1992

Yesterday, I saw that Rob was tagged in a facebook photo from one of his friends from high school. It was during a stint as a best man, and the date on it was 1992, the year we met. It brought back a rush of fond memories: that awkward and exciting getting-to-know-you phase, that not so awkward first kiss, those many hours up late on the phone with each other... It's hard to imagine a me that didn't know him, but there it was, the most familiar face to me at a time I didn't have it in memory (at least consciously ;-)). In short and of course, it got me all emotional.

Just then the boys got home from karate and ran into the office, and immediately laughed, seemingly with incredulity, at the sight of their dad so... um... how to say such nicely? Unseasoned? They can be blunt; I told Rob at least they don't keep drawing him as bald. I'm not bald!

Anyway, I told them that was their dad when I first met him, and I went over a short version of the story they already know. Alan then asked to see what I looked like at that same time, in that adorable putting-together-a-narrative way he has. The only photo from that year I could find was my high school senior photo, but that worked great; at least we were both in formal wear and both just months before we met.
Looking at them side-by-side I'm struck by both the mystery and fate those 1992 faces hold for us (that, and by the 1990's hair).

We didn't know each other when those non-digital cameras snapped those images. In fact, we both thought we'd never be able have what we have today. But in a matter of months everything would fall into place and our union would never stop growing from there. In a matter of years we'd be changing diapers and rocking our boys to sleep, something that would have struck me, at least, about as possible as the US electing a racial minority for a president in 2008.

Thank goodness for the ignorance of young adults, right? It leaves room for some great surprises.

Another Confessional

When the internet was young and the notion of a blog was alien to the zeitgeist, I had a site. It focused mainly on issues of skepticism but the fact that I was a gay man wasn’t hidden.

One day I got an email through the site from a gay kid. He was brought to mind recently during the movie Milk, and has been on my mind ever since, but I’ve thought about him off and on for years. In the movie a kid calls Harvey just as he’s about to be sent off by his parents to be ‘cured’, and Harvey tells him to run away. Unfortunately, the kid was wheelchair bound. The kid in the case here was in a very similar predicament; he had severe cerebral palsy, but I was no Harvey Milk.

Simply that tiny subplot really struck a chord in me, and some regret.

IIRC, the kid started off upset about an article by Oaks, a LDS leader. I just looked and I still have the printout of the link he sent me in my file cabinet, marked up by the hand written comments I’d eventually type and send back. Oaks' text may be found online here, without my 2 cents after each line :-).

We went through that, but he still had several serious practical problems with his family and church to get through. I didn't tell him to run away, and actually hoped to get the Bishop to step in and help within the family... Again, I'm not Harvey Milk. Happily, though, after a couple months he seemed to be doing much better.

At about this same time I was corresponding with this young man, I was a new father and the site (well, I...) started getting death threats, because that's what Jesus would do, right? :-) After talking to Rob, I decided to take the site down, and sure, maybe I was cowering but I had no time and two babies to take care of. Honestly, I don’t know how to deal with people who threaten physical harm to me or my family, especially for faith. How do you talk them down from the "word of God"? I know it's 99.9% hot air, and I fear backing down only makes them stronger, puts the problem onto the next generation (which of course includes my children), but what if?... So sure, I had other excuses but I also backed down. Call me a coward, but, eh, at least I came back with some extra precautions.

All that is beside the point, though. There's another reason I'm in the confessional here.

After I quit the site, I kept getting emails from this kid. He was doing better and better. He found a way to move out into a home for people with disabilities and seemed upbeat and comfortable with his orientation. Eventually it got to the point that his emails came less and less frequently, about once a month. But that was a good sign too; he was doing well, had friends, and didn’t have much more to talk to this stranger about.

One day, though, I went to check the email and found myself locked out of the account. We had been busy with the kids and out of town and it seems the account I was using had an expiration after a month of inactivity. I tried to reregister the same address but was told it was already in use, and I was just responding to his emails, without ever paying attention to his address.

So I’m ashamed to say the next email this kid sent to me went unanswered. I hope he knows it wasn’t by choice. I always answered his emails and so I hope he knew it was uncharacteristic and knows he wasn’t ignored.

Now that I know so many gay LDS, though, I’m wondering if he may still be online somewhere? Does anyone around here know a person who fits the bill? I’ll give the details that he knew would be put up on my public site: LDS, Californian, involved in computer access for the disabled, came out around 2002. I have more to verify if that gets anyone close. Alternatively, just ask any possibilities to look at my blog; he'll recognize my habit of using microscope images.

I’d just like to know if things turned out as they seemed they were turning out. That he was okay, and to be sure he knew I didn’t ignore him. (In fact, I kind of started this blog holding a hope he'd still be searching online and I’d run into him)

2008, The Year Here

New Years is more like the last gasp of the winter holidays for us than the climax. Rob hasn't been awake to see the new year come in for about a decade--I usually just give him a careful kiss on the cheek--and goodness knows I don't want to face two 6-year-old children new years day that have been up past midnight. So tonight we'll be celebrating early and at home.

So what do you have to say for yourself, 2008? Looking at my blog sidebar, it has been a rather large and mixed bag. In fact, if I didn't have a blog I fear I'd not have remembered all the ups and downs.

Firstly, we went on many great vacations, and they were very fun (needed more words for links :-)). The best moments of 2008 really have been those when it's just the four of us on an adventure.

I learned to never kiss aquatic mammals.

Rob herniated a disk and I became much more domestic.

Alan got glasses, I got minor surgery, and we got a bunch of new pets.

I was smuggled into a panel on children of minorities in Utah schools.

Senator Buttars had his fun harming our families, for the sake of families.Nevertheless, I hope he had some Happy Holidays.

Peter Danzig was fired for supporting Nielsen for supporting GLBT people.

I was optimistic about the new church leadership. Did I have reason to be?

I began to worry about how living here affects my health.

I did political stuff, as a delegate.

We opened isocrat.org, but it still needs a lot of work, time we don't have. We also got the blog going and that's still trying to find the right voice.

I finally got my doctorate, and there was much rejoicing.

I was rightly worried about California allowing us to have equal rights.

Rob became the "Room Mom" for our boy's class.

We met a bunch of MoHos at Pride.

I went to prison and consorted with police officers, but that turned out problematic.

I got engaged to be married, again.

The LDS church told their members to "do all you can" to be sure our legal marriages wouldn't last.

I got upset at family who support such a message.

I did what I could to address those against us at isocrat.org and reviewed the research on children of gay parents, along with the arguments against marriage and such.

A suicide got to me, as well as a beating, and an attempted suicide.

We left for California, and we were, again, married on our 13th anniversary. Those two days, described in that last link were the best days of this year and of many others, right below the birth of our boys and our first marriage. I wish we could look back on them now without that bitter sweet haze, without remembering it knowing we'd be hit down so soon afterward. Ah well...

The LDS church totally drank Affirmation's milkshake.

Then their PR department claimed they were victims if gays kept equal rights. They lied about Europe, mislead about the Catholic Boston Charities case, and insulted the moral character of my children, all with much love, in press release meant to "reduce misunderstanding".

Evergreen backed them.

LDS families broke, mine a bit as well.

We got our 3rd marriage license, and held much hope that it would keep legal weight come November.

As soon as the ads started, the poll swung from a 17 point lead for our families on Proposition 8 to a deficit. And man, talk about the ads, deceptive and dehumanizing and paid for by some in my family and many in my state. That hurt.

As the LDS seemed to have paid for the majority of such ads, I tried to introduce them to the GLBT nation.

The LDS church then pushed harder, telling college students in a video that they would get supernatural blessing if the fought against our families using "viral" online methods. Then the chain letters started; those were so full of misinformation that they would have been funny, if not for their effect on many families like mine.

