When She Found My [Unused] Condom

It could have been the death of me.

It could have forced out the facts about my sex life I've kept secret.

It could have called into question larger issues with me.

It could have strained our relationship.

Instead, I laughed about it.

What else could I do?

By now, the condom should not surprise anyone.

Because she already knows about me. 

But for very many, the condom is the death of them.

My privilege made it not be.

But different lives and identities means different situations for everybody.

Damn, though, I've come far. 

Inoculated

Matt here.

Two or three hours after my post last week, the missionaries knocked on my door. They were new and looking for my roommate, who wasn't home. I thought that when I told them that they would leave, but the senior companion has been out for quite a while and he asked if they could come in and share a message with me. I said yes.

They came in, they sat down, and they wanted to start with a hymn. I chose "Lead Kindly Light," which has (ironically) been my favorite for some years now. We chatted a little, and I felt a bond with the younger one, a writer. At the end, I asked them to read something from the Beatitudes for their spiritual thought. For some reason he only read the first two, which was a shame. I think they're beautifully written, and I love hearing beautiful words read.

It turned out that last week's post was the inoculation I needed, because my belief and my confidence didn't shiver.

It did remind me of the pretty and pleasant parts of Mormonism, though, and I went to the church the next day. It was stake conference and everyone was gone, but I had beautiful walk in the hills and then I sat in a coffee shop and read for a few hours, so I was happy.

***

I finally finished reading Atlas Shrugged. It was an ugly but powerful book.

"Francisco, what's the most depraved type of human being?"

"The man without a purpose."

...But Words Will Always Rate Me

This is something that has long since bothered me. And I need to get it off my chest.

Beauty can come in all shapes and sizes. While I’ve always been able to accept this for everyone else, it’s taken me some time personally to accept this fact for myself. When I express these thoughts, I’m always met with disbelief and positive affirmation: “You are handsome.”

And handsome has stuck. Many mothers have remarked handsome I am. Friends have told me how handsome I look. Guys tell me how handsome I am in my pictures.

The part that bothers me, however, is that handsome is never used to describe the underwear model in magazines. He gets hot, sexy. The movie star will be called beautiful, a gorgeous if his fan is especially adorning. Rarely, however, do these men get a handsome.

The issue I have is not a personal one; it’s not about the fact that I’m being called handsome, or being called it instead of other words. The issue is this: in our words and our adjectives, we have begun to rank beauty and put different forms of it above another. Someone that’s handsome is never sexy, and someone that’s hot is never handsome. While beauty comes in different shapes and sizes, why do our words have to make some forms of beauty better than others? If all people are beautiful, why do we distinguish between them so that some are less than others? Why is beauty put on a hierarchy?

I might be overanalyzing, or I might not be. 

All the Promise

Matt here.

My roommate who used to be Mormon and our Mormon friend and I were hanging out a while back after having dinner. Maybe it's just me, but I feel a weird dynamic in that threesome. There's a hunger in the air from the gay ones to be part of that world again, and a whistfulness from the straight one that I at least interpret as a longing to get out of it. The conversation always drifts to Mormonism, our old ward and who's dating who and who might be moving to Utah to chase that person they've been not-dating for years and callings and age limits and I miss it.

I miss parts of it. I miss having a cohort. I miss having a Plan. I don't miss feeling utterly separate from my cohort or finding my love at odds with the Plan. 

Honestly, I'm sitting in front of a trendy cafe in Berkeley, sipping too-sweet cocoa and watching a farmer's market get set up, and I feel like if there were a syringe of Mormonism in front of me, I'd shoot up. If it were Sunday, I'd be on my way to the chapel, t-shirt notwithstanding. If I were sitting across from a bishop, I'd ask for help. I want the plan and the cohort pretty bad right now. My life is good, but it's misted with uncertainty. The Navy has somehow still not given me a decision about my officer application and may continue not giving me a decision into the new year. My roommates are planning to move in the unknown but nearish future. My new job starts in a couple days, and though I think I'll like it it's hard to tell beforehand. And then there's dating!

It all comes together to make me crave stability, certainty--a cohort, a Plan. I don't know that I've ever found that outside of Mormonism. Certainly not to the extent of eternity in both directions.

I'm glad it isn't Sunday. All the promises of Mormonism notwithstanding, the endless childhood repetitions of their story notwithstanding, goodwill and friendliness of the members notwithstanding, it's all spoiled by my disbelief ( / its falsehood, if you want to see it that way.) I don't believe, so the cohort can't be mine even if they want to. I don't believe, so the Plan is just a bad fit. 

***

Postscript: I felt ill and depressed all that day and the next. I chatted with my sister, and after she'd heard all the evidence she chalked it up to recent love life angst--efforts were thwarted a couple different times by a couple different people.

