The truth is, the movie does show how pivotal the LDS church’s support was in getting Prop 8 passed. It’s undeniable. And I appreciated that the film placed most of the responsibility on the church as an organization, as well as its leaders, and not on its members. Trying to navigate the role of the people is a little murkier, in my opinion; people do crazy things for their religious beliefs. And in my case, trying to assign culpability to Mormons gets tricky because of my background of growing up in that religion; because my immediate and the vast majority of my extended family is LDS, it feels a little like standing guard at the gate and asking them, “Friend or foe?” I don’t know where they stand, and I don’t know their level of support or involvement. I think I’d rather keep it that way, at least for now.

I’m not going to review the entire movie or give away spoilers. I’ll tell you right now that it put me through the wringer, dragging me all over the emotional map. It was hopeful. Chilling. Unbelievable. Inspiring. I did happen to jot down a few thoughts as I watched in an effort to capture my feelings about the whole thing.

• Parents who support their gay children break my heart, in good ways and bad. I feel so sad that I haven’t had that experience, and I’m so glad that some people have. I know it seems like a no-brainer to want your kids to be happy, but there’s a tremendous amount of pressure on Mormon parents to make sure their children are doing the “right” thing. There’s not a lot of room for someone like me to deviate from the rules by coming out, but at least I could leave the church. There’s less room, in my opinion, for the Mormon parent of a gay child to support their child and still remain in good standing (either officially or unofficially. I’ve heard stories of supportive parents being shunned).
• The movie showed Bambara, the Hotel Monaco bar! That’s one of my favorites in Salt Lake! Oh man, that Othello cocktail is something else. Stoli Blueberry Vodka, Chateau Pomari, lemonade, Sprite, fresh lime … it is heaven. Well, probably not Mormon heaven, but I digress.
• “The face of sin today often wears the mask of tolerance.” [This (and future quotes in this post) are from a broadcast from LDS leaders to their faithful in California, in reference to Prop 8.] Talking points like this scare the hell out of me. I worry that my more accepting Mormon family members and friends will hear this and think they are doing the wrong thing by loving and supporting me as I am.
• “Do not be deceived; behind the facade is heartache, unhappiness and pain.” This is an age-old premise used in church teachings. Their point is that someone couldn’t possibly be truly happy if they’re not following LDS church doctrine. So although I could feel happy with my life, my Mormon family believes it’s not real joy. As my dad has often told me, “Wickedness never was happiness.”
• “This is not a matter of civil rights. It is a matter of morality.” That is the root of the difference between most religions and those of us who believe that equal rights are a civil issue. If they make it an issue of morality, then it’s somewhat easier for church members to believe in what they’re doing to oppress others.
• I can’t believe that this church, with its history so rooted in discrimination, violence and persecution could so easily forget that and actively seek to take away the rights of another group. Mormons were killed and driven out of Ohio, Missouri and Illinois, in large part  because their neighbors didn’t like the Mormons’ take on traditional marriage. Huh.
• I just want to hug the mother of one of the men who is featured in the film. I remember seeing her on the news, and my heart goes out to her.
• There’s a family shown in the film that cashed out the college fund for its five small kids and donated the money to help Prop 8 pass. That makes me heartsick. One day, those parents get to tell their kids that they spent their future in an effort to take away the rights of others.
• Mormons make up 2% of the CA population, but accounted for 71% of the funding. I’ve wondered how my brother and his wife voted and whether they donated money to the cause. They know I’m gay, but we’ve never talked about it.

It’s terrifying what some people will do out of blind obedience and fear. Watching the news clips in this film brings back all the memories and emotions from that period of time. I was at those marches and protests in Salt Lake City. I was horrified by the behavior of some (I had a co-worker go on camera and announce that Prop 8 wasn’t taking anyone’s rights away) and reassured by the actions of others, and this film reminded me of that. In issues like this, you truly see the best and worst of humanity.

When I told my BFF (who is also Formerly Known as LDS) that I was watching 8, she asked why I do that to myself.  Besides my insatiable need to learn and be informed, I sometimes need the very clear reminder of where I (and all of my fellow gays) stand with the LDS church. My relatives tend to sugarcoat the church’s involvement, so it’s good for me to see the lack of honesty and integrity in its actions.

For instance, I will go completely out of my way to have Burt’s Bees beeswax lip stuff; it’s my favorite, and nothing else works as well. It’s to the point where I panic a little if it’s not in my right front pocket. Even though I know I’m off without it, I never really took proactive steps to make sure I had backup until a few years ago.

It started after I spilled on one of my favorite shirts again and began bemoaning the fact that it would certainly stain the fabric. One of my smart and pretty co-workers said, “Why don’t you just keep Shout Wipes at your desk?” So simple, right? Especially since I tend to spill more often than the average person (does anyone have a statistic on that?). Yet until she mentioned it to me, it hadn’t ever occurred to me think ahead.

So I decided to pick up some Shout Wipes. Then I started thinking of what else I could keep at my desk to make my life a little easier, instead of getting caught unprepared and raising my blood pressure. It started out modestly: Shout Wipes. Mints. Advil. Hand lotion. Mini bottles. You know, the basics. Before long, I was adding a toothbrush and toothpaste, dental flossers, deodorant, antacids, a manicure kit (a semi-masculine one, mind you), cold medicine and touch-up shoe polish. Oh, and an extra Burt’s Bees for the days when I forget it at home. I ended up with a pretty nice little collection of things.*

You guys, it was almost like having a purse.

I also kept a spare button-down in my closet, which came in handy for spills of mass destruction. It also worked well for the times when I needed to upgrade my business casual Friday outfit because of an unforeseen client crisis or media interview. Or both.

My job now isn’t quite as formal, but I still keep that little butch care kit** at the office. I used to have a modified version of it in the car too, so I need to replace that. I think it’s downright handy to have some of the basic self-care items around – whatever those items might be – no matter what you do for work. And it completely appeases my inner OCD demons.

Did I miss anything? What else would you add to the kit?

*I can neither confirm nor deny whether or not my butch care kit now contains cuticle cream.

