Owl_Says_Who's Open Salon Blog

Life's Work

Fri, 2 Sep 2011 19:09:47 -0400

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

~I Corinthians 13:11

The quote has been ghosting me, whispering in my subconscious as the past is wont to do. Anymore, I try to find the substance behind such ghosts, holy or otherwise; it's part of the the closely-guarded treatment plan I've made for myself as a recovering fundamentalist. Just this weekend, I tested my resolve by watching 2012 - my wife, Raven, graciously restrained her surprise.

"You watched 2012?" she asked, watching my reaction. "On purpose?"

"Yep."

"How was it? You okay?"

"Yep. It wasn't as cheesy as I thought it might be, and it had some creative elements among the more unbelievable stuff. Then again, I guess even scientists have to guess at what might happen with a massive polar shift," I said. "You wouldn't like it, though - too much drowning and implied drowning."

"So you're okay?"

"Yep."

As Kurt Vonnegut might say, and so it goes.

I just finished reading Slaughterhouse-Five again, which might explain my mood. Whenever I read a particularly impactful book, my internal narrator takes on the speech patterns and accents of the characters, commenting over my shoulder in keeping with the book's themes and point of view.

In Slaughterhouse-Five, the Tralfamadorians are all about pre-destination to the N^th degree.

Every moment in all the universe exists infinitely and simultaneously; therefore, everything is on track, all the time, regardless of the illusion of free will and choice. Pure, unadulterated fatalism. (Yes, yes, yes - there's much more to the story than that - I'm just sayin' . . . )

Not completely on the other hand, I recently read Everything Matters!, in which the main character knows from birth when and how the world is going to end. First the guy tries to run from what he knows, then he tries to save the world. However, he gets a chance to re-enter a concurrent universe as a do-over for most of his life, hides what he knows this time around, and just savors experience and family until the comet kills everyone.

Either way, the world ends. And so it goes.

I've been to more funerals in the last year than in the previous 42 years of my life combined. Statistically, the annual count is likely to continue to climb. If I'm anything like my Grandma S., who lived to be 100, the number will eventually taper off; she noted that almost everyone she knew and loved was dead, except for my Dad and his descendents.

I'm not being morbid, just factual.

My Dad is both a gigging pianist/band leader and teacher/principal at a Christian school. My Mom does bookkeeping for the church as well as a local teen pregnancy aid non-profit. One of my brothers is a teacher, the other a doctor; my sister is a nurse.

As a kid, everyone in the church, including me, believed I had "a calling" to missionary and/or ministry work. It might have included music and writing as well as public speaking. My degree would have permitted me to be a high school English or Spanish teacher, but standardized tests make me itch, and so did most administrators.

I work as a proposal manager/writer for Government contracts.

And so it goes.

Our company builds buildings and cleans up environmental messes, mostly at Department of Defense facilities. At least we're creating safe structures for our soldiers; at least we're cleaning up toxins. I don't talk or write much about it because it's not that interesting unless you are also a proposal writer.

Even then, the conversation is mostly war stories: the proposals won or lost by a hair's breadth; the vacations cancelled because of looming deadlines and emergency responses; the all-nighters pulled in order to get late-arriving data into the final document. High pressure, long hours, and workaholism are an inevitable part of the industry, par for the course.

I'm pretty good at what I do. I take pride in my work. Aside from the hours, and some of the personalities, it's not a bad way to make a living.

I am so grateful for so much.

But there are the nights of mustard gas and roses, when I apologize to our son for making him the sole carrier of legacy, such as it is.

I'm not maudlin about it - just factual.

It's tough, sometimes, being an adult. It's hard to know whether any of it means anything, whether all of it means enough. When others are depending on your labor, it can be wrenching to wonder what might have been, to make the right decisions regarding risk versus reward.

If there are "right" decisions.

Maybe the missing lesson for our generation, for our culture, is simply this:

Life's Work

Maybe that's just factual.

And so it goes.

My Gay Pride

Mon, 27 Jun 2011 20:06:39 -0400

What I haven't written about is pride.

Specifically, I haven't written about "gay pride."

Last week, I read a post by Constant Calliope, I'm Not All That Proud, Really, and although I saw her point, it bummed me out.