But hey, Conneticuite made our marriages legal! If only I had a job prospect there.

Then a purple badger ate our pumpkin.

I began having a hard time sleeping.

Rob began wanting to move from Utah, and from the hostile culture here.

The election happened and we lost Proposition 8, but my guy won the presidency. My family was in legal limbo again.

Looking back on those posts, I was more hurt than I realized. It's not easy feeling like there's a tide of people out there who think it's a moral good to hurt those you love and need to protect the most. It's frightening. To be honest, I'm still not over it; it still stings. Back then I thought I'd be over it all by now but something was different this time; having your family being held back is not the same as them being knocked back from the legal ground once held. Best not think too much of it on a holiday though.

We spoke out, and the LDS church was shocked that we did. Honestly? They were surprised? I still don't get that.

I felt some despair, but the new and stronger gay community helped end that.

Regardless, I revealed myself to be an unimaginably horrible person.

I finally started to sleep normally again, but still feel a physical pain from the stress of Prop 8, even today. Should I get that checked?

I tried to get everyone to give a charitable gift for the holidays. I tried to make it work, but not many were interested. I really don't know how to give up on this either, and they will gift next year :-).

I leaned on friends, both old and new.

Lastly, I'll list that I got engaged again, twice in one year. If I need to, I'd renew my vows to my family every day, every hour. I'll take on those legal responsibilities and try to secure the stability of equality under the law for them as many times as others forcibly divorce us, plus one. We will start again, if we need to. This cog, in this family, will spin until it's done; that's simply the thing that I am.

In ways it's been a hard year on my family. I've three people, though, that make surrender impossible and all the losses well worth it. Come on 2009, I'm ready for ya.

And Happy New Year All.

Puppy Love

Fellow blogger Beck is going through a bit of an emotional crush.

This bit brought back a bunch of semi-fond memories:

"Because I went chasing off after Thomas when he got married and blowing all my savings (if that doesn't tell you that I was gay and giddy and madly in love with him, with passion dictating my actions - I don't know what will - for who else (read non-gay /non-passionate) would have done such a thing?)"

Before I was out to myself (a bit earlier than Beck here, when I was 15), I went through a couple bouts of puppy love and, looking back, it's so weird that I couldn't put 2 and 2 together either. I was similarly oblivious to my orientation and simultaneously head-over-heals, behaving like, well, like what I was: a teenager with a crush.

The boys I'd get infatuated with were almost always outside my group of close friends, as though I subconsciously wanted to keep distance between friendship and infatuation so as to not get hurt. There was that boy a grade ahead of me that I had a very surprising dream about kissing, even when I'd never thought of kissing a girl. There was that cloistered but terribly nice LDS boy whose mom wouldn't let him associate with me, a kid with heathen parents, until I got baptized. Maybe her instincts were right ;-).

There were a couple more, but the one that sticks in my mind is David. We met in Scouts. Yes, I admit it, Scouts. It's okay to be in Scouts if you don't know you're gay, right?

I was so immediately taken with him. As I remember it, he was kind of the bad boy type, from divorced parents and not much for listening to leaders. I excused my infatuation as an attempt to befriend the loner, but I know now it was a crush. I spent the most strenuous weekend of my young life laying sod with him at a widows house, and to my shame, just to be near him, instead of for the charity. I remember thinking again and again about him in his tank-top shirt, and yet I could still keep my illusion of heterosexuality going :-). Thinking back, it's kind of nice to not have known I was gay, or even really know that a person could be gay without wanting to be. I'd be cheated out of stuff like school dances and high school dating for the most part. I still wince thinking of the trials of being in the closet at that age. But I can still look back and remember puppy love fondly.

And there are some fond memories there; I tried to have David with me all the time. Though we went to different schools I remember even taking him to my school's end of the school year festivities. I even tried to integrate him into my group of buddies, but they obviously didn't see him the way I did :-).

Then I started to realize what I'd been doing, what I was. I put an end to all such crushes as I came out to myself, seeing puppy love as what I was taught it must be for gay people, the devil's doing, a sign of my corruption.

Then, a couple months after I'd stopped seeing David a girlfriend of mine told my mom that she heard David was gay. Was that a sign that she or my mom knew more than I thought they knew? Either way, this really accelerated me on my downward spiral. I was trying to deal with being the ONLY gay person in Utah, I still couldn't say "gay" even in private, and now I find out that the kid I had such a potent crush on was a similar pervert. There were two of us in Utah! And we knew each other! What are the odds!?

My anxiety and depression accelerated, not sure what I should do with myself but torn about what might have been with David. I was thrilled in absolute misery.

But I made it through, out, and, eventually, on to a really good man, my man, the best husband a man could ask for.

The kicker is that I came to find, about five years later, that David was not gay after all. He just dressed nicely; that confused my once girlfriend. Sadly, I found this out when a mutual friend told me David had died. He was, in fact, quite a womanizer, and had even died trying to impress a girl. Still, though I didn't know him anymore and what I imagined was between us never was, I felt for him and was quite upset to learn of his death, way too early in a life.

I guess a lesson to learn was that my crush and all my anguish over him was not about him after all. He saw nothing between us or in me but a strangely affectionate friend, who, like a huge jerk, suddenly wanted to end the friendship as though he was dropping a bad habit. That anguish was just the short pain of taking my leg from the bear trap this culture sets for gay teens. But it's not much in the shadow of the parents who lost their child.

It's too bad we, David and I, can't get together and laugh about this. Here's to hoping the dramas of today seem so small and conquerable with the perspective of added years.

In The Workplace

I've just begun a new professional endeavor with a once-professor of mine, now colleague (that still feels weird). In this role I've been dealing with new folks and I often forget that my family may strike people as... unexpected? I don't have a filter on how I talk about my home; if the subject comes up and it does in any workplace, I don't hesitate to let it. Still, it's far from a problem, and only a problem if their curiosity leads us into a conversation about being a gay parent in Utah when there's other things to do.

Reminds me of how things used to be, though.

My first professional job (if you don't count my 5 years as lumber yard stock boy) was for the US Bureau of Mines. It was my first job in a lab and I was thrilled to be hired as I was working towards my BS.

I hit it off great with my boss. It was just him and me in the lab and we talked a lot and I enjoyed his company, along with the invaluable experience I was getting. But about a week into it we were having lunch together and were talking about a training session I'd have to complete, part of which was diversity training.

This comes out of his mouth:

"Let me warn you, the poor woman conducting the class has a fag for a son. She went on and on about his disgusting lifestyle. It was all I could do to keep from telling her her son will be burning in Hell."

Now I have to say, I am ashamed even today for what I did then. I changed the subject, and didn't let the force of what had happened affect me until I got home. Everything was going so great; I loved my job, and, worse, I really liked my boss before this... I didn't speak up the next day. It's funny thinking on it now, because I thought that my similar experience at Boy's State was a turning point for me. I mean, this is even after I manhandled a bigot right in the student union. But I failed here. I guess I've 3 big mistakes as a gay man: Boy's State, the other one, and this.

And it gets worse. Rob and I were getting married that summer, and it got back to my boss through other students working there who knew me, but it only got back to him in part. He, in his eavesdropping, assumed I was marrying a girl. He began a not-so-subtle campaign to be invited to the reception; I mean, who wouldn't invite their boss, right? All the while he'd shoot off an anti-'fag' salvo about once every other week, telling me about their disgusting lives and why they deserve what's coming, in love of course, from Jesus. At some point the work situation became both ridiculous and hostile.

Finally, after a couple months, I couldn't take it anymore and I gave my two weeks notice without a good explanation, and went back to being a stock boy.