**I’m not thrilled with this name, but I can’t think of anything else to call it. Office purse? Butch hoarding? I’m open to suggestions.

Waking up in a warm bed in a cold room. The upcoming football season. Basmati Rice. The way the sky looks just before the sun peeks up over the mountains. The power of collaboration and creativity. The thought of wearing sweaters and hoodies semi-soon (even though it will be 98 degrees today). Kona coffee cookies from Hawaii. Quiet nights at home. Unexpected messages from old friends. How the late winter/wet spring has kept the mountains mostly green all summer. Root beer floats. Making vacation plans. Sore muscles. The way the air smells in the canyons (think pine + woodsmoke + magic). Taking deep breaths and big steps.

Another thing I’m excited about is an online collaborative project for butches. I’ve been mentioning it on Twitter, but I wanted to put the call out here, too. If there are any butches who would like to be involved, let me know. I’m planning on starting the first installment next month.

I’ve seen posts here and there about femme role models, and you know what? I have femme role models, too. I didn’t have any butch role models; my dad was the closest thing to that, but his guidance was unintentional and therefore, a bit distant. But the femmes in my life have been critical to my growth and development as a butch. You haven’t just taught me how to treat a woman; you’ve shown me how a woman likes to be treated. And in that process, I’ve found myself.

You’re soft. You’re strong. You’re the perfect intersection of hold me and don’t fuck with me. And when you do let me hold you, it feels like a gift. You’ve got the sweetest and dirtiest mouth. You bolster me up and give me the strength to deal with society, all the while fighting for your own visibility and respect. I’ve argued with you, and I’ve adored you. You’ve taught me how to really listen. Your touch brings me comfort when no one else understands. Your words soothe, entertain, stimulate and excite me. When I meet a sexy femme with a smart mouth and sharp mind? I’m a goner.

You’re a comforting mystery to me; I know I won’t always understand you, but I get solace from the fact that I don’t always NEED to, because our differences make us a better duo. You take such impeccable care of and pride in yourself, yet you smile and accept my rough edges and difficult ways. I might grumble if you tell me “Ten more minutes,” but that just builds the anticipation because I know at the end of those ten minutes, I’m the one who gets to see how beautiful you look. Your energy is so different from mine, but that’s precisely the balance I need on the other side of my scale.

I’m not quite sure how to explain this next part, but your appreciation of me is both humbling and empowering. You know I’m not trying to be tough, but I’m guarded; and somehow, you know just the way through that barricade. You like me strong, and you like me vulnerable. I live in this world of gray area between male and female, masculinity and femininity, and you don’t just accept or tolerate it – you love me for it, when precious few in my life do. Do you even understand how much that endears you to me?

It’s an honor and a pleasure to know you and to be loved by you. I hope you realize that you are loved in return.

I felt humiliated and ashamed. I’d never been told anything remotely close to that before in my life. I just kind of nodded while she made a pointed effort to say that she didn’t see why it was such a big deal and this wasn’t the way that she liked to do business, but the damage was already done. (I knew she was just the messenger; the only person who could tell her to say that to me was the VP of the department, and he never seemed at ease around me.) The best part was that as I left the meeting room, I glanced over to see a male co-worker, chatting at someone’s desk, wearing flip flops, jeans and a t-shirt.

Just remembering that incident still makes my stomach twist and my face burn. To this day, I’m very wary of appearing too casual at work, even if we’re encouraged to do so because of a work event. Not only that, but it’s tough sometimes to reside in that gray area between honoring my own authenticity and the expectations of someone else, especially when that someone else is a superior. In my younger days, I was definitely influenced by what I thought I should wear, versus what I was comfortable wearing and what I thought best represented me because I was worried about the reaction I’d get.

Now that I’m more comfortable in my gender identity, my wardrobe is 99 percent men’s clothing; that’s just how butch looks on me. This hasn’t always been easy, and it’s certainly had its more difficult moments because for some people, the dress code for men is simply different than it is for women, even if the clothing itself is exactly the same.But I’ve learned a couple of things. I’m no fashion expert, but I threw together a few simple tips that have helped me out along the way. I think they’re general enough to be useful no matter where I work, and they have nothing to do with how much I spend on my clothes. So here’s my top eight, because I’m too random for a nice, round number:

1. My clothes are in good condition. This is so simple, but so important. As soon as they pick up a stain, I remove them from my work clothes rotation. Same with rips, holes, worn edges, etc.
2. I make sure my clothes are pressed. If you don’t like or can’t afford to take your clothes to a dry cleaner, invest in a nice iron and learn how to use it. Actually, get the nice iron anyway; it’s great to have for touch ups, and a clean crease in a button-up shirt goes a long way. A wrinkled shirt or pants can go a long way, too – just not the direction I want to go.
3. I polish my shoes. Okay, I’ll admit it. Tip #2 and #3 were heavily influenced by my younger years in the military. But you know what? It didn’t matter that my uniform was the same day after day because it was pressed and my shoes were shined. If you don’t often wear shoes that require polishing, at least keep them clean, replace the laces, etc.
4. I look for basic pieces. I try to stay away from anything too trendy. I definitely like to be stylish, but I also like my sweaters to last more than one winter, if possible. Classic cuts and colors are always in style. I have white and light blue button-up shirts. I have black, slate and charcoal gray suit pants. I have others too, but for my wardrobe needs I know that I can pick out those pieces, throw in a few add-ons, and go. Speaking of add-ons …
5. I accessorize. You heard me. Men tend to wear fewer accessories, but that doesn’t mean they’re not important. For me, that means a nice belt, a nice watch and cuff links, when appropriate. I stay away from anything too distracting, but that’s my personal style preference.
6. When in doubt, I’ve paid attention to what other men wear, especially my superiors. This not only gives me ideas in terms of colors and patterns (they’re both pretty sharp dressers), but it also gives me an idea of what they consider appropriate for the work place. There have been several occasions when I’ve stepped into a meeting with my CEO or COO, and our outfits are eerily similar. I’m not trying to copy them, but I can also think of worse people to look like at work. And 95 percent of the time, I wear a collared shirt.
7. I read the dress code carefully. And you know what, no matter how many times I read the damned thing, I have yet to come across the line that says women are required to wear feminine clothes in the office. So if I ever get called into a meeting like that again, I’m better prepared and well-armed with my rights.
8. I consider the job environment overall. While I loved the friends I made at that agency, it wasn’t a good fit for me. To me there is a difference between feeling out of place, like I did there, and just feeling different, like I do at my current job. I work in a healthy environment. Sexual orientation is protected under my company’s anti-discrimination policy, which is pretty progressive for this state. If you work in a hostile environment, clothes are probably the least of your concerns.

