Over the phone on Christmas morning, I can hear the stifled laughter in my sister’s voice. She knows the answer, but she asks the question anyway and she can’t wait for me to hear the punch line. She is high. Why, she asks, don’t gays like Christmas?
Well, obviously plenty of us like it, even a little too much. All the decoration and shopping are a ready draw to the stereotypical homo. The opportunity to be fabulous is too good to resist, and the season of sparkly lights, fur coats, and musical numbers is a perfect excuse. I mean, really. What could be more glorious than to wear nothing but a pair of red velvet hotpants, a Santa hat, and white fur handcuffs on the holiest day of the entire Christian year? It’s definitely something to be Merry about.
Still, my sister says, contemporary gays aren’t as stereotypical as they once were, and come Christmas, we’re just not very merry.
Admittedly, she may have a point. Excuses aside, Head Chef and I did nothing for ourselves for Christmas, save for the handful of obligatory parties. We neither exchanged gifts nor made a feast. We mocked the Frat House when a tree, beautiful though it was, showed up one day. A friend even sat home with his boyfriend and watched movies and ate – get this – Burritos. Seriously. So it’s easy to see how the next great stereotype of the homosexual is that we hate Christmas. And honestly, many do.
But my sister’s theory as to why is wonderful. Gays are generally happy, she says. We party a lot, we have close groups of friends, and our careers go through the roof. We enjoy life to it’s fullest, goes her reasoning, and we even describe ourselves with a word that is synonymous with merry.
And that little semantic bit is the crux of her argument. How can someone be more merry if essential happiness is an integral part of his identity? It can’t be done, because we’re already so damned happy and gay that additional gaiety would simply be overload. Thus we cannot love Christmas.
Obviously, there are ample opportunities to shoot holes in her amusing theory. But there may also be a shred of truth to it. If so, I think I just might choose to believe.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Why Homophobia Will Kill Straight People
I read a couple of articles recently that put me in this frame of mind.
Men who have sex with men have been in the news lately. They’re MSMs, called this because they engage in sex with other men but don’t think of themselves as gay or even bisexual. Turns out that people who aren’t “out” tend to have more unprotected sex than those who can comfortably talk about their activities. So then, homophobia and other forces that keep MSMs in their closets act to encourage the spread of HIV.
And this is reason number one why homophobia will kill straight people.
Picture yourself as John Nobody, a guy who’s been brought up in an atmosphere where gays are bad. Suppose (just for argument’s sake) that regardless of how you feel for women, John, you also have an interest in other men. But gays are bad. What do you do? Do you lie to your family, friends, and co-workers and tell them you’re straight? Yes, you do. Do follow tradition and marry a woman? Yes. Yes you do. And do you stop having sex with men?
Well, see, that’s a point of debate. But if you asked a straight man to give up women, you might encounter resistance. So some men, regardless of whether or not they date women, date men too. These closeted men have sex with other men and keep it on the down-low, or L.D., meaning they keep it quiet. This suits a lot of people just fine.
But let’s keep in mind that in keeping their relationships with men on the L.D, they’re also staying in the closet. Statistically, this means that they’re more likely to engage in riskier sexual behaviors than the stereotypical party boy or the nice gay couple that lives down the street. And if they contract HIV, they’re likely to pass it to the women they have sex with. Not just other MSMs, but wives, girlfriends, etc.
Scary. But why would they take those chances? Lots of reasons. Low self-esteem, lack of information. Because Mom and Dad, FOX News, and President Bush are very happy to talk about what’s wrong with gays. These guys end up in so much denial they don’t even think of themselves as anything but straight. In turn, because it’s associated with the gay stigma, these men strategically avoid the very information that could keep them safe.
Reason number two why homophobia will kill straight people. Oh, but see, it doesn’t even end there. Don’t you wish it did? But it doesn’t.
Recently, Gareth Thomas, U.K. Minister for Development, linked anti-gay lyrics in songs with a heightened public dislike for gay people. Further, he says, since everybody knows AIDS is a gay disease, heterosexuals and others give HIV testing a wide berth, refusing to test for something that carries the stigma of homosexuality.
Reason number three.
The circle, as you see, is complete. Focus On The Family teaches people that gays are aberrant, and so closet cases are born. Closet non-heterosexuals engage in risky behavior because they don’t have the information they need to avoid disease and/or because of low self esteem, and become infected. The infected persons continue to play the heterosexual role because they are expected to, but tell no one of their activities and infect their opposite-sex partners. And no one gets tested because of the stigma of homosexuality and belief that AIDS is a gay disease. They, in turn, spread HIV to their other heterosexual partners, and so forth. And voila! AIDS is not a gay disease any more, but instead a heterosexual disease that is spread because the social environment vilifies gays.
I hate to invoke the word justice, but when the fruits of your own misdeeds hurt you, I do think that’s what it’s called.