But, it gets worse, again.

During my last two weeks, my boss boss took me aside and told me how much he respected me and my work. He went to try to impart some lessons about married life, with sincere emotion--he choked up--and topped it off by giving us a wedding present, an antique crystal candy dish. He was clearly hurt and confused as to why I didn't want him to come to my wedding. I kind of felt sad for him. No, I did feel sad; damn it, I liked the guy, if not for that one thing.

I could have told him then too. I was quitting and had enough for our wedding. Maybe I could have changed his whole world view regarding gays, but I didn't say anything. I just escaped. To this day he doesn't know that he once gave a wedding present to a gay couple 13 years ago. Heck, he's probably in California right now going door to door in support of Proposition 8.

It should never cease to amaze how some people can be antagonistic, bigoted, and yet oblivious to it, even feel like they're your friendly mentor. But it's painfully common. Conservative churches take on this PC stance quite often, from the inquisitioner loving the sodomite to death, to the churches of today loving families headed by same-sex couples out of equal protections. It must feel better to hurt a person while feeling love rather than hate for them, but you're still hurting a person and the love is only for your benefit. But, eh, we've been over this ground before.

Thankfully, I'm at a point in my life where I'm the one with the doctorate. That was the last job I took without introducing my family right away, and now I don't have to rely on bigots for my family to make a living. I'll never work under those circumstances again and I guess there's value in this experience found in that lesson.

Still, it's easy to be brave when you're strong, right? It's a world apart to be brave when you're weak.

Gaynerations

Generational changes have been on my mind of late. Being a Utah (ex-)Mormon boy, of course, one cannot go too far back, on all sides of my family, before running into pioneers and polygamists. I see my last name comes from a Jacob, baptized into the LDS church in 1833. By his daughter's account he was married to 4 wives, the last 3 marriages performed by the president of his church. He was arrested for polygamy, "went through the persecution of the saints, and knew the pioneer life in its raw."

But it’s not more than a generation after those pioneering progenitors that hints of homosexuals start popping up—The man who never married and is photographed next to his mother looking much too dapper for his time and place, or the woman with no children but a number of sister wives. All that, of course, is speculation; gays were very well hidden back then. There were no gay people in the good old pioneer days, just as there are none currently residing in Iran.

The first gay man I can indirectly verify in my family has to be my great uncle Jack. Sad story, that. I’m sure I benefited for his tragedy in the way it softened my now departed grandfather, the man who baptized me; still, it’s very sad to think of the life of gay men back then. From Jack I can pick out a bunch. There are a handful of gay aunts, uncles, and cousins. Some are out and open and others are quietly gay. One still feels the need to call his partner his “business” partner in their small town. He still lives under some of the pressures that my great uncle faced, but has found a compromise that works for him. They are almost all, in that generation before me, still somewhat skittish about talking of their orientation, even though they’ve made it apparent.

And no worries, I’m not outing anyone. I’ve enough family that to say some are gay is next to saying there’s a gay man somewhere in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir (not that I'm saying I know one of those too... [cue ominous minor organ chord]).

When I came out, I knew none of this, of course. I thought I was the homosexual in state of Utah. It was about a couple years after I came out to everyone when family began coming up to me to express our similarity. Some would come out somberly, with a hand on my arm, and a difficult paragraph about their experiences. Something like, “I know what you’re going through. I have cancer too.” Others just let it blurt out with a joke. One just laughed and said after dropping vague, confusing hints all day, “You didn’t think you were the only one in the family, did you?” as if I would have been egotistical enough to imagine that (Err… I did imagine that I was, though).

To the point, I'm glad they're their, as family, in my genealogy. But, as gay family, I was never given the opportunity to learn from them, until after I had my coming out trials settled and didn't need help, particularly from those still, sadly, much more closeted and scarred than I was.

Now, regarding the next generation, I am an uncle more than 30 times over and have many younger family members of other sorts. They all know I'm gay; they all know Rob and I are married, and that their cousins have two dads. And I know some of them are gay too, even if they don't, yet. Some of them are just now old enough to head off to missions, get married, and, it turns out, come to terms with their orientation.

I'll leave even gender out of this, just in case, but the first relative of that next generation has recently come out to our family. I think I imagined helping them through those tough times in a way I wasn't helped, but it didn't work out that way. They struggled on their own, and then came out to my parents, and eventually us. I was heartened to be told we were a big help, just by us being here and paving the way in the family, but still I was a bit sad they didn't think they could come to me sooner.

When I think on it more, though, I don't think I would have either, even if I knew of my gay relatives. Some fights really have to be your own, and in that state you don't really want influence as you don't really know where you should end up. At least I could be there at the finish line. They asked to join us for their first Pride festival a couple weeks ago, and they did with our whole group, which included other family, friends and some mohos. I hope it wasn't intimidating.

Anyway, where was this going? I'm not sure. Something about generations?...

Eh, I'm tired having been kept up most of last night with one of my kid's foot stubbornly pressing on my ribs... Anyway, it will be interesting how the rest of that next generation handle their orientation; the fact that they are now entering gay adulthood gives new urgency for me in my [gulp] activism. Also, I'd pay big bucks to read the genealogical accounts of my generation 200 years from now, from the perspective of our great great grandkids. I wonder if Jacob and his four wives ever imagined I, their progeny, would be thumbing through his life story... and posting about it on my blog, with my husband at home taking care of our two children?

Probably not...

They Were Just Snapshots

It's easy to forget--maybe even preferable--what it was like to be that kid, coming to terms with his orientation. I was that kid, now, about two decades ago.

This was the closest picture I could find to the time; me at 15:Sure, I may look gay then; just keep in mind it was the 80's.

Some explanation: It's nearing my parents' birthdays, and the boys were coloring them each a picture. They are adorable works of art, of course: Alan fishing with grandpa, Brian in a field with grandma near a very short rainbow, and so on. When they finished, we decided to look for a frame in our cupboard of memorabilia and I came across a clear reminder of those bleak days.

A stagnant stream; I can remember this exact moment. I took this picture in the undeveloped lands just behind my childhood home. I remember walking to this stream, each step counting off a "This isn't happening; I'm not attracted to men", as if the more I reran that fiction in my head the more it would be true. I was completely alone, knew no other gay person, and I was a melodramatic mess, so much so that it's kind of funny to me to think of it today.

Once it hit me that I'd come out of puberty unlike any other kid I knew, I spent most of my free time in places I knew I'd not see another person. I'd walk for hours though the fields and mountains trying to distract myself with photography. But by the tone of the pictures, I apparently didn't escape the mood:
a foreboding dead tree...

Ruins...Is it just me projecting, or is that mood almost too on the nose :-).

Oy, and after the melancholy photography, then there was the angry industrial music.

I guess the stages of grief are supposed to be:

1. Denial.
2. Anger.
3. Bargaining.
4. Depression.
5. Acceptance.

I kind of went 1, 4, 3, 2, and then 5.

I began composing some very angry music, aping bands like NIN. I hated myself; I hated the way I was treated by my local culture; I wanted out. Hard to believe, but it really is a bit amusing in retrospect, to look back on such fury. My intractable problem was merely a period of work. My doomed soul and bleak looming future was just a phantom. My parents, who, to my great shame, I was sure would not love me if they knew me, were still my parents. In my defense, I didn't know what it was like to love as a parent back then, but still...

I wasted years being either sad or angry, years most people look back on with fondness. Young gay men of the world, don't do the same. It may seem impossible, but there is a way through. You may think you've lost something in your familial future, but it will be there when you're ready and all the more precious. You may have been cheated and lied to by leaders you thought you could trust and a culture of which you thought you were a part, but nearly no human leaves their life without hurting a person they imagined they were helping. The intent isn't there and the anger does nothing to help you find peace or help them find what's right. I know it's hard to let it go, and you really shouldn't in full; indignation can get some things done. But when it has nothing to get done, when you feel it when you are alone, late at night, it'll just eat at you.