Any other suggestions? Feel free to add them to the list.

[Thanks to Brownie, for blogging about a recent similar experience at work, and Harrison, who has also recently been blogging about clothes over at How to be Butch. They got me thinking.]

I love this hat.

It’s a Cubs hat, sure. It fits my head just right with the bill facing forward OR backward, which is no small feat in itself. You might not think that a hat has soul and character, but this one does. Every frayed edge, stain and distressed spot on it has been earned, as opposed to those already-fatigued ball caps you can buy.

I have other ball caps too, but this is MY hat. This hat and I have some history.

I’ve worn it in blizzards and on days in Memphis so hot and humid that I sweat up into the fabric and out on the bill. It’s protected me from the rain, and it’s given me an idiotic tan line across my forehead from wearing it backward too long in the sun. I’ve folded it up and shoved it into my back pocket. I’ve taken it off and used it to carry kittens. I’ve used it to cover my face when I grieved. I pull the bill down extra low when I’m goofing off, making my brother laugh every time I have to cock my head back extra far to see anything. I’ve had a woman threaten to destroy it, and it’s obvious which one is still in my life today. I’ve worn it from the hesitant “Does this make me look like a guy?” phase to the current “Who cares if someone thinks I look like a guy?” phase.

It’s definitely been part of my lifeblood for years. This hat has been with me on moves from Maryland to Tennessee to Ohio to Kentucky to Utah. It’s fallen into the Mississippi River, been to the top of the Sears Tower and traveled to Cape Cod, the Gulf Shore, the Rocky Mountains, Washington D.C., the Pacific Northwest, and let’s not forget that I wore it almost constantly while moving across the country. I’ve camped, played basketball, driven 4-wheelers, hiked, zip-lined and played in the ocean in that thing.  It used to be dark blue, and now it’s a blue, gray and purplish mix.

Can a hat be a comfort? Why not. It’s seen me get my degrees, weather a horrible split after a long relationship, welcome nieces and nephews into the world, spend time in the hospital, grieve as I put my dog down, and every other wonderful, intense, sad and crazy moment I’ve experienced in the past several years. It’s a constant, and that is a quality I have grown to truly appreciate. Maybe one day I’ll have to retire this hat, and it will get a nice little eulogy. But in the meantime, I look forward to making more memories with it as my life unfolds.

It’s so strange for me to look back at my earlier years.   I don’t really count the childhood years, because it’s natural to look somewhat different from that stage of life. But when I see photos of myself as a young adult, it’s more than just seeing me when I had that bad 80s haircut. I feel so detached, as if I’m seeing a picture of someone vaguely familiar or someone who just resembles me in some respects. It doesn’t look or feel like the Younger Me, so much so that sometimes my old pictures barely register on my scale of recognition.

It’s tough to put my finger on any one thing that makes me so reluctant to share that part of my life with anyone. I’m not ashamed of anything I did, and for the most part I liked who I was. I’m proud of the path I took to discover who I am and what I believe, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. It’s just a little painful to realize how lost and uncomfortable I was back then, without a real identity. I think most of us go through that at some point, though – my confusion was just gender-related.

In an effort to give myself some authentic writing therapy, I present Exhibits A and B of Younger Me*:

A New Year's Eve party from my college days

Bridesmaiding at my brother’s wedding, a few years later

And here’s me now:

I have to have at least one photo where I'm making a face

It occurred to me one day recently that perhaps what gives me such great anxiety is my fear of the reaction I’ll get from others. I try my best not to care about that, honestly. For the most part, I really couldn’t care less what people think about my gender or its presentation now. But I hate the reactions I get when people have the opportunity to actually compare my lost self to my present self. In my case, making the transition from an essentially genderless existence – I didn’t truly occupy a feminine or masculine space – to that of a butch means that there is evidence of change. There is something someone can point to, either before or after, to say That, that is not the you I know.

I tend to get differing reactions based on whether someone has been in my life for both the pre- and post-butch eras, and whether they’re cool with my sexuality. The comments usually follow one of these themes:

“You were so cute.” Not the hey, you were cute! reaction, but the wistful reminiscing. I most often get this reaction from family, and it’s usually capped off with a comment about how pretty my long hair was, or what a cute (read: feminine) outfit I was wearing in the photo.

“You look – different - now.” I get this most often from friends who haven’t really come to terms with the fact that I’m gay, and it’s usually followed by a somewhat uncomfortable silence. I’m not sure how I’m even supposed to respond to this one, so I usually make a joke.

“Oh, you looked so obviously butch/gay, even then.” I get this comment most often from gay or gay-friendly people. I’m not sure why, but it bothers me. I don’t think people have bad intentions when saying this, but somehow my interpretation turns it into a negative.

I recognize that I’ve put myself (and others) in a position where there’s no such thing as a safe reaction. I’ve tried to think of what I’d consider to be a positive response, and I can’t think of one. I very rarely get an objective comment alluding to the fact that I’m better now than I was then. I don’t think I’m looking for validation of my appearance or anything; it’s more of a hope that someone will recognize that it’s a better fit. I’m happier in my skin now in terms of my gender and its presentation than I’ve ever felt in my life. I realize that the average person isn’t able to know how unhappy I was then and compare it to how happy I am now; perhaps that’s another reason I choose to keep all the evidence of my transformation buried so deep.

*Sorry for the less-than-great quality of the photos, but you get the idea.

I showed her a few things I’ve worked on and asked her a few questions. The kid is pretty bright, I will say that. It wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong; I like kids, and I’m good  with them. But there’s something about having them at work that totally throws me off. It’s hard for me to switch from work mode to kid-friendly mode sometimes. But she and I had a pretty good time.