What’s the lesson for straight people? Encourage gays to come out, support them for who they are, and show no tolerance whatsoever for your peers who don’t. Because perpetuating the current cycle will only make victims of you, your friends, or your children regardless of whether they’re gay or not.
Men who have sex with men have been in the news lately. They’re MSMs, called this because they engage in sex with other men but don’t think of themselves as gay or even bisexual. Turns out that people who aren’t “out” tend to have more unprotected sex than those who can comfortably talk about their activities. So then, homophobia and other forces that keep MSMs in their closets act to encourage the spread of HIV.
And this is reason number one why homophobia will kill straight people.
Picture yourself as John Nobody, a guy who’s been brought up in an atmosphere where gays are bad. Suppose (just for argument’s sake) that regardless of how you feel for women, John, you also have an interest in other men. But gays are bad. What do you do? Do you lie to your family, friends, and co-workers and tell them you’re straight? Yes, you do. Do follow tradition and marry a woman? Yes. Yes you do. And do you stop having sex with men?
Well, see, that’s a point of debate. But if you asked a straight man to give up women, you might encounter resistance. So some men, regardless of whether or not they date women, date men too. These closeted men have sex with other men and keep it on the down-low, or L.D., meaning they keep it quiet. This suits a lot of people just fine.
But let’s keep in mind that in keeping their relationships with men on the L.D, they’re also staying in the closet. Statistically, this means that they’re more likely to engage in riskier sexual behaviors than the stereotypical party boy or the nice gay couple that lives down the street. And if they contract HIV, they’re likely to pass it to the women they have sex with. Not just other MSMs, but wives, girlfriends, etc.
Scary. But why would they take those chances? Lots of reasons. Low self-esteem, lack of information. Because Mom and Dad, FOX News, and President Bush are very happy to talk about what’s wrong with gays. These guys end up in so much denial they don’t even think of themselves as anything but straight. In turn, because it’s associated with the gay stigma, these men strategically avoid the very information that could keep them safe.
Reason number two why homophobia will kill straight people. Oh, but see, it doesn’t even end there. Don’t you wish it did? But it doesn’t.
Recently, Gareth Thomas, U.K. Minister for Development, linked anti-gay lyrics in songs with a heightened public dislike for gay people. Further, he says, since everybody knows AIDS is a gay disease, heterosexuals and others give HIV testing a wide berth, refusing to test for something that carries the stigma of homosexuality.
Reason number three.
The circle, as you see, is complete. Focus On The Family teaches people that gays are aberrant, and so closet cases are born. Closet non-heterosexuals engage in risky behavior because they don’t have the information they need to avoid disease and/or because of low self esteem, and become infected. The infected persons continue to play the heterosexual role because they are expected to, but tell no one of their activities and infect their opposite-sex partners. And no one gets tested because of the stigma of homosexuality and belief that AIDS is a gay disease. They, in turn, spread HIV to their other heterosexual partners, and so forth. And voila! AIDS is not a gay disease any more, but instead a heterosexual disease that is spread because the social environment vilifies gays.
I hate to invoke the word justice, but when the fruits of your own misdeeds hurt you, I do think that’s what it’s called.
What’s the lesson for straight people? Encourage gays to come out, support them for who they are, and show no tolerance whatsoever for your peers who don’t. Because perpetuating the current cycle will only make victims of you, your friends, or your children regardless of whether they’re gay or not.
Monday, December 27, 2004
House!
Head Chef and I have developed a code word for our mutual excitement over the pending acquisition of Our Very Own Hawai’ian House 1.0. Well, it’s more commonly a code phrase, but it’s simple enough to be just one word, or a whole sentence. It started by me gently ribbing his excitement, but ultimately it’s become just another exclamation and we’re both using it to describe our enthusiasm.
It’s sortof like the sentence one can say in Mandarin using only the word "ma." Really, I’m not kidding, I looked it up. It’s "mama ma ma ma man," and it means, "Mom curses the hemp horse for being slow."
Admittedly, Chinese is a more fully realized language. Head Chef and I have only been speaking in code about our house acquisition for a couple of weeks to a month, give or take. I’m not arrogant enough to think that he and I, formidable though our combined intellect may be, are capable of besting the efforts of millions Mandarin speakers over the course of thousands of generations. Our code simply isn’t up to the task of describing mother’s ire over the speed of the pakalolo pony.
Although, let's be honest. If it were sluggish, Mother's frustration would be warranted.
Still, our code is quite adequate for describing the sense of satisfaction of finding the perfect cabinets for the kitchen. Nothing says it better than "house house house." Nor is anything more well-suited to expressing the elation of realizing that we will finally be able to garden again than a simple "house house house house house." But most frequently, "house house house house house house house" is simply the easiest, most efficient way to put into words the eager anticipation we both feel for having our own home again, making something beautiful together, and for being proud of our home and our accomplishments.