I'm glad to have to work to remember those days.

Anyway, I took those pictures out of their frames. I scanned them into my digital life record, and there they'll sit, on my hard drive. The frames will be given to my parents on their birthdays, with the drawings my children made for them enclosed. Sure, I love it when the poetry of the universe is subtle and complicated, but I don't mind when it's blatant, cheesy, and sentimental either; not at all.

God Save the Queen

Gays, of course, come in all sorts of flavors. I’ve been thinking about some of my more so-called effeminate brothers.

In high school, I never came out to anyone but my family and friends, those I could trust. I suppose I also came out to the gay youth group held at the Stonewall Center and there were kids from my school there, but we kept each other’s secret. Simply, I came out early, but I don’t count myself as brave. I was very cautious and was consequently never harassed in High School. I was called a couple names soon after, in college, once I stopped caring about who knew what. By then I’d built my confidence back up enough to put a quick end to the harassment.

But there were gay kids there in my High School who were out, out and flaming. They weren’t out in the sense that they told people they were gay; they didn’t need to. They were gay and also innately effeminate men, and they took no steps to hide that fact. Rather they, at some point past middle school, went with their true self, gave up trying to fit in, and chose the brunt of the bullies for it. I could naturally and, to my shame, did pass. Now, I never did anything as cliché as call them a fag, or fake a laugh when they were shoved; my distaste for such was clear. But I didn’t go out of my way to defend them (or myself) either. I kept my social currency for myself; I hid.

I wish I had a different High School story to tell, but that’s it. I hid in plane view; I passed when I could have helped. I’m not comfortable thinking on what that says about me, but it’s a sure way to motivate myself to speak up today.

Those “queens” who’d not back down do deserve respect. They went to school every day and endured taunts and physical abuse, and they kept coming when most kids would’ve crumbled. They dressed how they wanted and they openly were who they were regardless; they didn’t give in or hide. They didn’t letter in any sport, win any elections, go to any dances, or use "girlfriends" as cover. In fact, as the months went on they became more and more defiant in the face of social pressure, while I publically played the part until college.

I find it funny such men are sometimes called pansies, an ironically hearty flower. They had more courage than anyone in my High School, any jock running down the field, any cheerleader at her tryouts, any academic taking on another AP course. Anyone. Though I’ve a nature the majority can swallow a bit better, there came a day when I’d learn to hate passing, and I’m very glad to now be in the camp of the "queens" of this world. I suppose in my experience many of those kids grew up to become my bad cop counterparts in the gay community, but I respect them nonetheless, even when we fight over how to approach a problem. After all, "pansies" really know how to stand their ground, and more firmly than the average man of any sort.

Done

I mentioned I was busy with some vague professional issue in addition to all the other stuff, but didn’t explain in full why it meant I should take a total break from blogging. Now that I’m done with the biggest project, aren’t out of town, or building a play ground, I can take a breath, and I guess I should write a bit in this blog, huh?

This may be a boring tale but hey; it's a blog. In short, a while ago I put my business on the back burner, and decided to go back to my PhD work.

I began my PhD with a good deal of enthusiasm for my career. I was all about science, my office was full of novel inventions, and depictions of data were my idea of a creative outlet. Okay, maybe I still get off on beautiful graphs and microscopy images; I’m queer that way. Point is, that was one of my main concerns in life, moving that boundary of ignorance by whatever fraction I could.

A couple things changed that.

Right away--I’m talking the first month of my PhD research--I discovered something quite unexpected and a bit exciting; something that I probably could have gotten into Nature or Science at the time. This may sound like a lucky break for an aspiring young candidate. Not even close. I was met with strong skepticism from the professionals in that field of study, and was not able to publish for it. I was just a student, and Protein X, by the current understanding of proteins like X, wasn’t supposed to do what I was reporting in my findings.

The reaction was strong enough that I began wondering if I was fooling myself. But after a lot of work, I could find nothing wrong with my analysis and neither could my advisor. I even developed a whole new and independent method of analyzing such data, just to get confirmation on the first method.

Now, I don’t want to come off as complaining. Science should be harsh to new ideas, even mine ;-). If they survive testing then that’s great; if they don’t then that’s great too. The goal should be truth, not proving a particular belief true, and so I’d not want to have rushed it. Nevertheless, if you’re a PhD candidate, my advice would be to, at the start, stick closer to the “known” realm of that border of knowledge than the “unknown” ;-).

In the last couple years all that changed. Firstly, I learned how to explain my methods in a way most folks in that slim area of study could best understand, and I learned from them what could be going on to cause Protein X to do what I was saying it did, and how to say it in their jargon (sadly, very important). We can’t all, of course, be experts in everything and these are the problems of interdisciplinary research.

But more importantly here, established and reputable researchers began publishing findings similar to mine on related proteins. Now it wasn’t just some PhD student; it was a good deal of literature saying that proteins like X can behave in the way I was reporting. Alas, now my findings aren’t near controversial.

Sure, I really wish I could have published before they all did, when I first had my findings. But that’s the way the culture of science goes, and it admittedly should work that way. In the end, my results survived and are now “good work.” It just sucks that having a success too soon could mean a delay :-).

Then there is the biggest reason things changed for me: our kids. When they were born, my career went from a source of pride to the thing I do for them, the thing I do until I can get home to see them. I don’t care to have my name on some equation anymore or to be the first to pin down a certain phenomena. Being a parent numbed the sting of the above resistance quite a bit, but it also numbed my urgency to force my findings through.

I simply got much more work done before they were born and stuff like walks around the neighborhood with them became a priority. Once they were here, I took months off to help Rob care for them. Then I started a company and focused on what that could get my family, with my PhD moving to the backburner.

Though I'd certainly not change a thing, it is something to keep in mind if you're thinking of having kids while climbing your particular ladder. Your career will take a back seat, save for where it helps them.

Anyway, I decided last spring that, with the new friendlier climate for my findings and the boys headed to kindergarten, I was going finish my PhD. I wrote a 200-something pain in my neck of a dissertation that I don’t care to reread ever again and sent it out to my committee. A couple days ago I stood in front of those five professors and defended my work. This was stressful, but much easier than I anticipated. When I was done they had me leave the room, whilst they did their secret doctorate chant or something. I was soon asked to come back in and was told I passed, and unanimously. I’m also pleased to say I didn’t have to make any changes to my dissertation. I kind of feel now like I put too much effort into the work and could have gotten away with what I had years ago, but hey. It’s done.

So that’s it. The rest is paperwork. Sort of anticlimactic :-).

Unfortunately, with this done, though, I can’t say I’m back to blogging. I still have to get the final version to the library and am in the midst of writing another proposal. In a way it seems free time will be less available now than it ever has been. At least as a “student” with my little company I had things I could put off, like my dissertation. Now most of the things I’ve got have deadlines :-).

Anyway, after some emails and nostalgia, I just wanted to explain my not being here a bit better and to share in the good news (If I had failed to pass I’d just have claimed to have been working on our sandbox for the past 3 months ;-)).

Once my carpal tunnel calms down I think I’ll write some of the posts I’d have written in last couple months. Man, I can’t believe I was absent for the whole Larry Craig thing!

I’d Do It All Over Again Again

As I’ve said, I’ve been married a couple times now, of course, each time to the same person (Never been divorced though :-)). The first time, well over a decade ago, was never legal, but it was by far the most important. Then we started a family, Rob quite his job and became a homemaker, and suddenly the law became quite important.