At one point, she asked me if she could ask a few ice breaker questions that she’d brought with her. Her first question was simple enough: What historical sporting event do you wish you could attend? Easy: the 1908 World Series, which is the last time the Chicago Cubs won. Her next question: If you could change your name to anything, what would it be?

Yeah, what would it be? I was stumped. I’m actually totally at peace with my given name; it feels comfortable on me. It’s not super feminine, which I think would make me uncomfortable. Balancing my masculinity with a feminine name would bother me on some level, I think. I can’t imagine being a Sarah or Vanessa or Mindy. Those names are all perfectly fine, by the way; it’s nothing against the name, I’m just glad it’s not my name. The only names that had come to mind were those that could go either way: Sam, Jesse, Shawn, you get the idea. I told her I was at a loss, but she apparently wasn’t.

“You look like a Chase to me. That would be a good one for you. Or Chandler.”

“You’re not, like, a regular girl. You look like you’d want a cool name instead of a pretty one.”*

It might seem like a little thing, but in that few minutes, I felt like this kid actually saw me. She looked at me and actually thought about what I would like. She gauged my mannerisms, looks and personality and came to a conclusion that was incredibly insightful, in my opinion. I actually really appreciated it, even though I couldn’t express to her why. And then we were off, talking about her totally weird neighbor who had a baby girl and named her Xantha.

The whole experience reminded me why I actually like kids. No judgment, no expectations, no rules. A lot of adults could learn from that.

*Wanting something cool instead of something pretty could pretty much sum up my life’s wishes. Barbie? No thank you. Pocketknife? Yes, please.

She was born in a small town in southern Utah, and she lived in that part of the state for most of her life. She raised a bunch of kids – both her own and various neighborhood kids – through The Great Depression. She and my grandpa were hard core, doing everything themselves: hunting, gardening, sewing, canning, etc. She did a lot of that on her own while my grandpa was off working, too. She was a believer in hard work, kept promises and baseball.

She is the reason I am a die-hard Chicago Cubs fan today; she watched the Cubs back in the day when the Cubs and the Braves were the only baseball teams on television (because Chicago and Atlanta had their own television networks). Up until the day she went into the hospital, she watched any game she could find. I can’t tell you how many times the family would be gathered around, eating or talking, and my grandma would get up and announce: “I have a game to watch.” With that, she’d go to her room, turn on the television, close the blinds, and shut the door. We could still go in – we just couldn’t interrupt the game.

She passed away when she was 96, just over ten years ago. I was in the military when I got the news via the Red Cross, and I had to take emergency leave to fly home for the funeral. She went rather quickly; one day she was in the hospital, and a week later her heart just gave out. I lived in Chicago at the time, and it just so happened that about a week before she went into the hospital, I’d visited Wrigley Field for the first time. I took a lot of pictures of the field and the game so I could send them to her with a letter about how much she would love it. By the time my letter arrived, my aunt, uncle and parents kind of warned me that she was drifting in and out of consciousness; the doctors had mostly done what they could to make her comfortable, but she wasn’t responding to many things. But when they told her she had a letter from me, she opened her eyes, smiled while they showed her the pictures, and listened while they read the letter to her. They’d later tell me that was the last time she was truly lucid.

There is one thing that kind of bothers me sometimes. I didn’t come out to my family until after she died. That wasn’t intentional – it just ended up that way. I’ve often wondered how she would’ve felt if I came out to her. Part of me thinks she wouldn’t have known what to think, that the generation gap would’ve been a gap of understanding as well. Maybe she really wouldn’t get why I don’t dress like a feminine woman or why I haven’t found a nice young man to marry. But the bigger part of me believes that it wouldn’t have made a difference to her. I was her youngest granddaughter, and we had a special bond. Maybe that’s the truth, and maybe that’s just what I need to believe to be at peace with it. Either way, it’s my truth.

I miss her like crazy. Sometimes it just hits me from nowhere, and it just hurts. But then I think of some of my favorite things about her:

• Every year for my birthday, I could count on getting a card from her that contained a crisp one-dollar bill. That might not seem like much, but it was the one thing I looked forward to the most.
• My family is in the process of transcribing her many diaries, and it has only recently come to light that she and my grandpa brewed their own beer. My Mormon extended family is, of course, scandalized by this development; I am simply delighted.
• After getting tired of losing chickens to the friendly neighborhood hawks, she got a rifle. She’d stand out on the back stoop of the house and shoot the hawks when they circled too close for her liking.
• When I was around ten years old, she taught me how to make homemade noodles for chicken noodle soup. I still remember rolling out the noodles while she said, “Thin as paper, smooth as glass.”
• While she was in the hospital, a nurse came in a couple of times during the first day to give her a shot. By the third shot, she told him, “If you give me another shot, I will come back and haunt you after I die.” He didn’t give her any more shots after that.

I hope I end up just like her one day.

I thought it might help to simplify, to get back to the basics. I’ve read a couple of blog posts lately that really resonated with me. A while back a post over at The Femme Domestic described getting the inspiration to just write what she knows. That’s it! I’ll write what I know. Done. But then I started thinking: what do I know?

Not to be a smartass, but the answer to that is I don’t know. I suppose I know about music. Sports. Psychology. Growing up gay in a large, Mormon family. The military. My professional field of work. Photography. Current events. What it’s like to live in the west. And the east. And the midwest. And the south. I feel like I know a little about everything; credit that to my curiosity and passion for learning. The phrase jack of all trades, master of none could’ve been coined for me. I don’t know that I’m ever sure of something until I arrive there to recognize yes, this is what I want.

Is that what I know? That I am a chameleon, and I always have been? I can adapt like no one’s business. I’ve always been able to find my way around, learn the ropes, or pick up the accent in short order. My therapist once told me that in her 20+ years of counseling, she’d never seen someone mask as well and as seamlessly as I did (look up Carl Jung + mask, if you’re so inclined). The competitive person that I am, I took that as a compliment at first. I’d spent so much time acting the way I thought I was supposed to that I forgot about myself, forgot about my emotions and thoughts. It took a while to unravel all of that, and it still comes up from time to time.