This week, I read some stuff that made me smile - a post by Leslie Fenton, Gay Marriage in New York: How We Got Here, and one by girlyboymama, The Many Faces of Pride.

Each of them made me think about pride, and what pride means to me.

I've written a bit about the challenges of living in small towns. About why I call Raven my wife, even with no legal standing. About being an invisible parent some of the time, and wondering when it's right to step forward, and when I need to step back. I wrote a piece two years ago regarding what it feels like to live in seeming isolation, with little sense that there is anyone "like us." I've written about fundamentalist beliefs which sometimes still plague me, and about gender identity, sort of.

But I haven't written about what a sight like this does for my heart and soul:

This year, our little family joined some friends this year for a pride celebration.

We celebrated being us. Under the blazing sun, Raven and I relaxed and held hands . . . among a bunch of other people of every conceivable shape, size, ethnicity, and age who just nodded and smiled. And danced. The Giant watched the parade with me, and bought a hat that says "Be Who You Are" and a shirt with a gradient rainbow. He was fine, whether hanging out with us "old folks," and wading through the crowd alone.

And, at the end of the day, when I told the Giant it was time to go, his response was:

"Cool, Tia. This was really great, but I'm ready to go home and chill out."

Last weekend, since there's no father in our household, we had "Tia's Day." The Giant has a part time job, and he had a surprise for me. In addition to an amazing card, he presented me with this:

My gay pride is that, in spite various prejudices, obstacles, and pressures; in spite of the apparent isolation in which we live; in spite of the disapproval of biological relatives and dogmatic religionists . . . in spite of it all, we've been a family for nearly 16 years.

My gay pride is that my wife is my wife, and my son is my son, even without legal sanction.

My gay pride is the love our family shares - Raven and me and The Giant.

My gay pride is that we exist, in relative peace, compared to even 10 or 15 years ago.

And for that, I celebrate.

That and the fact that my kid, at 17, isn't to old to play with me . . .

(Almost) Left Behind. Reposted. Updated. Now with Epilogue.

Fri, 20 May 2011 18:05:37 -0400

The morning breeze trickled in through my window, lake-scented. Drowsing beneath the cool worn sheet, a light waft of bleach and sunlight tickled my nostrils. I dozed with one ear open, stretching to savor every sense . . . 10 years old, a rare summer morning, undisturbed. I imagined myself tall and languid.

The trumpet. The trumpet is what woke me in a cold sweat, flung me out of bed, and into the far-too-quiet upstairs hallway. No one was there. My brothers’ beds were unmade, not unusual . . . but my parents’ bed was also abandoned and rumpled . . . as if a thief . . . no.

Owl to Raven, Living Room, 2008: "No, seriously, go ahead and watch the Nostradamus thing . . . I'm going to do laundry, so you go ahead."

The trumpet again, somewhere in the distance. There was a jackhammer in my chest, thudding even in my ears. I took a deep breath, tried to slow myself as I crept down the stairs, just in case. I was suddenly glad I had slept in my clothes, cutoffs and a football jersey . . . scant preparation . . .

Far too still, the downstairs was as abandoned as upstairs.

I kept my eyes on the front windows. The sun had risen some time before, but I was watching for a sign . . . the trumpet would sound, and Christ would appear in the east, and the dead in Christ . . .

I ran for the driveway, looking at the sky above the cemetery a quarter mile north . . . nothing. I was too late. Too late. Unless . . .

I checked the garage on my way back into the house, and the car was still there. Rats. The pounding in my ears was almost deafening.

Through the breezeway, through the kitchen . . . picked up the phone . . . dialed the number of my best friend from church . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . hung up, dialed the number of my second best friend from church . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . .

No. No. No.

My gray cat came running, tangling around my feet . . . oh Smokey! What would I do with her? I pushed the thought aside to concentrate.

Owl to Therapist, 2006?: "Well, I guess I'm here because I've been experiencing anxiety attacks, you know, what with the escalating tensions between Palestine and Isreal."

This was wrong. Not my brother, and not me. Mick is in trouble all the time. I am not. Mick couldn’t have been taken . . . except . . . he's only seven. Maybe too young to have reached the age of accountability. Okay. I should be happy for him. The little one, well, at four, he should be in the arms of Jesus.

Okay.