To that end, another tying of the knot was done during the national panic over gay marriage. I admit, we jumped the gun there, anxious to get the legal aspects. We were too naive also as to think it could hold. Maybe we should also have thought more about the backlash, but we knew it was already well on its way by then and it felt like, if we didn’t do it when it was offered, we’d miss our chance.

So a couple weeks after San Francisco’s city hall began giving gay couples licenses, we decided to do it. Rob spent nearly all day redialing the phone number before he got through and got an appointment for a month later.

When the day came, we decided to just fly in and fly out and we left the boys with their grandparents. Once there, we walked up to city hall absolutely nervous. The exterior was so quiet that we disbelieved we were in the right place. It looked nothing like it did on the news and we expected to have to at least sprint through a pack of wild-eyed protesters. Seems they got tired and went home.

As we entered, though, things were far from quiet, and far from hostile. San Francisco’s city hall is a beautiful spacious building and the main hall was full of palpable love, people making vows, cheering, crying. It was a spiritual experience if I’ve ever had one. Couples were there from all over the United States, and all incredibly nice and grateful.

When our time came, though, we were asked for our witness to come forward. We’d left never thinking of the help we’d need. We had none.

Fortunately, an elderly woman who, by her dress, one could have mistaken for an RNC chairwoman, noticed our stammer at the question and she took on the job. She was actually a retired grandmother from some small town about an hour away, and had been there all week, volunteering because she wanted to be a help in that step in history. Another woman, there for near the same reason as the first, would be our photographer. On top of that, we were given a beautiful bouquet of flowers. People from all over the world were sending flowers to be given out to the couples getting married; they were stranger just wanting to congratulate another set of strangers. Ours were from a family in Canada. Needless to say, it was all incredibly touching.

So we stood on the steps in this great hall. We said our vows once more, and kissed, and were overcome with the emotion, as is my habit :-). The crowd cheered and congratulated and we were given that official looking piece of paper telling us the state of California would respect our vows as any other citizen’s and hold us to our promises.

It was a great experience and I can’t say I regret it, even knowing what I know now. It was, in many ways, a very different experience than our first marriage, of course. There was no home full of friends and family, no caterer, no tuxedos, no promise of a great celebration to follow. We were alone in that town again, as were were a couple years before at one of the saddest days in our lives. I think we didn’t want to make a big deal of it, for the fear of encroaching on the original day, but it was special. Some aspects were surprisingly the same; there we were, making those vows, again. To just say it has great power, even if the vows aren’t in need of renewal.

Lastly in this story, as we were leaving Mayor Newsom, the guy who started giving out the marriage certificates in the first place, was coming in the door (yeah, too bad about the infidelity…). Anyway, he stood for a picture with us. It's unfortunate, as you can see, that a giant pigeon, wouldn’t you know it, flew right in front of the camera blocking our faces, but you get the idea ;-). Pigeon aside, it was a great day.

Ultimately, though, someone went to court. Someone argued that we shouldn’t have those rights or responsibilities, and they won. We’d have all that right now, but our sex was checked and, on a sad day months later, we received a letter in the mail telling us we were officially “single” again, forcibly evicted from legal matrimony. The letter was phrased nicely and the city of San Francisco offered to send back the fee they collected. We donated the money to HRC, seemed fitting.

I still keep that letter and that voided license as a significant piece of memorabilia. I’ll some day show it to my kids, and, hopefully, they’ll listen to stories about these days in philosophical disbelief.

Anyway, that’s not the last time I’ll be hitched, of course. [gulp] I’m engaged again :-).

One may think it would be old hat by now, but no. To assure your spouse you’d marry them over again, that you want to be responsible for and rely on them, and in such practical terms, is mooving for any relationship, I’m sure (but still, no, I didn’t buy an engagement ring. :-)).

We’ve decided we’ll be headed up to Vancouver at our next opportunity (if their law stands).

Now, I know--I keenly know-- It won’t be enforceable once the plane sets us back in Utah, but at least it’s one more tangible piece of evidence as to what my intentions are, if something were to happen to me. It's one more set of promises, another excuse to say them and hear them said, and in front of witnesses who will hold us to them. And maybe it’s one more legal connection that would be honored, if US and Utah law is someday made friendlier to our home (or if it gets so bad here we find ourselves crossing the 49th parallel in the dead of night ;-)).

Man, we should start asking for wedding presents each time; we could make a fortune...

Rubber Ring

I see in the paper Morrissey will be in concert here on Tuesday.

Ah Morrissey… I own a piece of the man’s shirt you know :-). A very close close-up of it is right to the right there.

He threw the clothing into the audience at the last concert of his I attended (about 16 years ago!). The crowd pounced on that quarry and my friend tore off a piece. We split the bit he snatched, as per our pre-concert agreement. Now, that sounds insane, but the mood of the place was insane. When we left that place I can remember looking down at the pile of disregarded seating, metal chairs, some even bent by the crowd. I wasn’t proud for my actions as part of a wild mob that night, not to mention so much wanting a bit of a stranger’s shirt (stop laughing at me!).

Before I came out, up to middle school, the only music I ever listened to was school approved; that meant classical or hymns. My parents had no rule in the area, but I’d been convinced anything else was right out of Hell. I remember taking the UTA bus home one day in 8th grade and a kid had me listen to his Violent Femmes tape. I debated weather or not to attempt an exorcism on the spot.

That changed a bit when I left the safety of Christian schooling. Friends got me into what would be called classic rock, I guess: The Who, Pink Floyd, etc… I had no idea what the lyrics were actually about, of course, or I’d never have listened. Then I began dating (girls). One girl I dated for quite a while turned me onto more modern music, and one of her favorite bands was The Smiths (No, not a goth girl, just one with a difficult family). But when I first heard The Smiths I was sure Morrissey was of the Devil. I hated the self-centered melancholy and thought I needed to save her from such dark influence; I was righteous that way ;-).

This poor girl would get no help from me though. My orientation was more and more insistent with each micromolar rise of teen hormones in my veins, and our relationship only made the reasons I couldn’t end up on the common path with a woman all too stark. I began a full on campaign against my self. I’d walk miles in the mountains, each step counting off an “I’m not gay.” Sometimes it felt like the desperation could knock me back and pin me down; my chest always felt physically tight with it and I wasn’t sleeping. I began to fear even the drive to school, for the ease that route offered by which I could turn the car off a cliff. I was in no place to have such opportunities, even when I knew I didn’t want them.

Simply, The Smiths began to sound reasonable.

I recalled my Boy’s State story a while ago, where I’d just accepted being gay and was put in the midst of debate to ban gays from Boy’s State, here. I didn’t turn out a hero there either, but by that time the soundtrack to my life had become all Morrissey, all the time. I am the son, I am the heir of nothing in particular… I will live my life as I will undoubtedly die, alone… this is the fierce last stand of all I am..… The rocks below say through your skinny body down, son, but… the hills are alive with celebrate cries… the luck I’ve had could make a good man turn bad… I know I’m unlovable… I want the one I can’t have… Love, peace, and harmony, maybe in the next world…

It was perfect :-). And if I could talk to the front man of The Smiths today, I’d tell him that and, really, with all sincerity. To have some company, even this imagined sort, in a problem no one could ever know about was very important for me. There were no blogs, no support groups I knew of for me, in those days; I was pretty sure I was the only gay kid in my city. And having this false conversation with someone I could only imagine empathized, it was a limited help but it did help get me through those days.