Aged though their culture may be, I don’t think even the Chinese could describe it more eloquently.
House house house house house house house house house!
It’s sortof like the sentence one can say in Mandarin using only the word "ma." Really, I’m not kidding, I looked it up. It’s "mama ma ma ma man," and it means, "Mom curses the hemp horse for being slow."
Admittedly, Chinese is a more fully realized language. Head Chef and I have only been speaking in code about our house acquisition for a couple of weeks to a month, give or take. I’m not arrogant enough to think that he and I, formidable though our combined intellect may be, are capable of besting the efforts of millions Mandarin speakers over the course of thousands of generations. Our code simply isn’t up to the task of describing mother’s ire over the speed of the pakalolo pony.
Although, let's be honest. If it were sluggish, Mother's frustration would be warranted.
Still, our code is quite adequate for describing the sense of satisfaction of finding the perfect cabinets for the kitchen. Nothing says it better than "house house house." Nor is anything more well-suited to expressing the elation of realizing that we will finally be able to garden again than a simple "house house house house house." But most frequently, "house house house house house house house" is simply the easiest, most efficient way to put into words the eager anticipation we both feel for having our own home again, making something beautiful together, and for being proud of our home and our accomplishments.
Aged though their culture may be, I don’t think even the Chinese could describe it more eloquently.
House house house house house house house house house!
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Observations
After having worked here for several weeks, I have come to the conclusion that there are extraterrestrials among us. Or even that, more precisely, I am among aliens.
At first, this idea was based only on an amusing little observation. I noticed that although I work in a large cubicle farm where they raise a hundred auditors and tax associates at a time, the bathroom was nearly always empty. Empty in an unused sort of way, almost as though I were the only person who actually had to do the things one does in there.
And so I wondered to myself how it was the other 99 people avoided going to the restroom. I witnessed them eating, so I knew that if their bodies obeyed the same laws of physics that mine does, they had to eliminate waste, too. And yet the bathroom is always empty. How or when were they performing this biological function? How could they avoid the inevitable urge after a venti triple-shot eggnog latte?
Then I began to notice that although these waste-retentive organisms work long days five and six days a week, they all look phenomenal. Although they clearly have no time in their lives for the luxury of exercise or a day spa, their skin is flawless and their bodies are trim.
But not only are their bodies slender, they also look remarkably young. Yes, it’s true many among them claim to be only twenty-plus earth years old, but even the more seasoned members of their species retain a youthfulness that defies the aging effects of years of
stressful working conditions. Just look at how a typical president ages during the course of his tenure to see what I mean. In only four years, a sprightly man emerges aged and tired, exhausted from his ordeal.
But these beings do not show the wear of decades of twelve-hour days under terrible pressure to perform. They look youthful and vigorous. And yet they seem so human, full of the same quirks and many, if not all, of the frailties of humanity.
They may return to their dens in the darkness of night to excrete their purified wastes from wide pores lining their spines. The may watch our solitary moon throughout their sleepless nights, reading audit work papers or communicating with their home world through
exotic miniaturized instruments implanted inside their deeply-folding brains.
But I wonder if they were always this way, and why they would hire a human like me.
At first, this idea was based only on an amusing little observation. I noticed that although I work in a large cubicle farm where they raise a hundred auditors and tax associates at a time, the bathroom was nearly always empty. Empty in an unused sort of way, almost as though I were the only person who actually had to do the things one does in there.
And so I wondered to myself how it was the other 99 people avoided going to the restroom. I witnessed them eating, so I knew that if their bodies obeyed the same laws of physics that mine does, they had to eliminate waste, too. And yet the bathroom is always empty. How or when were they performing this biological function? How could they avoid the inevitable urge after a venti triple-shot eggnog latte?
Then I began to notice that although these waste-retentive organisms work long days five and six days a week, they all look phenomenal. Although they clearly have no time in their lives for the luxury of exercise or a day spa, their skin is flawless and their bodies are trim.
But not only are their bodies slender, they also look remarkably young. Yes, it’s true many among them claim to be only twenty-plus earth years old, but even the more seasoned members of their species retain a youthfulness that defies the aging effects of years of
stressful working conditions. Just look at how a typical president ages during the course of his tenure to see what I mean. In only four years, a sprightly man emerges aged and tired, exhausted from his ordeal.
But these beings do not show the wear of decades of twelve-hour days under terrible pressure to perform. They look youthful and vigorous. And yet they seem so human, full of the same quirks and many, if not all, of the frailties of humanity.
They may return to their dens in the darkness of night to excrete their purified wastes from wide pores lining their spines. The may watch our solitary moon throughout their sleepless nights, reading audit work papers or communicating with their home world through
exotic miniaturized instruments implanted inside their deeply-folding brains.
