor role on "Cherokee Television," I didn't really have a lot going for me. I didn't have a claim to fame for anything other than being the face for "Homeroom Feud" and having exceptionally thick lensed glasses.

When asked if I could go back to any point in my life, which part would it be, I responded, "I don't know, but it wouldn't be middle school." Middle schoolers are mean, mean people that have just started to understand some of the diversities and differences of the world. We've graduated into the internet and the dangerous things we can do with instant messaging and Myspace, and we loved nothing more than tearing each other down, so when presented with the opportunity to do the tearing, as opposed to being the one torn upon, I jumped on it. I wasn't apart of any of the official planning, but when approached in the hallway by the local preacher's daughter, who was also one of the more popular girls, I followed. That's just what you do as a middle schooler: you follow the "powerful." She pointed out our [literal] target: Charlotte Howard.

I had known Charlotte Howard since kindergarten. She had always been the straight laced girl pressed upon way to heavily by her parents. No Rugrats because Angelica was mean; she was allowed to watch Veggie Tales and Wishbone for their religious and intellectual potential, respectively. Looking back on the situation as a twenty-two year old, I probably would have thrown up a middle finger to everything I had known, too. Middle school welcomed a whole new lifestyle for Charlotte: to quote one, Jay-Z, she had "black cards, black cars, all black everything." She had denounced God and befriended our school's token Atheist from California. Yeah, California. Essentially, Charlotte had seemingly overnight become the middle school bully's dream. And in an attempt to alleviate a little pressure off my overweight, nerdy, completely uncool self, I joined in.

Emily handed me a pencil, a light blue piece of unsharpened wood adorned with a Bible verse I can't seem to recall, and told me the plan. Once she walked out of class, we would set it all into action, and we would end it by taking our weapons and pummeling the demons right out of her. She came around the corner, and I looked down at the pencil, and it was as if future Justin was speaking to pathetic, tiny 8th grade Justin, Dude, look at what you're doing. Are you seriously going to d-- It was too late. The pencil went flying, and we followed with a total mockery of the very thing we were supposedly representing, Jesus, loves you Charlotte! What. had. I. done.

The next day, we were all called to the principal, completely ignorant that we would be called in for something other than an award or accomplishment... especially considering that we were all called in together. So it was quite the surprise that we were all up for pending sanctions for religious harassment, which fell under the Zero Tolerance policy. If it hadn't been for Charlotte, we would have all been suspended. And the irony of it all, is that her "attackers" are now a bisexual, two known lesbians, a college drop out, and a retail worker. God, the actual merciful one... not the one that we supposedly represented, only knows what kind of hell we were all going through at the time that we decided to do it, because I will stand by the idea that we only exhibit hate toward others because of the insecurities and doubts that we have in ourselves.

When thinking back on the whole charade, I'm sure that it reads as something with a little bit of humor, and even to Charlotte, the story tends to bring a smile to her face, but for me, it's probably one of the most embarrassing things I've ever done. After eighth grade, I never went back to another youth group, and I found the God that I worship on my own terms. Charlotte and I just graduated from college together, and somehow along the way, we kind of met in the middle of the Christian/Satanic continuum, if you will. But to quote Saved!, "The Bible is not a weapon!" I just wish that more young, enthusiastic Christians had been sent into Sherry Hensely's office to shed a little light on the differences between witnessing and full blown alienation.

Gas Station Nancy

As I prepare to pack up and move to D.C. this week, I've been doing my best to try and say goodbye to the people that have come to mean the most to me. I picked up my friend in Maryville a couple nights ago, and as we were driving back, I announced, We have to stop by and see Nancy. She didn't understand, Who is Nancy? I was almost disgusted by her forgetfulness. Anna, we have to see Nancy. At the EZ Stop. Nancy with the frosted tips. Anna and I had befriended Nancy sometime last year, as we made entirely too many trips to get cigarettes after midnight. She usually works the late shift, so I was confident we would run into her during our 1:00am excursion. As we pulled up to the store, no one was behind the counter. Nothing new: Nancy is usually out smoking or literally hiding in the bathroom or back in the gas station office. As Anna perfectly imitated, she always appears out of some place random and yells out, "Oh! I was just cleaning," as if she ever had to give us a reason for being misplaced. But she really wasn't there this time; we saw the door to the Gatorade open and immediately knew it wasn't her. Nancy does a lot of things at the gas station, but the one thing she does not do is work, let alone stock the Gatorades. As I left, I began to consider the people that I befriend; most 22 year old men do not befriend 60 something year old gas station workers, especially the ones with frosted tips.