What does all of this mean? It means I’m recommitting to write with authenticity and intention. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, but then Alphafemme wrote about re-connecting, and that gave me the push I needed. It’s not that I ever don’t write that way, but sometimes it’s easy for me to get gun-shy when it comes to revealing things about myself. It scares the hell out of me, actually. I’ve spent so long avoiding making in-depth connections; if people don’t truly know me, they can’t truly hurt me, right? But then I remember why I started this blog in the first place: not to write what I think anyone else wants, but to talk about my experiences, in my voice. That’s what I know.

So what if I’m all over the map; as long as it’s my map, I’ll go wherever the hell I please.

I hit the freeway, breathing deeply, trying not to worry about my papers and trying to clear my head of the horrible day I had at work. Work is killing me these days in too many ways to list, so I often use my time alone in the car to decompress. I was finally relaxing a bit and thinking ahead to my appointment when I saw the car in the lane next to mine come right over and crash into me. I was in the far left lane, and she ran me out onto the shoulder of the freeway. When I honked, she flipped me off and kept going. I went from alarmed to angry in .5, pulling back into my lane and chasing her down to get her license number, then pulled up along side her to tell her to pull over (there may or may not have been some expletives involved during my mini-high speed chase). The next hour was spent waiting for and talking to the state patrolman and filling out my report. I missed my appointment, obviously, so I just went home.

When I got in the door, I nearly collapsed. Here’s something about me: I am amazingly calm and level-headed in the midst of a crisis, because the realization of what I’m actually seeing or doing doesn’t hit me until after the fact. Well, it hit me when I sat down in my chair, my hands shaking and knees weak. I felt exhausted, spent and overwhelmed. Add in the day I’d had at work, my missed appointment and all of the other things I’m juggling in my life, and all of a sudden it felt like too much, all at once.

I got that lump in my throat, and my eyes might have welled up for a moment, but then it was gone. I wasn’t trying not to cry, specifically; in fact, at one point I was bargaining with myself, telling myself I’d feel much better if I just did it to feel the release. Nothing. There are a few reasons, at least that I can see, why this happens:

Conditioning: I’ve said before that I grew up with five older brothers, who weren’t big on crying. Any time they made me cry, either from teasing or from playing too rough, their immediate reaction was to get me to shut up so they wouldn’t get in trouble. This involved cajoling, bribing, promises of bribing, distracting … you name it. Just as long as I stopped before my mom heard me. After a while, I just stopped crying in the first place so they wouldn’t have to do the damage control. Besides that, I got positive reinforcement from them when I got hurt and didn’t cry. That meant I was tough, and I liked it. Looking back, I can’t believe how tough I was during some of those incidents.

My own internal judgment: Anytime I feel on the verge of tears, there is a voice in the back of my mind that tells me to stop. To be tough. To not be such a girl. That tears are a sign of weakness. And I’ve spent so much of my life trying not to show weakness that I’ll be damned if I just start tearing up. [Sidebar: I show no such judgment if I'm tearing up during We Are Marshall, Remember the Titans, or a particularly amazing ESPN highlight or biopic.] I know in my mind that that it’s ridiculous to place those expectations on myself, but it’s difficult in the moment to change those habits. Another reminder that I still have work to do in that area. I hate feeling like an emotional black hole, drawing everything in but not ever releasing any of it back out. I don’t think crying makes me less butch or masculine or anything … but at the same time, it still feels so foreign and feminine to me.

Fear of losing control: Just because I don’t show my emotions doesn’t mean I don’t have them, because do I ever. I’m a passionate person, but I have the hardest time with that emotional expression in particular. I am scared that crying about issue x is just a crack in the dam that will eventually give way to other issues, and I’m not prepared for that. I’m much better than I used to be at paying attention to and moving through my feelings in the moment, but I still sometimes get this paralyzing fear that opening up a little bit will cause all kind of things to come to the surface. I like to be in control, and if the dam bursts, well. That’s a tough thing to rein in. Vulnerability has never been my forte.

It’s a work in progress, I know. I’m still learning that not everything can be managed, especially when it comes to emotions, and that some of my old issues coming to the surface isn’t always a bad thing. I always try to remember Leonard Cohen’s lyric – “There is a crack, a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in” – and many times, that helps.

But! There have been good things, too.

Quality time in the hammock

I saw Jonatha Brooke in concert again!

Want to be an OG on July 4th? Wear a glow necklace and drink apricot hefeweizen. FROM THE BOTTLE.

I saw Brandi Carlile in concert again, too.

I cuddled with a magnum of cava while my friend ... well, anyway.

I’ve had good times with great company this summer, including two amazing concerts, and more fun on the way. Here’s to more fun on the horizon – I need it to retain my sanity! And if you have the chance to see either Jonatha Brooke OR Brandi Carlile this summer, you should certainly do so. Both are amazing artists who make incredible music.

Oh, and the title of this post is from “Of Graves” by another favorite singer, Alexa Wilkinson:

I’m much more guarded, for the benefit of both me and my companion. I still like to have a good time, but I’m watching everything and everyone. I notice when a man walks by a little more closely than he should, or pays a little too much attention to her from the bar. I stand taller, walk a little more aggressively, drink less and sit between her and the sketchy guy at the next table who can’t stop looking at her or at us.

I figure one of the reasons that this happens is because they’re checking out my friend or date. There is the occasion when a guy will flirt with me, but it’s so rare and laughable that I don’t often think about it. In any event, the look on a man’s face when he’s admiring an attractive woman is clearly different than when he’s thinking he’d like to take her out back and fuck her, whether she’s given him the time of day or not.

There’s another angle, too. If it’s a date, and a guy figures this out, that can change everything. I’ve heard everything from fascination (“Oh, hey – can I watch?”) to optimism (“You just haven’t met the right guy yet”) to confusion (“How can you be that hot and not like cock?!”) to denial (“Spend a night with me, and I’ll turn you straight”) to anger, which usually then gets blamed on me (“You couldn’t get a man if you tried,” “No wonder you’re a dyke – you look like a dude” or “You better watch it. Some guy will change her mind”).

