"can i help you, sir?"

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.

Harrison recently wrote something over on How to Be Butch about Rachel Maddow’s high school picture. I know, it’s old news by now, but it’s had me thinking for a while about how I view and share myself. I tend to see my life as pre-butch and post-butch, which could also be known as The Period of Great Enlightment II (the first PoGE being the time in my life after I realized I was gay). And when it comes to that pre-butch part of my life, I am very protective of it.

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*: Continue reading

I’ve been thinking a lot about family history lately, and that got me thinking about my grandma. She is really the only grandparent I had a relationship with; both of my grandfathers died before I was born, and my maternal grandmother passed when I was three. That left my father’s mother, and believe me when I say this: she was amazing.

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. Continue reading

I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately, and that has bled over into my blogging mojo. I feel like I have a lot in my head, but it’s not really making a lot of sense.

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.

The other day I was trying to get my shit together and get out of the office on time for an important appointment I had at 5:00. I ran to grab a printout of something I needed for the appointment, and there was an amazing paper jam in the printer. We’re talking epic, accordion-style papers. I tried to fix it, but ended up calling the help desk to send someone up. I was kind of sweating it, because that printout had some sensitive information on it. I hoped that by unplugging the printer and plugging it back in that the printing queue would reset itself, but I didn’t have time to stick around to find out what happened.

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.