Nancy and me, the night before my graduation.

But I have all these very interesting, very odd friends that I'm not particularly sure how I ended up befriending. I have this weird ability to reach out to just about anyone I meet and find some kind of commonality. Nancy and I met over a pack of cigarettes, and eventually we found common ground on the fact that most of our extended family has been in jail for one thing or another. She told me I reminded her a lot of her son, though from the picture I saw, I would never be caught dead in a white suit, but that's beside the point; Nancy and I had something special, and even if it was originally a running joke, I find ways to connect to people in the oddest circumstances.

But it's really no surprise; I always connect with the people that others are most unlikely to connect to. I can't say it's always a productive thing, as I probably take chances on people that I shouldn't. Before we even started college, members of our class starting friending one another on Facebook. I thought it was a pretty normal thing, so I played along. Anyone that sent me a friend request was accepted, and I didn't find that to be a problem until we started living on campus.

After a couple days, I was sitting in the dining hall eating a bowl of cereal when a girl appeared behind me. I didn't see her, but I heard her, kind of in the same fashion that Helga from Hey Arnold always heard that one kid with the glasses breathing behind her. I turned around and there she was, inches away from my body. I looked up and said hello, and she responded, You're the boy that lives in my computer. It was the exact kind of moment when you want as many people to be around as possible, as the chance that the next action could end with you getting knifed or chloroformed, but alas, it was just the two of us. I didn't know what to say, so in desperation, I asked her if she wanted to sit down. That was all that was said, and she spent the rest of breakfast staring at me as I finished my bowl of cereal. And that's the trouble with befriending anyone and everyone... you have some hits and misses, and then sometimes, you have people that just stare at you the entire way through your otherwise normal breakfast.
But if there's one job that someone like myself should probably never have, it's waiting. I've had the opportunity to meet entirely too many people this summer, and when I really like them, I want to take them home with me like a dollar on the ground or a lost kitten. And the problem is that most of the people that I feel this way about are people that are most definitely not acceptable in social situations. As a couple of old ladies walked into Big Mike's this summer, Marsha looked around at me and said, Stay away from them. Those are the whores of Seymour. I glanced to confirm who I'd seen; yep, they were easily in their late 60s, probably 70s. If I didn't already love them just from seeing them, knowing they were the neighborhood whores only made me love them more. I immediately grabbed their table, hoping for some conversational diamonds in the rough. They asked me if I had graduated high school yet, which from anyone else would have been offensive. I explained that I was going to graduate school in the fall and one of them told me that I should just stay and date her, an offer that I would have gladly accepted because I love me some cougars.
Soon, they began asking me about school and where I would go. I told them that I would be moving to DC to go to Georgetown and a grim look came over both of their faces. The oldest one turned to me and practically yelled out, You know there's colored people all over the place up there. A sweet boy like you's gonna be walkin' around all sweetly up there and one of those black people's gonna come up and knock the shit out of you. Leave you right there on the street, bleedin'. I am very rarely stunned beyond words, but I didn't know what to say. The other one chimed in, It's a damn shame. You're such a nice boy. I wasn't sure if I should have been more offended that they used "colored" in context as if that's just a normal thing to say or if I should be more afraid that they've already written me off for dead. It was like I told them that I had been drawn at the reaping to go into The Hunger Games. I could just imagine them saying, He was such a nice tribute, but he's no career. I started wondering if maybe Marsha was looking out for my best interest; maybe it was best to stay away from the whores of Seymour, even if they did leave me a five dollar tip for bringing them out pie.
Regardless, I refuse to give up on my search for out of the box awkward friends because in the mass of breakfast creepers and racist old women, there's a Nancy hiding in there somewhere. And maybe it is a bad quality, going around and befriending strangers, but there's something about the obscurity of it that draws me in every time. And even when they're super racist old ladies, there's something charming in the fact that they look out for my best interest by warning me of my unofficial race-related death. If you don't talk to people, you never get the chance to get to know them, and even if you don't get to know them, you miss out on the opportunity to hear the absurd and sometimes creepy things that people say. It's weird that as I'm about to leave, Nancy is one of the people that pops into my head to tell goodbye, but aren't we supposed to have an impact in as many lives as we can? Life is too short to ignore people that you don't think you have time to get to know. If you happen to find yourself in the Maryville area and desperately in search for overpriced gas, stop in at the EZ Stop and tell Nancy I said hello; she'll know who you're talking about.