I feel like there is a delicate way to handle these conflicts. If a guy starts coming on to her, I feel like it is her right and responsibility to respond to him in a way that helps her maintain her autonomy and power. If I jumped in every time that happened, I’d be doing it a lot, and it would only make me look jealous. But more importantly, in my opinion, my knee jerk reaction would take away from her the ability to express herself with conviction; he should hear it come from her mouth that she’s not interested (for whatever reason). The last thing I want him to think is that she’s too vulnerable to speak on her own or that because I intervened, she might feel differently.

This isn’t to say she’s on her own. I’ve found that it helps to have this conversation at some point with my date/friend. I ask how they handle these situations. I ask if they can think of a situation where they’d like me to get involved and, if so, at what point they start feeling like they need some support. Is it the third time he asks? Is it when he puts his hand on her arm? I want the women I go out with to have a comfort level, to know they’re not alone. We all need someone to have our back sometime, you know? There might be idiots out there that start shit – we’ve all seen it – but running into them shouldn’t compromise the strength of my relationship with my companion. Should this conversation happen before a first date? Maybe not. But should it happen after a couple of dates, or with a friend you often socialize with? Absolutely.

Reining it in is hard for me sometimes. I’m protective, and sometimes guys just don’t get it. When some drunk idiot won’t give it up, it’s all I can do not to kick his chair out from under him. However, I usually end up doing one of a few different things, depending on the situation: I make a joke with him, let him know that I see what he’s up to; I take it up a notch and suggest that he actually listen to what she’s saying to him; or I let him know in no uncertain terms that she is telling him to get lost, and he should do just that. And in some cases, it’s apparent that the best thing to do is pack up and call it a night. I know I’m strong. I’m know I’m masculine. And while those qualities help me, I also know that if some guy made up his mind that he was going to have his way, there would be little I could do. I hate that physical helplessness, but it’s also made me smarter. And it’s not about focusing on what I need to feel secure; it’s about preserving the relationship, no matter what.

I want to reiterate that here have been only a handful of times that a guy has been a complete asshole to me or a woman I’m with. While that’s not a high percentage, it’s enough to keep me wary and alert. In those cases, I’ve also been in a place where there were a lot of people around, strangers, who also saw what was going on, and that helped convince the guy to back off.

Society has changed. Straight bars are no longer only for heterosexuals, and gay bars aren’t always patronized by only LGBT patrons. Misunderstandings happen all the time, and I’ve actually met some pretty cool guys because of this; most of them had no idea what they were getting themselves into, and when it’s clarified for them, they tend to be very embarrassed and apologize. By the end of the night, we’re all laughing about it.

It got me thinking about my relationships with men in various settings. When it’s one-on-one like this, I get along with guys pretty well. In high school and college, I always got along with and a responded better to my male coaches than with my female coaches. I excelled in my military career, in which I worked in groups that were predominantly male. I tend to gravitate more toward my male co-workers at department meetings and functions. I just relate better to men in general than I do to women, and I have a lot of male friends as a result.

I attribute part of this comfort to my family structure; being the youngest sister to five older brothers dictated that I learn to socialize in certain ways. I learned to say what I mean, to speak up in matters that didn’t really involve feelings. I may not be great at standing up for myself within my family when it comes to my personal life, but hell – if I wasn’t aggressive in other ways, I never would’ve had my fair share at the dinner table. (I’m not saying this is a good thing, I’m just saying it’s the way it was.)

I also credit it to the fact that for me, there is absolutely no sexual tension. I interact with men objectively without any underlying intent or objective outside of that particular conversation. I’d like to say that I do the same with women, but that would be false. And no, I’m not creepy (I don’t think); it’s just different talking to someone you’re attracted to, and I happen to not be attracted to men. So.

Part of my experience has been that the men I’ve met are quite willing to overlook differences. Just like my experience over the weekend illustrated, here was a guy I didn’t have much in common with when I compared demographics: male/female, straight/gay, married/single, Mormon/agnostic, the list could go on and on. But once we figured out we had some common interests, we talked for the next hour about all sorts of things. It was the same way when I was younger; I was a tomboy, and sometimes the boys weren’t sure about how to handle me. But once I proved that I could run faster or throw farther than just about all of them, I was in. I just haven’t received that kind of social generosity  from women as often, especially those who don’t have some kind of tie to the LGBT community.

As far as conflicts go, I’m fortunate. I’ve never experienced an aggressively homophobic male. I’m not saying we all get along, but if they’ve ever said anything, it hasn’t been to my face. Sure, I encounter the occasional jerk-off who drank too much and ran his mouth, or the one who won’t stop hitting on my date or my friends (more on that in another post). There are definitely idiots, but those are everywhere. I haven’t dealt with much above and beyond conversations that draw my line in the sand. I refuse to be pushed around by men, so I speak up if some guy tries to take my table, jump in front of me to flag down the bartender, etc. I do get some sideways looks, and I’ve had the intermittent “Fucking dyke!” thrown at me, but even that is very rare.

I guess my point to that story is that I don’t recall having many issues with guys who have a problem with me personally. Most of the time, I think I tend to disarm them, because I tend to be one of them, and we get along famously.  We usually have a lot more in common when it comes to interests and hobbies than I do with my double X-chromosomed counterparts. They have been and continue to be a valuable part of my social interaction, and I can’t overlook what that has meant in terms of socializing my own masculinity.

When my stylist asked me who she was, it took me a minute to really answer. Yes, that’s K, we were teammates when I was a freshman and she was a sophomore, but she is also the first REAL LIVE lesbian I ever met.

Going to a mostly Mormon high school didn’t help that. There was the One Lesbian in school that everyone knew about, and there were coaches I suspected were gay, but I didn’t really know any until I met K. And honestly? She scared the hell out of me, mostly because she was so … unfamiliar. I had to room with her on my very first road trip, and I didn’t know what to expect. Was she going to hit on me? Watch me dress? Factor in the religious part where I’d been warned about people like her, and you have a whole mess going on in my head. Not to mention plenty of my own internal homophobic thoughts, but that’s another post altogether.