These days, if I ever hear Morrissey, he comes through only when the player is set run randomly through my collection, but when he does come up such sad sentiment often puts a smile on my face. Part of it is for how ridiculous my past self appears to hindsight. How simply I could have resolved all that by coming to my family and friends sooner, instead of wasting so much time feeling sorry for a “curse” I’d blown out of proportion. I look back and it makes me laugh at how serious and dire I felt about my orientation. Don't get me wrong; it is very understandable to be overcome at that perspective, but looking back there is simply a bit of nostalgia and amusement at my misunderstanding, and poor judgment of distance. The greater part of the amusement is found in that distance travelled; that curse that had me physically ill with fear and worries turned into a blessing.

It must have been in the summer of my 17th year when I went home clutching a piece of some stranger’s shirt. I met my Rob that fall and everything changed; a new set of sign posts in my life became as clear as day.

So, it turns out Rubber Ring was a work of prophesy, if not a bit insulting :-). Sure, maybe the most impassionate song was outgrown. Sure, I’m older now and a clever swine, and I’ll not likely be going to another Morrissey concert or buying another CD. But I’ve not forgotten the songs that saved my life, as he’d put it and always far more dramatically than I.

“And when you’re dancing and laughing
And finally living
Hear my voice in your head
And think of me kindly"

Fair enough, Morrissey; you got it. And I hope you're still in the mood to toss your shirt to some other young gay Utahn tomorrow night (if young gays in Utah still know who Morrissey is ;-)). I still love and very much appreciate my little purple piece of memorabilia, though now for very different reasons :-).

Set Back

I’ve not had near my fair share of misery in life, being gay and in Utah and all :-). But, on the topic of becoming a parent, I’m already well into self-indulgent territory, and I did mention a “setback.” This period of “expecting” contains some of our greatest joys, the indescribable sort that could make any challenge worth every bit, and by astronomical units. And Hey, I see a fellow blogger is going through one such time right now!

But there were those trials, for the eventual ends to soothe. I can’t really say the whole process was much more difficult in the area of building a family than it is for a great many couples, but it was the last time I actually sobbed (not cried though, those who know me will tell you I cry over my family, or sappy media too often :-)).

Something happened during this period that I can’t talk about in full in such a venue. Sadly, though, the incident’s only record is found roundabout in cold forms that certainly can’t give it near the proper weight from our perspective. I want to write it out, a bit, while I’m on the topic. It needs something more, and the kids, if they eventually read this, will understand in full.

We had what we now euphemistically refer to as a setback. We knew this could happen when we began our efforts to become parents. It wasn’t extraordinary. The occurrences around it were, in full, something greatly the odds in our particular case, but the single result that really hurt was not near enough uncommon for any couple hoping to become parents by any means. To only go through it once I should count ourselves as blessed.

I think I said before, in this period of our lives, it was as though everything hung in suspended animation, anticipation for parenthood. It did; everything was about her, him, or them, having no idea for whom we’d become parents. That was near all we thought about, all we talked about, all we read about and prepared for.

It seemed all was going well too, but then we got this call, and we were asked to come in and sit down. We were told where our world was focused there was next to no reason for hope. We were back to square one, just like that. Rob went to tears at the news, as was reasonable, but I didn’t. I knew, right then so clearly, I had the other job in this union; over the years I had taken on the role of the other sort of personality.

Thinking on it, it really is how I now react to any threat to my home, be it direct, person to person (or coyote to person :-)), or merely from an odd sound in the house at night. Without trying, I switch off emotionally and go on automatic, be it in either brainstorming solutions or meticulously hunting through the house. Sometimes though, that’s completely the wrong way of handling a problem, and, for those instances, I rely on Rob. It’s funny how, in a couple, certain jobs are there for the taking, no matter the couple’s makeup. Division of labor works well and, gay or no, people gravitate into the roles that best compliment the union. I have mine; Rob has his.

So that news hit me like a kick to the chest, but I put the feeling away, put my arm around Rob, and went into that now familiar mode. I looked up at the bearer of bad news, somberly shot off my questions, and took our notes. What exactly happened? What to do now? What’s best? How to avoid this? What next?…

After that we went for a long and needed walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ll never forget that feeling: just the two of us, together and both far more down than we’d ever known the other to be. We were wounded and moving amongst those tourists. We were walking, and moving on from that loss, planning, regrouping, pushing and pulling each other back up. It was clear we were alone in that city at other’s reaction to the news, and that actually felt like a bit of perfection in the problem. We should be alone, in such an instance; the tourists and the joggers and even our friends shouldn’t touch it. We didn’t even call family until the next day. It was he and me, always R and me. There are potent times in a union when it’s as though you can’t feel yourself anymore; you feel as a couple, and this was one of those times. We didn’t even need to say it. I knew where he was and he knew me and we knew we’d repair and push on; I could feel it even then as substantively as I could sense him next to me in that cold fog on the Goled Gate Bridge.

But we got this piece of terrible information, telling us there was no hope left where near all our hopes were set, and I didn’t stop to feel the whole of it. My mind was, again, to fix it, to make sure all the details were handled. For our situation, I even needed to put on a smile and upbeat demeanor the very next day (if you’re reading this, boys, ask me about the flags; I'm sure time, by now, has made it a funny story). Anyway, we did fix it, to the extent it was possible. We picked up the salvageable pieces and put it all back together and started again the very next day. And it all worked out, and wonderfully, beautifully, miraculously, magnificently.

Still, this happened. It’s a part of us, a part I hardly ever talk about but it’s something I carry around with all the other extremes of our lives. It’s a low point I guess I want to carry around.

About two weeks after this all happened and parenthood was inevitable again and back on track, I was on the phone with a friend. I explained to her the events and she pushed the issue, poking into my feelings on the matter. I was philosophical about it; I diminished the event into "whatever will be will be", but she could tell I was blocking. She pushed until I broke into tears myself, finally. I had to swallow the emotion too soon and I finally let myself feel the event and it hurt and it was absolutely cathartic at once. Once Rob got home I found him and let it all go. We were okay, he was okay, the problem was as remedied as possible, and I finally realized I could give up. It’s good to keep some really pushy friends about :-).

Looking back on that day now, it really is strange how you can, after so many years, still miss something that was never there, never possible. It’s stranger still that I can be simultaneously and eternally grateful that we have had that “setback”. If not for that, we’d have suffered the even greater loss of where we are today. And, in a way, it feels worse that we’d never have known or felt it.

Humans are odd things…

Proud of You

In many stories of coming out, I’ve noticed a continuing thread: the fear of parent’s loss of pride. Coincidentally, L’s post today seems to be on a similar topic. It got me to thinking of an incident last summer with A.

My kids started soccer last year with their school friends. Unfortunately, we never got B on the field; fine, I want him to be a swimmer like his Pop anyway :-). My little A went up right away, though, but soon got chided by the coach for picking up the ball. He ran back, upset, and didn’t want to try again. I encouraged, and (maybe) pushed, along with R and the grandparents. “It’ll be fun,” “Look at all your friends out there”, “just try it again” and so on…

Eventually A got out there but wouldn’t chase the ball. The coach had me come out to encourage some more. Eventually the ball came near him and he kicked it hard. I was very happy he finally got past that barrier. But that emotion must have been on my face, and I fear it was too big of a change. He looked up and went to one of his biggest smiles, but I could see then his eyes had been welling up. He asked, first time ever, “Are you proud of me Papa?”

Those cloaking up muscles in the throat reacted immediately. Proud?! At 4, what does he know about proud, care about proud? Was he about to cry because he thought I was disappointed in him? I felt knocked down by his question and I picked him up, hugged him, and told him yes, I’m very proud of him, that he’s a wonderful little boy. He laughed and went on, happily playing the rest of the season from there.

At that moment I was keenly reminded again of the danger in being a parent. You always know it’s there; you know you have a lot of power, but when you let it spill out inadvertently it really hits you. I mean, was I making him cry over kicking a ball?