I pace in the hall by the phone, crossing from the linoleum onto the shag carpet of the living room and back again, trying to steady . . . What's my plan . . . I've been working on this . . .

The non-Christians in the neighborhood are good people. They’d probably help me, if I need it. When I need it. Maybe. Depends on how harsh the crackdown for the Mark of the Beast. I don't want to put them at risk. But I can't take the Mark of the Beast. Maybe they wouldn’t want the risk. Who could blame them?

Then again, maybe . . . maybe I won't be welcome at all . . . I mean, if I wasn’t good enough to make God’s cut, maybe . . .

Maybe take the Mark of the Beast and help those who didn't? Maybe that would make me a martyr? Wait . . . I don't have to decide yet . . . wait . . .

Okay.

Owl, to no one in particular, September 11, 2001: "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit . . . so this is how it begins . . .

Resources. The electricity will stay on for awhile, probably. I’ll have the house, at least until someone figured out there are no adults around.

Money. I check my wallet . . . five dollars saved from various allowances. How will I get to town? Worry about that later. Money will be worthless soon, anyway. Water from the well depends on electricity. Water from the lake? Have to boil it when the time comes.

Food. Some in the refrigerator, and the freezer in the basement. Except . . . I don’t know how to cook . . . but I can read . . . there are cookbooks . . . okay for now. I know how to not burn the house down, that's a start.

I knew I should have started the shelter in the woods. I should have started it in the spring. Oh well. It's summer. No one will be wondering where I am, so I can start on it tomorrow.

Today, I'll start assembling survival gear, an axe, the fishing poles and tackle, a saw . . . did we have a tarp? The coolers. Jacknife. Rope, string, twine, tape . . . duct tape . . . Tools. I'll need to make several trips. Take the books, too . . . the Foxfire book, and the one on shelters, and the one on wilderness survival . . .

I'll have to transport things at night, so no one knows where my shelter is. I can use my bike.

Maybe I should make a list.

For now, I’ll be okay. For now, I’ll be okay.

Okay.

I slowed my breathing, and glanced up to the picture window in the living room. Rounding the corner outside, a motion. Mom. Dad. Mick. Matt. A morning walk.

Owl to Parents, phone conversation, Easter Eve, 1996?: "Don't think for a second that I'm not aware of what the church teaches about homosexuality . . . I'm willing to stake my soul that it's wrong."

I took the stairs to my room two at a time. Closed the door. Curled up in my bed with the sheet covering my shivers. Buried my face in the pillow to muffle the tears, and my God-pleas . . . my God-please.

Safe. For now.

Epilogue:

Owl to Mom, phone conversation, 2011 May 20: "Good thought, Mom . . . I was thinking the same thing about no man knowing the day or the time of Christ's return.

Do you suppose that God the Father is all ticked off now? I mean, what if he'd planned to have the Rapture tomorrow . . . had it in his day planner and everything . . . and now what?

He's gotta cross it out and reschedule . . . that's gotta throw off a whole lot of logistics . . ."

Kid Fears

by Amy Ray

Pain from pearls - hey little girl

How much have you grown?

Pain from pearls - hey little girl

Flower for the ones you have known

Are you on fire,

From the years?

What would you give for your

Kid fears?

Secret staircase, running high,

You had a hiding place.

Secret starcase, running low,

But they all know now you're inside.

Are you on fire,

From the years?

What would you give for your

Kid fears?

Skipping stones, we know the price now,

Any sin will do.

How much further, if you can spin.

How much further, if you are smooth.

Are you on fire,

From the years?

What would you give for your

Kid fears?

Replace the rent with the stars above.

Replace the need with love.

Replace the anger with the tide.

Replace the ones, the ones, the ones that you love.

Are you on fire,

From the years?

What would you give for your

Kid fears?

Replace the rent with the stars above.

Replace the need with love.

Replace the anger with the tide.

Replace the ones, the ones, the ones that you love.

Want more about the story?

Here's Part I of Hook, Line, and Sinker; it's kind of my intro to the subject.

Part II is here, if you want the "middle ground."

Part III is here, with the "ending."

Funerals and Family Values - A Letter

Fri, 21 Jan 2011 02:01:22 -0500

Dear Dad,

First, let me say that, out of love and respect, I won’t be sending this letter to you. I recognize that what I need to say comes directly out of my own issues, and that it really has no bearing on what did, or did not, happen when you officiated Gramma’s funeral.