As our basketball season went on, I got to know her better, and you know what? I just loved her. She was smart, charismatic, and funny. We would cut up during practice, on road trips, team meetings, or any other time we had the opportunity. One of my favorite moments happened after one of our games, when she cracked us all up by telling a teammate, “Tonya, I saw your boyfriend, and he is CUTE for a guy!”

She became K the good friend, not K the Lesbian, and that was huge for me because I was having my own issues as I questioned my life and sexuality. I began to see that she was a normal person who had normal highs and lows, which was such an eye-opener. I was so sad at the end of that year when she left, but in a time when I was feeling so much guilt, the lesson learned was valuable: I was okay, just the way I was.

I saw her a few years later at the gay bar, and she flipped out. She couldn’t believe that a) I was gay and b) that I didn’t come out until AFTER we played ball, because as she said, “We could have had so much fun together!” I got back in touch with her when I moved back to Utah; I was running into a coffee shop, and she was sitting there with her partner on the patio. She hasn’t aged a DAY, so I recognized her immediately. I look a lot different than the last time she saw me, so it took her a minute. But since then we’ve gone out to dinner, played tennis, and kept in touch.

I stopped on the way out of the salon to give her a hug and plan our next get-together. I realized not just how much she means to me, but what she represents to me. She cleared the path for me in a lot of ways, and I’ll forever be grateful for that.

Are there any people in your life who paved the way for you? Did you have any gay mentors, so to speak?

I know, I know. I wrote a nice post about Mom for Mother’s Day, explaining the things I love about her in spite of our misunderstandings. But I’m not there with you, at least not yet, so you get a letter.

You see, Mom is a little different. She and I certainly don’t see eye to eye on matters, especially religion and my personal life, but I believe that she’s actually trying. She does ask me questions every once in a while, and I think most of her confusion comes from a generation gap and being raised in a religion that doesn’t look kindly upon differences. But if I look at it in its present form, I believe she is trying to make sense of something that makes no sense at all to her.

But Dad, you’ve taken a more active and almost combative role in separating from me in recent years. It’s hard to be around you because I don’t trust you. I really want to, but in my mind and heart are the things you’ve done in past years that have hurt. Just as hurtful is the fact that you’ve never talked about these things, never apologized, never tried to understand, even when I’ve brought them up to let you know how they made me feel.

Still fresh in my mind is that blank Q&A book that I sent you a few years ago for Father’s Day, do you remember? I’d found it at a bookstore, and it was full of short answer essay questions and fill-in-the-blanks about your life as a kid, a teenager and as an adult. I thought it would be a great way to get to know more about your life. But then you took every opportunity you had to discuss religion/my sins – even if it didn’t even answer the question. You then added your own essay at the end to tell me you’d tailored your answers to address my wicked and sinful lifestyle instead of just answering them. I couldn’t even look through the book, and it would be a few years until I could bring myself to throw it away.

You’ve told members of our family (and who knows who else) that my decisions and my life go against absolutely everything you’ve ever taught me. But then when I visit you, you tell me how much you love it, and that you want me to come by more often. But you can see why I don’t, right? The way you’ve acted feels two-faced to me, and that makes me sad. I know I didn’t end up the way you wanted me to (and sorry Dad, but I couldn’t be more THRILLED about that), but I’m still your kid, you know? We’re still family.

I’ve stopped hoping you’ll come around even just a little bit, and now I’m focusing on letting go, for my sake. I’ve been working on that for a while now. The thing that really hurts is that you were my hero. You were always the one who encouraged me to learn and grow and not fit into that role of the little girl, like Mom wanted. You taught me how to drive a stick, shoot a gun, and chop down a tree. You loved that I played sports, even when Mom didn’t, and told anyone who would listen about my latest highlight. I always felt closer to you than I did to Mom, so this is a bigger loss for me.

I want to stop taking all of this personally. I want to see you the same way I see Mom; maybe misguided, but honestly trying. But I can’t yet, not when nothing has changed and you still act the same. You’re 78 now, so I don’t really anticipate you changing anytime soon; I inherited that same stubborn streak from you that you inherited from your mom, so I get it.

I love you, Dad. It’s just going to take a little time before it doesn’t sting.

Love, G

[Several years ago, my college-aged nephew commented on a thread about Survivor to say that he and his roommate were "sick" to find out that a contestant they liked was gay. I just made a snarky comment about how he was right, the gays ruin EVERYTHING. But I seethed about that for a while and still don't look at that nephew the same.]

I won’t go into detail about what was said on the site the other day, but I’ll just say that there were a couple of things that got under my skin. One was a thread that got political, and the other was a thread about Memorial Day/military service that mentioned two of my uncles and brother, but not me. So I left smartass comments on them both, natch.

Then I got what I expected: a text from my brother, M:

M: Whoa, your trip to Moab emboldened you.

G: I know, I’m expected to be quiet.  I don’t want to be silent anymore about anything.

M: Good. I’m glad you’re finally saying it out loud.

G: I’m not shutting up anymore. I put myself in this place, I’ll get myself out.

M: Be outspoken and you won’t have to feel angry on the inside.

Be outspoken and you won’t have to feel angry on the inside.

Now, I know those words might not mean as much to others as they do to me. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t even know how much they meant to me until I saw them. Just reading that version of affirmation completely choked me up. I’ve buried this shit so deep inside of me, and I’m so used to just swallowing it, that I forget this: I am angry.

It’s my family. They show up when they want to, which isn’t often. The few times in my life that I’ve truly been at a crossroads, I’ve been able to depend mostly on M, and that’s it. Yet they wonder why I don’t visit, why I don’t come around much. In my mind, they abandoned me a long time ago. I’ve come to terms with that, but it doesn’t mean that I have to like it. I’m mad about how they have acted, and how I failed to speak up for myself or call them out on their actions.

It’s my past relationships. I haven’t always spoken up for myself when I needed to. I default to that strategy of shutting up to acquiesce until I’m so full of unsaid truths that I crack. And then when the dam bursts, it was too much, too late. I know I create that situation for myself, and when I try to bust out of it, it makes a mess (I am not good with messes, people). I’m mad at myself for creating and getting stuck in that cycle, and I’ve been mad that I’ve chosen to spend time with partners who are okay with my silence.