Kids seem to come disposed to caring deeply about what their parents think. It makes perfect sense, pragmatically; it’s a large part of how children survive to become the next generation. It’s useful.

But any person or group given such respect can too easily misuse it. You can cause everything from subtle neurosis to outright psychological abuse. Children easily become experts on what their parents think, and sometimes they hang on even vague interpretations of every odd twitch of their parent’s face, to a debilitating degree. I do hope that will not be our children; it’s something to fear.

It seems to be a tricky borderland between trying to raise happy, healthy, and moral children and abuse of the power you have to do so. But I do believe most all parents never mean to cross that line (sure, some miserable humans do). In the area of gay youth, I have seen this power cause many problems for kids, and I once would come down very angry at the parents. But I’m more inclined today to advocate for slack to be cut, and time to be given. As a first time parent of two, I know I’d hope for the same understanding to be given to me. Being a parent can tricky, and scary, along with wonderful beyond words, but I do believe near every parent means the absolute best for their children.

Ex Com

In chatting, the topic of our current official relation to the LDS church came up. I hadn’t really thought of the implications of what occurred in regards to that topic, but now, thinking on it, it’s an odd story and I have to wonder what it says about the changing LDS policy regarding gay members.

My religious history is spelled out, here and here. Though I’ve left many modes of belief behind at finding them unsupportable, official counting from the bureaucracy of each is a different matter. The LDS church counted me as a member for most of my life, starting from my baptism, and officially counted me in their statistics even when I was holding other faiths.

I didn’t give it much thought, until the marriage debate heated up, and the LDS church began instructing members to act politically against equal rights for our families. We began to feel uncomfortable being counted as members. I mean, to be counted as a member of a group now acting against your home feels wrong for all sorts of reasons, not to mention not believing in its most basic claims, and we simply couldn’t abide by it.

R first tried to do it himself. He sent in our letters, explaining why exactly we wanted to be removed, and nothing happened. He sent another set and got some sort of dismissive reply (I wish I could remember the wording, but alas...). After some runaround on the phone, we gave up.

If I remember correctly, from there we put ourselves out in the media, speaking out against legislation. Regardless, it was no secret before then that we were gay and living together to anyone, not to our families, our neighbors, or our ward. Our Bishop was, in fact, R’s mission companion’s father and he knew well of us there. Yet, no hint of concern was shown anywhere by the church, and seemingly no desire to excommunicate us at all, even once we went from privately gay to activist gay.

Eventually the leadership did it again, and called on members to vote against our families, and that was it for us. We couldn’t be counted as part of a political force aimed at us. This time we did some online research on how, exactly, to be removed as members and found that certain specific items had to be done. It was some Baptist group that had the instructions. They were oddly complicated, but R put the right letters together, with the right wording, and sent them to the right place… But that was not the end of it.

We were asked if the Bishops could come visit us, and we agreed; we kind of knew and liked the guy. So he came. Though such a meeting is actually unnecessary to be removed, we wanted to be cordial.

At the door he was visibly uncomfortable but very pleasant. He came in and small-talked for a while. Then he asked why, exactly, we wanted out. I assumed our reasons would be more than apparent, but we explained it anyway, plainly and respectfully. But at that, he tried to talk us out of leaving. We were two gay men who had been together for a decade, live together in his ward, and speak out for equal rights for our families, and he didn’t want to let us out. Unexpected.

In asking around, I’ve known gay men who’ve been excommunicated for far less of a "gay lifestyle", but many years ago. Although I do know some gay men around these blogs were recently disciplined for their same-sex sexual activities, the cases involved breaking vows, and so I'm left a bit unclear. But it seems something must have changed, and for the better, right?

It actually became a sort of haggle with the local Bishop. He eventually talked us down from excommunication and into something else, the name of which I can’t quite remember (removal? I’ll have to find the paper.). In short, the way he explained it, we’d not be counted as members anymore, but we’d not be excommunicated, meaning, as he pointedly stated, there’d be no disciplinary action if we ever wanted back in.

Anyway, it was a solution we could both live with, though the more aggressive side of me was admittedly let down (I kind of wanted my day in court! If for nothing other than curiosity :-)).

At that we were all happy and we went back to small talk. As he left he expressed his regret for the situation and told us to call him if any of our neighbors gave us any trouble (really, unthinkable as our neighbors were great, but we very much appreciated the gesture). Again, we do very much like the guy, for obvious reasons, and I too wish the circumstances were different, but they are what they are. I was left feeling sorry for the tough position he was in.

So I guess, officially, with regards to the LDS church we’re not really Ex Coms; we’re now just like most of the world, nonmembers and potential converts ;-).

In thinking back on it, I’m struck by the LDS church’s reluctance to excommunicate two open and vocal gay men, such as us, R even being a returned missionary. I wonder if our experience is typical or rare. How much of it was in the hands of local management? It took significant effort to simply not be counted in their statistics, and they really didn’t want to take any steps. Who knows? For us there’d still be the fact that we don’t believe many of the claims of that particular faith, but maybe in our lifetime some families headed by gay couples will be welcomed and accepted in the LDS church, as is, without splitting up. Maybe we’ll show up at the next sacrament meeting with kids in tow and a bag a cheerios to test the waters ;-).

I don’t know, but this seems to be a positive and perhaps recent change in the LDS reaction to gay members, doesn’t it?

Atoll

Of the experiences I’ve had with anti gay bias, only a few have been with people I personally know. I described one in which I committed a physical assault ;-), here. But another actually came from my childhood dentist. He was a friend of the family, of sorts, and always expressed a great deal of respect for me and my accomplishments and so on. I liked him too; I though he was a very smart, friendly, and admirable man. When I was LDS, he was one of the main examples to me of what an LDS man should be.

About a year after I came out to my parents my mom was there getting a checkup. After it was over they started talking about the new sanitary measures he was using in his practice. The topic turned to AIDS. It then turned to gays, at which point my dentist told her that he thought gays should all be shipped off to an island or shot. This was just casual conversation. He had no idea I was gay, and my mom could only chide him without telling him I was, as, at the time, I’d made it very clear I wanted to decide how to come out.

When explaining why we should all change dentists, this is what came out in response to my questions. It had to, else I’d never have understood; I couldn’t remember this dentist not being my dentist and I liked him a great deal. I’d not have believed he’d have said such a thing, if not for the fact that it was my mother’s testimony. So we left, and found a great new dentist. Eventually my old dentist found out I was gay through family friends, figured out why he’d lost our family’s business, and called to apologize and try to get us back. While I appreciated the apology, we certainly couldn’t go back.

Now, just like the other instance I mentioned, I’ve come to find out the guy has been arrested for sexual assault (of the heterosexual sort again). While I know the allegations certainly may not be true or stand up in court (as they did with the other guy), and I know two anecdotes do not count as data, it’s just bizarre this has happened twice now. I’ve only known two people every arrested for sexual assault, and these two men are them. Nevertheless, it’s certainly a tragedy all around.

Mr. and Mr. __________

Having a sort of family makeup just emerging in this culture, a person has to reason out why they want everything from marriage to joint checking, more so than the average person. They have much less of the cultural, and traditional guidance of expectation (but, on the plus side, without the stain and error of such either, as I've written before).

Another such item that came to mind, though relatively minor, is the surname. I've just kind of come to taking it for granted, but many gay couples we know do debate on this to some lengths, and they come to different ends.