It's interesting that the first thing I thought of to try and fill the "significant other" gap was Mormonism. Makes sense; they're pretty well interwoven. I'm glad I didn't try to make myself feel better by going to church, though. Mormonism isn't what I really wanted, though there's a lot of overlap and similarity.

Mormonism is like a McGriddle. Sometimes I think it's exactly what I need, but every time I partake I feel sick after. The trouble has always been knowing what I'm actually craving and how to satisfy it.

***

I forgot about this guy. I like him.

***

Happy Affirmation conference! Maybe next time I'll show up just to rub elbows with all y'all.

What Do You Say?

My eyes could not keep up the charade anymore. After a busy morning of chores and errands, I made my way to my bed. I had only just laid down, eyes closed tight, and drifted off to sleep when I awoken by THUD THUD.

I did not answer the door, but I knew who it was. I heard my mom’s sleepy voice, awoken too by the raucous, and heard her step outside as someone else came in and headed for the bathroom, closing the door behind them. It’s the missionaries, I thought. As a child of a single mother, I knew the rule: no missionaries could be alone with a woman in the same house. But it must have been leaked that I was home, because the next thing I knew, they were in my living room talking with my mother.

In my sleepy consciousness, I thought about going out there. I’m sure Jesus would have, even if he was wrapped up in his Spongebob blanket. But then I thought about what I would say:

Hi, I’m a fourth year sociology major and feminist studies minor, and I work on a commission to provide funding to queer organizations and events, as well as our coalitional allies on campus. I also write for a blog chronicling the lives of members who also identify somewhere in the queer spectrum, and the struggles that come with being persecuted and discriminated against for our sexuality.

I pictured the looks on their faces if I was to tell them that, and I wrapped up tighter in my blanket and closed my eyes. Because I knew it wouldn’t be worth the resulting disagreement and dialogue about how I need to see the light.

To make sure I wasn’t wrongly being a jerk, I googled “lds church view sexual abuse” and read all sorts of stories about members being sexually abused and the resulting cover-up Church leaders executed in order to preserve a pristine public image. Many of these individuals were urged not to share their stories so that their perpetrators who were high ranked and held positions of power within the Church could continue to do so. I thought, “those poor individuals whose experiences are not being acknowledged so that an institution that runs on patriarchy and the thriving of males can live on.”

And then I wondered what happened to those perpetrators, and if they would have been outcast and expelled like many queer identified Mormons are, or if they go through an extensive repentance process that will get them at least somewhat near where they used to be.

I don’t think I’m ready for a missionary discussion anytime soon. 

Conviction

Matt here.

I went back to Sacramento over the weekend to visit my family, and I had a great time. If I were to give colors to the things that happened, they were mostly yellow and blue and white, with one purple exception.

My parents and I were having a little picnic, and it was gorgeous. I was telling them about life and my recent dates and then we got to talking about my younger brother. When my dad got up to throw some stuff away, Mom talked about a conversation she'd had with the little one. (The little one is 20, but I'll persist in calling him the little one until . . . well, probably always.) The little one seems to be spinning his wheels and not being too concerned about it, or anything. A while back Mom had a sitdown with him and said that she felt his life wouldn't turn around until he started getting back into the church for himself instead of going as a condition of living at home.

Predictably, he brought up the "But Matthew" defense: Matthew doesn't have anything to do with the church anymore and look at him! He's doing great.

Mom's counterattack surprised me. She pointed out that although I'm a-Mormon now, I was quite into the church until I was, I dunno, eighteen or so. She said she'd never seen someone with such a strong testimony, and if I weren't into dudes, I'd still have that testimony now.

When she told me this, I responded with a "hm," and moved the conversation along. (Because how awkward, right?) It made me think of my youth in the church, though, like I haven't in a long time.

Coming from a wholly Mormon family and being homeschooled through junior high and high school, I didn't know anything but Mormonism. By nature and nurture I was quiet, thoughtful, good natured, and--above all--earnest. In fact, while I don't know if I had "a testimony," when I was a younger man I was full to bursting with faith and trust and self loathing. I can see how that might come across as a testimony if you call the last bit "humility." Being as well in touch with the loathing as I was, my first instinct was to judge my mom and to be hurt that she misunderstood my childhood so thoroughly.

My second thought was, what if she's right? What if the loathing is just my current interpretation of what actually was humility or . . . something. Or what if the loathing was incidental to the earnest faith and trust, which are the actual components of testimony? I guess you could see it that way and not be horribly mistaken and out of touch. In that sense, sure, I had a phenomenal testimony.