I attribute a lot of this to my upbringing, in which I was taught to keep the peace. Not start conflict. Be reverent. Not speak up to cause contention, because contention is a tool of the devil. But it all got lumped into one, you know? Instead of feeling free to speak up and be heard, I just stopped talking altogether. The thing that really sucks about that is that one of the other things I heard all the time growing up was that families are forever, and we could always count on family. I’m not trying to spend forever with people I can’t talk to or who won’t listen to me.

Now, I’m not actively angry on a daily basis; this stuff just bubbles up from time to time (like now, apparently). But that phrase from my brother – and my subsequent emotional reaction – reminded that I still have work to do and that work includes continuing to talk. Everyone’s been warned, I guess.

Maybe I should go to Moab more often.

But if that gathering is for a bridal or baby shower, count me out. I had to go to a baby shower last weekend, and it was downright painful. I was dreading it the whole time leading up to the event, and I kept telling myself to try to relax – how bad could it be?

The answer: bad. I went primarily to be the wingman for my BFF, G; otherwise, I would’ve politely declined. When G arrived at my place, we did a shot of vodka. We then packed a little road soda of ginger ale + vodka to tide us over (also: calm our fears) until we got to the shower, and I couldn’t have been happier that we employed that strategy. Within ten minutes after arriving, G and I were stealthily texting back and forth, with the messages ranging from “SAVE ME!” to “WTF” to “You have got to be kidding me.” I thanked my lucky stars for that vodka shot and road soady, because without them I may have had some sort of Tourette-ish outburst.

I don’t know exactly what it is that bothers me about baby/bridal showers: the hetero culture of it all, or the fact that it was mostly Mormon women there, or the fact that I am not good at bestowing shallow or fake praise (all those “oohs” and “ahhs” I’m supposed to deliver). I always feel completely out of my element. I’ve attended gay baby showers, but those aren’t really showers – they are PARTIES. I can totally get behind that.

And then there were the games.

The GAMES. The first game involved teams cutting out body parts from various magazines and pasting them together on a piece of paper to create a picture of what the baby might look like. G and I just cut and pasted a picture of Justin Bieber and called it good. The next game involved passing around diapers that had various candy bars melted and smudged into them. We were supposed to sniff the diaper to guess what kind of candy it was. Have you heard of this game? And if so, what in the ever living hell. Everyone (except G & I) was delighted by this. I took one look around the room at the giggling women smelling diapers full of faux shit and realized that baby showers? Are loco. I also had a slight moment of retrospective panic when I thought, “This could have been my life,” what with the pressure I had to get married. Talk about frightening.

This particular setting, surrounded by punch and finger sandwiches and awkward small talk about marriage and babies, is one of my personal versions of hell. If I ever wake suddenly from a nightmare in a cold sweat, chances are good that the dream may have involved onesies, bad food, and an older woman asking me, “So … what is it that you do?” Sometimes I wonder why I still even get invited to these things. I know it’s a way for women to reach out to each other and bond over a pregnancy – it’s one of the places where men fear to tread, and rightfully so – but sometimes I think, “Do I look like I want to go to a baby shower?” The short answer is no. It’s not that I don’t like babies; I love my nieces and nephews dearly, but I’ve hated every shower I’ve had to go to for them. I’d just rather be watching the game du jour with the guys.

We made it through the event relatively unscathed, although we did smell faintly of baby powder, and our light buzz had disappeared. That’s when you know it’s time to go.

But this type of post is usually pretty easy for me to write, and it actually cheers me up a little (I’ve had a very bad attitude for the past three weeks. So much so that my WBFF has given me an evil alter ego named Santiba, which he says he hopes goes away when my project is done). And if it helps me get back on the horse with writing because I love it and want it and need it, that’s even better.

Things I love. Go:

Phone calls and emails from far-away friends. Fresh raspberries. Barbecues. Turning my alarm off on weekend mornings. Hiking in warm weather. Joking around with my brother. Weekend getaways. Summer concerts. Getting home and finally relaxing for the evening. Happy hour. Shorts. Ginger ale + vodka + fresh strawberries. A cool breeze at night. Spending time with my best friend. Unexpected cards in the mail. Chips + salsa + handmade guacamole. Baseball. Collaborative creativity. Flip flops. My new favorite local market. My goddogs. Florence and the Machine.

Okay. Things you love. Go.

In the meantime, enjoy.

In a way, I guess they were right. And it translates to other communities, too. S. Bear Bergman addresses this in the essay Not Getting Killed, With Kindness from hir book The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You:

“I am aware that I am always – whether I want to be or not – an ambassador for my people … If someone is encountering a queer person, or a readably transgendered person, for the first or even the tenth time, I would like that person to remember me as being, really, perfectly all right.”

I know that feeling well, because I’ve felt the same way about being lesbian. For a lot of people, I’ve been the first gay person they’ve ever met – or that they know of, anyway -  and I like making a good impression. I want to help represent my community, which is now the Gays instead of the Mormons. I’ll admit, sometimes I’ve had that voice in the back of my head that worries about stepping out of bounds, of being too … anything. (And when I say worried about being that way, I really mean scared of appearing that way.)

But then, I realize that is still some of the conditioning of my upbringing playing out in my adult life. It crops up every now and then, mostly when I least expect it, which shows me how deep it runs. This time is different, though. I won’t let the weight of expectations stifle me like it did before, when being a positive ambassador really meant not being myself. All of those times of being told to “be good” just made me feel like whatever I was doing wasn’t good enough already, if I needed the constant reminders. I’m grateful that now I can recognize it for what it is, take a look at it, and move on.

Don’t rock the boat. Be a good example. Don’t forget what you stand for. Don’t
compromise. Remember who you are and where you came from.

All of these lessons hold true. I’m sure my mom would be mortified to know I use them in relation to being gay versus being Mormon, but there’s no exclusivity. Religion doesn’t have the corner on personal values and integrity.