I can accept your version of Gramma as a Jesus-loving, hand-of-God-upon-her-life, going-home-to-heaven, church-going, saint of a woman. The fact is, she lived Christ’s message in a way that very few people manage – as if it was so much a part of her life that she didn’t even need to speak of it.

And you really did nail the way Gramma exemplified family values. She expressed an unconditional love, and a willingness to speak the truth, that few achieve. Gramma was an amazingly generous woman, and wished most of all for each of us to be happy. She was always happiest when surrounded by family, especially if she was cooking.

The gnawing ache in my head started when I read the obituary - the usual stuff about who has survived the deceased. The Giant's name was not there, of course. And you were accurate when you introduced your "oldest grandchild." I was honored when, at the last minute, you asked the Giant to be a pall-bearer - and he was honored, too. But my pain escalated when I heard you thank the Giant for coming, "even though he didn't have to attend."

I know it doesn't matter that I've parented the Giant for more than 15 years, or that Gramma cooked for the Giant the times we went to visit her at her last apartment. After her 100th birthday party, when the crowd had gone home, she insisted that the Giant eat her chili and dinner roll because she said she'd already eaten too much cake.

I know it probably wouldn't have mattered if I had legally adopted the Giant - you probably wouldn't want that to be legal anyway, in the same way that you don't want my marriage to Raven to be legal.

But you spoke so eloquently of family, and there I was, surrounded by so many people to whom I'm related, people who have influenced my life profoundly. In losing Gramma, I've lost another one. And I found myself wishing, wishing, wishing that the Giant would have had the benefit of such an intelligent, interesting, varied group of family - scientists and doctors and dentists and musicians and travellers. And I found myself grieving a whole other loss.

I was at another funeral last month. One of my best friends from college lost her partner of 20 years. I saw my friend collapse in tears, and her partner's mother wrapped her in a tight embrace. Her partner's brother wept with her. And I couldn't help but think - if I lost Raven, where would you be? If Raven and the Giant lost me, where would you be?

On the way home, the Giant appreciated your thanks. He figured you meant "a 17-year-old guy probably has better things to do than go to an old lady's funeral." I said he was probably right. I tried to probe to see if he had any hurt feelings about the whole thing, without making my issues his problem.

He seems fine. The Giant hasn't known you any other way, I suppose. I guess I can respect your honesty. You haven't mis-represented yourself to him or to Raven.

But I remember a few years ago, when you asked if you could pray with us before we left some family gathering. You said to God, "please bless this family." You were referring to me, Raven, and the Giant.

Later, I asked you why the change in terminology - I'd never heard you refer to us as a family. You said that you'd realized that God decides what makes a family. So I guess that means that Raven and I and the Giant can be a family - just not your family.

I have no desire to slap you silly, or cause yet another rift in our already egg-shell-walking relationship. Like you, I am a peace maker, and am choosing not to puke my bile on you personally. Instead, I’m writing this. Bile is bitter, and I’m tired of swallowing it.

But for now, I will give it more time - you're an only child, and you just lost your Mom. I will pray for more grace. And perhaps, like Gramma, I will find a way to express an unconditional love, and a willingness to speak the truth.

I love you, Dad. Perhaps I will someday understand family values.

Owl

Owl's 12 Things, 3 Open Calls, 1 Post

Tue, 21 Sep 2010 19:09:51 -0400

And so, after more than a month of not posting anything, without further ado, I shall attempt to list 12 "Random" Things which span 3 Open Calls, all within 1 Post:

12. Depending on the specific Myers-Briggs based testing mechanism used, I score as INTP, INFP, or INTJ . . . it could also depend on when I'm taking the test. This seems to be pretty typical for all of my standardized test-taking as an adult . . . I also scored almost directly down the middle of the "gender scale" on the MMPI, which was a complete curiousity to the person who had administered the test, but not so much to me. As far as I can tell, one of my "life challenges" is to be semi-classifiable as anything specific.

11. Quite possibly related to the above, picking favorites is almost impossible for me. I love music - playing it, listening to it, analyzing it - but I don't have a favorite genre, group, or song. Same goes with food, movies, literature, entertainment. I can tell you what I don't like more easily than what I love. My favorite people are my wife Raven, and our kid the Giant . . . and even that is occasionally in question.