A lot of the choices we've made that could be seen as taking a traditional rout had many practical aspects for us, but strong emotional reasons as well. They make absolute sense, but last names didn’t strike us as important on either level for a long while. In fact, this was not a thought for about our first decade together. But once we knew we would be parents it suddenly became another one of those important issues. What last name would our children have? Would it be okay for them to not have one of our names? It really would be far best, at school, at the hospital, and so on, if we all had the same, to avoid hassle and make our situation clearer.

So we decided we had to do it, but how do two men decide who gives up their family name?

It wasn’t as difficult as it sounds, at least between us.

We first thought about hyphenating… and then thought of our great grandchildren ending up with hand cramps for their possible total of eight hyphenated last names :-). No, we narrowed it down to having one last name.

We then thought to merge our names into something new for us both. We came up with a reasonable mix, one that was already extant and didn’t sound too dorky, and we were set to go ahead with that, a new family name for us both.

After of day or so after that conclusion, and looking at what needed to be done to effect this change for us, R came to me. He decided to take my family name instead. I was surprised and tried to talk him back into the new name plan, but he insisted (and I know I didn’t try too hard or long to change his mind :-)). Such a decision really had to be his though.

And I do feel he graciously let me off easy, but, objectively, he was right for many reasons. To change my name meant far more of a bureaucratic struggle, from business documents to various other records he did not have. There were also other fears regarding the heated marriage debate at the time that made us all having my family name seem best. Still, I know it wasn’t an easy decision, and I love him for it every time he’s hassled at the airport for his name change; they just don’t anticipate such :-).

Fortunately, we’re pragmatic in such areas (though, sure, easy for me to say ;-)), and we were off to court. I expected a battle; again, this is Utah. It turns out anyone can change their name as long as it’s not for nefarious purposes, but, to that end, on the form it asked why we wanted to change his name and we, of course, were completely honest with the court. We explained the whole thing. The judge simply read, listened, gave a quick approval and that was it. No fight. Utah deserves my apology, in places :-).

If only that were the end of it, though. About a month later our exact words, our explanation for why we wanted a name change appeared in the paper, in an article about why people change their names. Oh yeah, that’s public record…

Letting the Kids Wonder West of Enoch

Paul asked after this post, here:

“So how are you exposing the boys to religion? ”

I’m taking it as an opportunity to suss things out :-). I did skip the difficult question.

At this age, it’s very basic. What they see everyday is still a bit miraculous and mysterious for them (for me too :-)) and they haven’t shown interest when the topic of the supernatural comes up. We, for example, have talked about the flood story because of a toy ark they have. We’ve talked about grandma’s idea of heaven and God in simple terms. We’ve explained why we are quiet when family prays, and we’ve talked about a couple now-mythical characters, creatures, and Gods. But that’s the extent for now.

When they gain more interest and sophistication, though, I do plan on exposing them in depth to the various religious notions to which I’ve been exposed (well, edited for age, as some of those religious texts can be a bit PG-13 in parts). One of the largest sections of our family library is actually religious texts and modern books on such faiths. I still enjoy reading them and will actively encourage our boys to as well.

But I want to approach this area the way my parents did. My dad is now an atheist, and my mom a deist, but I’ve never felt they’d be disappointed in me for my inquiry or any of my beliefs. Looking back, they must have been bighting their tongues in some places, but from my LDS days to the new agey stuff I felt nothing but support.

I want to let our boys feel they have that; that they can wonder and don’t need to have our views on the supernatural, absolutely not for our love. I also want them to work for it. This is one area where they should not have us hand it to them; they should struggle, succeed, and fail. I’ll certainly answer any question the way I see it, but with the disclaimer and encouragement for them to question.

Advocating freedom and inquiry as much as is safe here seems to me the best way for them to create a strong sense of self and of an earned place in their metaphysics. I think it also fosters greater responsibility for their views and a better ability to free themselves from the psychological snares the camps of human belief tend to build, even those we may unknowingly set. Most importantly, I think such can give them the best odds of approaching the right answer I’m presuming is out there ;-).

It may sound too hands off, but, when I think of my parents, it’s something for which I’m thankful. If I didn’t feel it was okay to try my hand, I fear I may be in a bad place today, not knowing "what if I tried…" I also look at the families I know who’ve been forceful here, and can see some negative results, seemingly as a consiquence.

Often here, though, the question of ethics comes up (Not that you’re bringing it up, Paul, but I’m in motion here :-)). I’ve known many to imagine, if they didn’t have a faith, they’d do all sorts of horrible things. I certainly find that troubling (for those they interact with…) as I don’t think such is or should be necessary for ethics and ethics should survive a person’s loss of faith. Religion does help some, but I think the most valuable morals are those you keep for their sake. I trust a man who is good because he enjoys being good, not so much a man who’s good for fear of punishment or hope of reward aside from the act itself, and the former are the sort of ethical motivations I hope to teach our children, regardless of their religion.

But here is the complicated part, or more complicated. I’ve a serious responsibility here, to make sure my children are ethical, compassionate, fair and so on with the rest of you all, with your children, for everyone’s sake. But religions are in that business too, and some of them take a while to incorporate humanity’s modern moral discoveries and are consequently not always so fair or compassionate. Simply, we may clash, depending on the faiths our boys pick up.

I can certainly see this could be far more complicated for our family, in particular. Lines may have to be drawn (I suppose they were for me as well; I’m near sure I couldn’t have, say, sacrificed a chicken in my bedroom if I had taken up Santeria :-)). After all, the most predominant religion around us would, in a way, ask them to disrespect their home, think of their family as at least second class and doomed in some eternal way. They could harm some of their peers, and themselves, and everyone in our home by taking up such faith. I mean, teaching a child their parents, by being a couple, being affectionate with each other, and even creating their family and perhaps life (?), are conducting "perversion" and "grievous sins" "equal to or greater than that of fornication or adultery" (in the words of the leadership), is something I’d have to defend against.

In fact, it does keep me up sometimes, worrying such ideas could get between us, could dissolve their connection to their family, or undermine their morals, by putting their parent’s union and their family on the same level (or lower than) actions such as cheating. There will be abnormally strong pressure on them to enter the such faith from friends to neighbors to some extended family, and I fear where that could lead us.

Still, while it would worry me, I certainly couldn’t forbid them from making such a move. I'd go to their baptism (it would kill me that we’d not be allowed in to their wedding)... But don't ask me to pay for BYU tuition :-). In any faith they could still have more inclusive views than their leaders, as R’s parents do. But, if they did begin to attack their own family for it, or anyone else for that matter, there’d be a limit; I'd see that destructive action as where my responsibility to somehow get in the way comes in.

Ug, now I’m stressed… Thank goodness we’ve some year to prepare, and for hearts to soften a bit more. Still, I must say, in truth, I’m pretty confident if any faith does get between us it’ll be temporary; I feel I know them and us at least that well :-).

Lastly, Paul asked if we attend services today. Not regularly, to be sure. We were married by the Unitarians, and have gone there for a regular periods, irregularly. We’ve gone to some Episcopal events and sermons as well within the last coupe years. I like both of the churches and congregations. If it were necessary, we’d probably stick with the Unitarians.

But we’ve not really found much reason for it, for us. I’ve heard the reasons many others give, even atheists, as to why they attend a church, but they don’t much apply to us. I’ve explained my view on imparting ethics, but, in addition to that, we already have a large community of friends for social support. As far as family goes, to attend most services means taking that time away from family for us, as Sunday is spent near all day with extended family (the heathen side, mostly, but the others drop by too :-)). In addition, we have numerous volunteer activities to take care of that need. But, importantly, in the case of, say, the Episcopals, we don’t believe much of what’s being presented as fact, and, though we do appreciate the intent and the message often, being there feels like an endorsement of what we see as very likely false, even if they’d not care and are gracious enough to have us there anyway.

Besides, none of us could sing a hymn on key to save our lives.