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.

Mean Girls Don't Live in Singlewides

The day that it was announced that I would be valedictorian of my high school graduating class, along with Sarah, I specifically remember Lindsay looking around in astonishment and whispering to the girl next to her But his dad didn't even graduate high school. The secret was announced loudly enough that it seemed to echo across our nearly silent AP English class, and I started watching people turn to me waiting for my reaction. Unsure of what to do, I just kind of sat there... familiar with these kind of statements. I had heard them since I had met Lindsay all the way back in elementary school. Senior year was almost over, and there really wasn't much left to say to anyone in the class: my best friend who transferred in from D.C. wrote in my yearbook, Thank you for making this school bearable and showing me that even in this cesspool of ignorance and inbreeding there is hope of intelligence and kindness. What he didn't understand is that for years on end, I was considered one of the weird sources of ignorance and inbreeding that somehow managed to knife my way in or bought off some of the teachers with some meth we made at home the night before. After all, my dad didn't graduate from high school, and without a high school degree, the only skill you can could lend yourself to is mixing bathroom chemicals together for human consumption. But of course, that would have required my dad to have made meth, or even know where to start. Instead, he just did construction, which seemed a lot safer on the up and up.

Chillin' in the singlewide.

In reality, I had been subjected to Lindsay's snide, yet somehow almost sympathetic, comments for years. When I wasn't throwing up as an elementary school student, I was usually conversing with the teachers. I had some kind of weird connection to adults, and I really liked having conversations with them more than anyone else. In second grade, I was trying desperately to explain to one of the teachers that I was getting ready to move. She asked where I was moving to. No, we're not leaving where I live; we're just changing houses. All of the kids around us seemed to stop; it didn't make sense to them. When my teacher told me that if you don't leave your house, you're not really moving, I knew that I had to explain it all better. No! I am moving. They're taking the house that we have now, the one on wheels, and they're going to roll it into our back yard. Then they're going to bring the new house and put it where the old one was. Then we're going to take our stuff and put it in the new house, then that house will be gone! I was so pleased with myself; I had articulated it perfectly, so there was no reason that they wouldn't accept me. Everyone loved the guy that moved, kind of like how you were guaranteed popularity if you had a cast or got braces. But I was wrong; I immediately became trailer boy, and the one person who would never forget that was Lindsay.

After a while, most people had seemed to forgotten. I attempted to make my way up the ranks of high school, and eventually I found myself in the honors and Advanced Placement classes. In a surprise turn of events, I became a contender for valedictorian. The AP class was comprised mainly of kids from the subdivisions; however, in every class there seemed to be a couple ambassadors of sorts that represented the country side of South Knoxville and the city side. Considering I practically lived in Seymour, I would be the country representative, and Josh Wesley would be the city rep. I'm actually pretty confident Josh lived in a subdivision area, but he was black, so it's only logical to consider him the city representative, right? No one dared draw attention to Josh's race, partly because that kind of language at our high school was asking for a lot of issues we all hoped to keep at bay, and partly because Josh was literally one of the nicest human beings I've ever met in my life. So instead, it made more sense to draw attention to the lesser known prejudice of socio-economic status. While on yearbook staff, my friend Alex told me that I should go and check my GPA with the principal. It seemed really unnecessary, but I knew that the yearbook staff was privy to information the rest of us were not, so I obliged.