But I wonder if they were always this way, and why they would hire a human like me.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Living Here
I was reminded sometime last week of how important it is to live here. Not just domicile here, mind you, but really live.
And so that night on my way home from my ten or eleven hour day, I decided that Head Chef and I would go to the beach that very night. I wouldn't hear any protest, and I would assert myself aggressively. We'd change out of our work clothes and get into board shorts. We'd go down to Waikiki and have sushi. And then, like reckless fools with no regard for convention, we'd get in the god damned ocean in the middle of the fucking night! Because we live here, god dammit, we've worked damned hard to get here, and we're going to take the time to reap the reward.
And we did, too. Not for long, but enough. And as always, I felt better.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I periodically have pangs of longing for some friend or other, but today a San Franciscan friend sent me an electronic invitation to his Thanksgiving dinner. On the invitation was a photo of a long table covered in red cloth and bowl after platter of food. All these smiling men were sitting around it, leaning in so as to be seen around the man next to him. So many of them were familiar faces and most were friends. Bearded, high, and rosy-cheeked, they look so content frozen in that moment. Like a group of youthful jolly Santas, and I missed them.
And although I had to decline the invitation because of this Pacific thing between us, I'll call. I hope they're high, too, because it's how they are in my mind's eye.
But if my guess is right, tomorrow I'll be going to look at potential homes. Maybe just a cursory look, even, before Head Chef and I don our sunglasses, our lotions, and head for a beach. Maybe Lanikai, perhaps something more solitary like Waimanalo or even Mokule'ia. We'll lay out on a sheet and soak up sunlight in between bobbing in the waves and splashing the bathwater ocean at one another. This is what we'll do on Thanksgiving day. And although it's incongruent with my lifelong expectations of what happens on Thanksgiving, it's plenty good enough for me.
We'll have dinner later with friends at a restaurant. Good friends. The kind you're excited to find. The kind that, when you look back at a picture of them, you miss them.
Sadly, with the time demands of this new job, I haven't seen much of these friends lately, and they could be gone soon. The partner in my office just set out a new fifty chargeable hour minimum work week, which means more like sixty in the real world. And soon my friends will be gone, and will I have even had the chance to say goodbye, or even take them to the airport?
Today I saw a newspaper article about men who make career compromises so they can have time with their families. It was as though someone at the Honolulu Advertiser wanted to send me a message. But rather than yelling "Get out of my head!!" in the middle of the restaurant, I just nodded to myself. And I sent them a thought.... "don't worry, I'm gonna live here."
And so that night on my way home from my ten or eleven hour day, I decided that Head Chef and I would go to the beach that very night. I wouldn't hear any protest, and I would assert myself aggressively. We'd change out of our work clothes and get into board shorts. We'd go down to Waikiki and have sushi. And then, like reckless fools with no regard for convention, we'd get in the god damned ocean in the middle of the fucking night! Because we live here, god dammit, we've worked damned hard to get here, and we're going to take the time to reap the reward.
And we did, too. Not for long, but enough. And as always, I felt better.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I periodically have pangs of longing for some friend or other, but today a San Franciscan friend sent me an electronic invitation to his Thanksgiving dinner. On the invitation was a photo of a long table covered in red cloth and bowl after platter of food. All these smiling men were sitting around it, leaning in so as to be seen around the man next to him. So many of them were familiar faces and most were friends. Bearded, high, and rosy-cheeked, they look so content frozen in that moment. Like a group of youthful jolly Santas, and I missed them.
And although I had to decline the invitation because of this Pacific thing between us, I'll call. I hope they're high, too, because it's how they are in my mind's eye.
But if my guess is right, tomorrow I'll be going to look at potential homes. Maybe just a cursory look, even, before Head Chef and I don our sunglasses, our lotions, and head for a beach. Maybe Lanikai, perhaps something more solitary like Waimanalo or even Mokule'ia. We'll lay out on a sheet and soak up sunlight in between bobbing in the waves and splashing the bathwater ocean at one another. This is what we'll do on Thanksgiving day. And although it's incongruent with my lifelong expectations of what happens on Thanksgiving, it's plenty good enough for me.
We'll have dinner later with friends at a restaurant. Good friends. The kind you're excited to find. The kind that, when you look back at a picture of them, you miss them.
Sadly, with the time demands of this new job, I haven't seen much of these friends lately, and they could be gone soon. The partner in my office just set out a new fifty chargeable hour minimum work week, which means more like sixty in the real world. And soon my friends will be gone, and will I have even had the chance to say goodbye, or even take them to the airport?
Today I saw a newspaper article about men who make career compromises so they can have time with their families. It was as though someone at the Honolulu Advertiser wanted to send me a message. But rather than yelling "Get out of my head!!" in the middle of the restaurant, I just nodded to myself. And I sent them a thought.... "don't worry, I'm gonna live here."
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