What I worry about with that interpretation (or whatever variant of it that my mom has) is that it could easily be twisted into a way to discredit me, my thinking, and the person I am now. It could be quite the tool for patronizing: "Well, you _would_ think that (you're into dudes!) but that's okay, it's not your fault, you knew what was right before your struggle corrupted you. Run along now and let the straight people talk."

I don't know if this is a widely held attitude or not, but it frightens me. I feel strong and confident most of the time, but then things like this happen and I realize that there really are a lot of ways to see the world, and not all of them play nice.

Insignificant Pleasure and Sacrifice

Matt here.

August has gone pretty well. I've had a few excellent dates, a few mini roadtrips, a few visits from friends, a few job offers, and a few top-notch meals--lots of good things went down over the past thirty-something days. One thing I haven't been doing, though, is going to the gym.

For the past several months my roommate and I have gone together four or five times per week, and I've been pretty proud of it. Not only could I see my pecs starting to fill out and my biceps get defined, I felt healthy and strong. Now that I haven't been for several weeks, the difference is pretty severe.

I haven't been going because, let's just say it, there are other things I want to be doing when I get home from work in the evening. Sometimes I'd rather eat dinner instead of be hungry for a couple more hours. Sometimes I really want to read a book or practice the piano, or (more recently) maybe I just want to sit in front of the tv and absorb vicarious and imaginative experiences, often involving vampires who don't sparkle.

Maybe it seems like a silly thing to be concerned about, but the truth is that I'm noticing a distinct drop in my quality of life. My back pain is resurfacing, my sleep schedule is swinging everywhere, and my motivation and energy levels have sunk into the basement. I feel gross, and I don't like it.

***

This all reminds me of being at BYU, back before my cohort had chosen sides between the gay and the church. Most of us were going to church even if we didn't believe in it, and many of us were "experimenting" even if we believed it was wrong. We were still building up the whatever-it-was we needed to push away outdated beliefs or hold ourselves in check. It was such a raw time.

And I guess I'm not building up the whatever it is I need to hold myself in check, health-wise. I've never had a problem turning down sex, but cookies? Ice cream? Different stories. I know I should go to the gym like I used to know I should go to priesthood meeting, but I just can't get myself to go. It's the other side of the table, I guess. With the gay, I needed to loosen up a bit and disregard the church's limits. With my health, I need to rein myself in and show a little discipline.

The decision to be healthy means giving up insignificant pleasures for long-lasting, overall well being, just like they told us about Mormonism. Give up those relationships, do as we say, and you'll be happier. It seems to me the principle of sacrificing insignificant but immediate pleasure is sound--it's the Mormon application that's flawed--and I intend to apply it more intentionally in my life over the coming months. 

I'm sick of feeling gross.

I Don't Know How to Break This...

I baked a sweet red velvet cake.

Ate a delicious breakfast of cinnamon pancakes.

I spent a lovely day in San Francisco.

Cleaned my room since it needed it so badly.

I’ve done everything else I’ve needed to do.

But I did not write a blog post. 

A small note

Matt here!

For the past couple of weeks my life has been packed--packed!--with mostly good thing that have kept me from sitting down and writing coherent things that aren't for work. These things have included job interviews roadtrips, visiting friends, and two separate ant attacks.

I'm not gone. I haven't forgotten about the blog. But I have to be honest--the silence is broken. There are gay conversations going on all over the place, and while I do like to participate in the general noise, all the pressure and urgency I once felt about gayness is gone.

Next week I should have a thoughtful post. Until then, stay awesome.

What is Femme Anyway?

Passing the spotlight to this article for my post this week because it's too good to ignore.

The water rushed over me. Pouring every inch of my skin, I felt at ease. It was as if each drop cleansed of my day’s sins. The water gave me a second chance. My senses reminded me that everything was, is, and will be okay.

My body argued otherwise. Once reassurance rushed through my veins, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Despite my best stare, it wasn’t enough to stand out. Like a ghost on a TV show, with its body so faded the audience sees through it to the back of the studio set. There I stood, blurred and unsure. Why, despite my best efforts, could I not be registered as whole? Could I keep blaming this on my circumstances? Being the youngest child? The only queer family member blazing his own trail? Was I truly living in the shadows, dulled enough by others so that I myself did not make my own appearance? Was this a disservice done to me by others? By my community? By society?

Or was it me?

Did I believe in myself enough to give fully of myself? Or did I hold back, and my confident exterior was only a mirage in my head? The faded image that stood staring back at me that I so desperately wanted to see clearly in front me?

It’s time to begin. Off. On. 

Do I Need to Repeat Myself?

(whenever an authority figure would ask that^ question, I would get chills. Sorry if that's what the title induced for y'all!)