There's Wendell. Even with his lack of high school diploma, the
obvious prerequisite for having children, he managed to raise
me without dropping me, beating me, or blowing me up in a meth
lab fire.

After I asked about my GPA, it was noted that one of my AP classes didn't count. After doing the math by hand, I convinced my principal and assistant principal that my GPA that had been sent off to colleges was actually wrong. I would later find out that one of the other girl's contending for valedictorian had her mom call in and demand that AP art not be given the additional credit value. Suddenly, Lindsay's remarks kind of made sense. I'm not saying that Lindsay was the one that requested the class depreciation because most of the girls I was going up against thought with one singular mind; it honestly could have been any of them. But the evidence was clear: having me be valedictorian was akin to having Sarah Palin become our country's president or having Michael Vick represent the ASPCA. There was no room on the graduation stage for such trash, and all Lindsay was guilty of was being a social custodian.

I find it ironic that as I'm writing this, Mean Girls is playing in the background on ABC Family... and not just because there's actual quality programming on ABC Family for once. It's ironic because in retrospect, those kind of people really do exist. On our graduation day, Sarah gave a speech about something... maybe, stars? I couldn't really focus because I was about to give my own speech in front of what seemed like a gajillion people, and I couldn't get past the fact that I looked like a really sketchy looking lamp shade in my graduation gown. After Sarah, I gave my speech to a surprisingly receptive crowd. Lindsay, our salutatorian, would follow. Regardless of what people say or do, I really have no desire to see them fail. Sure, she had said a lot of mean things, but I didn't want to see her go through what happened next. I'll paraphrase:

You know, the next step of our life is going to be more complicated than ever. Decisions aren't just whether you should have Lucky Charms or Cocoa Puffs...

Silence. Come on girl, pull it together.

...Cocoa Puffs... she shuffled her papers. ...and Cocoa Puffs... She was frozen. The girl that had attempted to socially dominate our entire class for years on end had frozen before us; it was my "Regina-gets-hit-by-a-bus-moment," but I couldn't seem to enjoy it. We were all hanging on Cocoa Puffs and years of elitism, and she wasn't giving us any more. After a thirty or forty second Cocoa Puff cliff hanger, she returned and gave what I still believe was an abbreviated version of her speech. We all crossed the stage and eventually threw our hats into the air. Mine landed in the flower arrangement in front of Lindsay and our principal scoffed at her, believing that she was the one that threw up. Afterwards, I quickly picked it up and haven't spoken to Lindsay since.

A lot of my friends are still initially surprised when they come and visit my house because it is in fact, still, a doublewide. Even now, sometimes I try to explain that it doesn't move anymore and if we do in fact want it gone, we'll have to tear it down. I'm not sure what it is that makes people believe that I would live elsewhere, but I've never minded the house I live in or that my dad didn't graduate from high school. Actually, sometimes I miss it because it used to make me feel like I had to overcome an image and work harder than everyone else. As for Lindsay, I imagine that she's somewhere in the world inflicting some kind of hellish elitism over some other trailer kid, and for that kid, I apologize on her behalf. She doesn't mean any harm; her designer clothes are impervious to any kind of sincerity or sympathy and that's simply not her fault. In the end, those kind of things don't matter. I will continue on in search of further education and success, and she will have all the money in the world to buy as many Cocoa Puffs... and Cocoa Puffs... as her heart desires.

Faggot.