10. That being said, here are some sensory memories that I hope never to forget the wonder of:

Sight - Vistas in the Smokey Mountains, anything over water.

Sound - The Giant's operetta, spontaneously composed and performed at age 3, called "Super Tia" in which the hero's hideout was inside a toilet.

Scent - My Mom's whole wheat bread, baking; she wasn't a great cook, but her bread was magnificent.

Taste - Paella, cooked on an open wood fire in a cast iron pan, using chicken and sausage instead of seafood, just the right amount of saffron. My Andalusian host family absolutely blew me away with this dish during the week I spent with them as part of a Spanish Club trip.

Touch - The first time I kissed/touched a woman. Everything suddenly made more sense in my world. Everything changed.

All Senses - Sitting on a tall dune overlooking Lake Michigan as a summer storm rolls in and engulfs the shore, beginning with heavy stillness and culminating in 15-foot waves crashing the beach, illuminated by lightening and pounded by thunder, washed over by a torrential downpour. (OC #1 Complete).

9. The first story I remember writing was about frogs which took over the world. It was in third grade. It was a little like the frogs which rained down as a plague in Egypt, except it took place everywhere in the populated world at the same time, overwhelming and extinguishing humanity. The frogs didn't miss us. My teacher expressed concern over my chosen subject matter, so lightened up a little in my creative writing, after that.

8. I am ridiculously hung up on formatting, especially on any document which appears in public. This is generally a good thing in my job, except that it sometimes delays actual production of content. It may explain my "form-phobia," in that I cannot count on my handwriting to be legible, or correct, and therefore have a terrible time even filling out a simple application. Thank heaven for scanners and Adobe Acrobat Professional edition . . .

7. I used to be terribly, persistently competitive. I have always been sportsmanlike, win or lose, in a fairly played game. But God help Dr. F, who cheated at Trivial Pursuit when I was allowed to play with the adults at an after-church gathering. I was 12. Mom was not amused at my very loud, angry accusations.

6. I was forced to learn to sew, but became good enough at it to make a pair of jeans, complete with zipper and rivets. Unfortunately, by the time I finished them, I'd outgrown them. One of these days, I intend to pick it up again, because it's incredibly cool what you can do with scraps of cloth and thread.

5. If I were a biological male, I would probably be Kevin James. My wife agrees. Think Kevin James in "Hitch," minus the asthma inhaler, or "Paul Blart, Mall Cop" minus the Segue. And much shorter, with darker hair. Yeah. As much as I'd like to be someone super sexy, I'm Kevin James. However, he does get the awesome babe in "Hitch," as have I, in real life. (That's OC #2).

4. In 4th grade, I biked 63 miles in a bike-a-thon. In 7th grade, I walked 19 miles in a walk-a-thon. In both cases, I was sponsored by a number of people, most notably by Mrs. L. down the block. I didn't realize it at the time, but part of the reason she was such a generous sponsor was that by 4pm, she was 2.5 sheets to the wind. She also bought 10 tins of popcorn, which made me top sales person toward our 8th grade trip to Chicago.

3. I've had the privilege of traveling in 12 countries: Spain, Portugal, Gibralter, Andorra, Canada, Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, and a long layover in El Salvador. Most of it was missionary work of one sort or another. All of it changed my world view. As a result, I am a terrible tourist, if that's all I'm doing - I always end up wondering what's happening on the other side of the tracks.

2. As a kid, I was intent on being prepared. In addition to survival plans for missing the rapture, I practiced being blind and deaf, just in case. I also taught myself to write reasonably well with my left hand, which was helpful when I smashed my right thumb trying to bare-hand a foul tip as a catcher. I tried to teach myself to write with my toes, but it was kind of a lost cause.

1. I have attempted minor home surgery on myself, with mixed results. Splinter extractions were not a problem. Cutting out a wart on my left hand using a swiss army knife and tweezers was bloody, but ultimately successful. Trying to remove an odd scar on my right shin proved to be beyond my skill set - apparently I should have used a butterfly bandage, rather than packing the incision; although it healed nicely, the doctor was not pleased with my handiwork, and I have given up anything beyond splinters. Probably.

Open Call #3 Complete!