I spend a lot of my time on Tumblr, an online blogging community where people blog pictures, videos, moving images (more appropriately called gifs), and text posts. People are able to then reblog these posts, which can be done by clicking this button:

Today, as I gear up to do some substantial writing, it's been helpful to go back through my old posts on "Breaking the Silence" to familiarize myself with points I've already made, but need to make again, and will probably have to keep making. One post in particular has aided substantially in my research, and I feel the need to reblog it today: "Age, in Boy Scouts and in Love." Again and again do individuals write off news headlines and various cases as progress, without thinking about who that progress does not benefit and at who's expense is that progress occurring. And in social movements aimed at changing a body and institution as large as a church, it's important to keep in mind that on a broad level (individual may be different), progress that continues to oppress even one person or demographic is progress for no one, in the grand scheme of things.

Stay tuned.

Also, I'm 2 days and 6 episodes into Netflix's original series Orange is the New Black. Do yourself a favor and watch it, but be advised that it does have mature content.

Also, all my posts on "Breaking the Silence" can be found here.

Don't judge me.

Matt here. This will be short.

Today I wished again that I were straight. I was watching a show, and two of the main characters were finally getting it on after thirty-some episodes, and I wanted to be him. I wanted to find her attractive, I wanted sex with a woman to be enticing. I wanted to be like the other 95 percent of humanity.

Some years ago, when I felt like this, it made me wonder if Evergreen was on to something. Heck, I think they were on to something, even if their conclusions about it were wildly wrong. I do crave straightness, I wish I were like straight men. It makes sense to want to be normal. Evergreen was wrong, I think, to suppose that straightness can be cultivated, but not in identifying the craving.

I remember being very young, perhaps seven years old, and wishing on a star. I wished to be Wolverine. There's nothing wrong with that. Wolverine is awesome. Being straight is awesome. But I'm not Wolverine, and I'm not straight.

There are worlds and worlds of alternative universes in my head. Sometimes they make me so sad and dissatisfied with the world as it is. It's hard to feel sometimes that being gay is also awesome.

My Grandmother

                The divorce happened when my dad was eleven. He was the fourth of six children, and all six children stayed with my grandmother. She spent the next twenty years working to support her children on nothing but a high school education. But she did it.

                My grandpa moved on to greener pastures. After decades of distant and unconcerned parenting, he eventually realized that home was where he’d left it. By then he was on his third marriage, and his children were mostly grown with families of their own. He has spent the last few years trying to repair his relationship with his children, but it’s been a slow process, especially with the younger ones.

                I remember sitting in my grandmother’s home a year ago, listening as she told me how difficult that relationship still was to some of my aunts and uncles, even though it’s been years since my grandpa came back into their lives. That estrangement felt so familiar in that moment. My relationship with my own parents was strained, especially since I’d come out. As my grandmother talked I broke into tears.

                “What’s wrong, honey?” she asked me.

                “Sometimes I worry that will happen with my parents and me, too. Things haven’t been very good lately.”

                She paused for a moment, then said, “You know why, though.”

                I did. And I told her how difficult it had been, hiding everything. And then how hard it was becoming an outcast in my own family. I hadn’t chosen any of this, I told her.

                She admitted that she didn’t understand much about being gay. And that she believed me when I said it was never something I chose. She surprised me then, asking if I’d ever had a partner. Yes, I told her. For two years.

                She could see what that relationship had meant to me as I spoke. And when I finished, she said, “Nicholas, I don’t know how this will all work out, but I have nothing but love and acceptance for you.”

                She smiled the purest smile as I wept. Then she added, “and you’re still one of my favorite grandchildren.”

                Throughout my entire coming out experience, these were the words I needed. This was what I needed to hear from my family, from my parents especially. And they came from my selfless grandmother, the matriarch of the family.

                My grandmother passed away yesterday. She’d been feeling ill, but no one expected this. Her body just stopped. In her wake she leaves a massive family who sees her as the strength and cornerstone of our lives. Her love, acceptance, and selflessness changed us all forever. Of all people, she was the one who first accepted me, even though she didn’t understand.

                The last time I talked to her was three weeks ago. I called about an assignment I needed some family information for, and we had a really nice conversation. I especially remember smiling, feeling genuinely happy and loved during that conversation. My dad told me that she was really happy I’d called. She always said that to him, every time I visited or called. She lived for us, her kids and grandkids and great-grandkids.

                As we move forward, working for greater acceptance as LGBT people, it is people like my grandmother that will make the difference. People who are willing to love first, then listen, and then love some more. I hope that I can offer that same love to others. Because when it comes down to it, that’s really all that matters.