I thought to myself for a long while about if there was a place on this blog for an entry that wasn't funny. I had imagined that it would always be funny; that even if it was a serious topic being addressed that there would have to be some undertone of humor that could be taken away from it. I went through the description of the blog, and I couldn't find any promise that every single post would be funny. With that being said, there will probably be very few posts on here that take on a serious tone, but on nights like this... nights when the search for humor isn't as fruitful as I would hope, I'll write something that might make you uncomfortable. That's okay. It might be something you disagree with. And that's okay, too. But if all goes as planned, it will at least make you think.
I remember the first time someone called me a faggot. I didn't even know what the word was. It was after a boy in sixth grade gym had told most of the class that I wanted to give all of the boys a special something that I'll let you figure out. I didn't know what that was either. Honestly, I had given little to no  conscious thought about having a girlfriend, let alone any kind of relationship. But, regardless, I remember that based on a high-pitched voice and a large group of girl friends and a distaste for the boys' locker room, I was supposedly our class gay.
The boys in the class starting asking me if I was a faggot, and I began asking them what a faggot was. Once I found out, I wished I had never learned it. I wished that the kids in the class hadn't learned the word from television or movies or their parents. I wished that the word had never existed. Soon after that is when I decided that I hated gay people. Once I came home and told my parents what they were calling me at school, they voiced how much they hated it, too. Like a small hole in a pair of jeans, once the word had been recognized, it began to grow. It wasn't long before I was in high school that I began hearing the word all of the time. I would hear it at church youth group, and when we were in our prayer circle, it became more PG as we prayed for our friends who had recently stated that they were gay. I would continue to be called faggot throughout high school and occasionally, I still get the word thrown out at me today. Surprisingly, very few people have ever actually asked what my sexual orientation was. No one cared to ask. Having girlfriends always seemed to offer a hint, but it was never a deterrence from using the word. It never should have had to be. I would lay and pray to God at night, asking to never be called faggot again because just being called the word made me feel inferior. Being called a faggot meant that I was less than human.
This essay is not to discuss my beliefs. A liberal or conservative agenda really has no place in the discussion of the word. The word "faggot," regardless of belief, has never had relevance in the conversation of whether or not gay or lesbians should be married. It has nothing to do with homosexuality's moral or religious viability. The word faggot has no use in the complexities of whatever kind of sexual intercourse someone wants to pursue. It's a word that has been used to marginalize, persecute, and separate humans from one another. The word dates back to the sixteenth century, originally intended as a reference to a bundle of sticks. It was soon after adopted as a slur toward women, particularly old women, who did nothing but gather those sticks. It was then adopted as a term toward homosexual men, as the stereotype insists that gay men act like women. (So, let it be noted... women who use this word are essentially bashing themselves by proxy.) For nearly five hundred years, humanity has been attacking each other with this word, and it's concerning that it's almost become an okay thing.
I tackle TV shows a whole series at a time. One of my most recent endeavors was Will and Grace; I loved the show and found it universally funny, but still found discomfort in the occasional use of some derivative of the word faggot. Much like nigger in the black community, it has been made acceptable for faggot to be exchanged between gay people. Sometimes, it's like the battle has been given up, and we've all just become comfortable with the words that we use to attack one another.
So with Knoxville Pridefest happening tomorrow, I return to the word faggot. I've considered whether or not I should go for nearly two weeks now. I think about Knoxville, a metropolitan area of over one million people, and the ramifications I could face if I attend. Surely, there will be news there. What happens if I appear on any of the coverage, even in the background? How do I explain that to my parents? How many of my middle school classmates, who are most definitely still in the area, will look on the news and see me, only to respond silently with their own retorts: I always knew he was a faggot. But I think at the end of the day: why does it matter?
I find it shameful that by attending such an event, there are still people out there that would so quickly find support and identification synonymous. And at the core of it, my fear does not reside in the accusations or assumptions that I could be... gay. My fear still, at 22 years old, lies in the word. I thought back on my life, and the revelation I came to was almost startling. I can't think of time that I ever feared being gay; I feared the idea of being hated. The concept was not much different than my fear of being called white trash for growing up in a trailer, or a dumbass for growing up in East Tennessee. I feared the idea of being pitied, or being prayed for. I hated that by being called faggot, I was the subject to someone else's opinions or beliefs. By using the word faggot, you are not stating your allegiance to a particular religious text. You are not claiming human dominance (moral, social, or political) over another person. You are endorsing the idea that you have a right to claim superiority over another person. And if you believe that to actually be true, I'll return the favor and pray for you.