George Love
My
mother was telling me the story of a neighbor’s transgender son. She said he
was going through a dark period, before the light of his new world shined. A
period for me where you’d rather die, and many do choose death, before they get
to their light.
For me looking
back it is a death, a death of the identity according to the world you had
experienced up until that moment. But in the throws of being at war with
oneself some simply don’t have the life experience to recognize and become causalities
of the war with them selves
As
my mother shared his story my heart ached for him. Remembering how difficult a time
I had coming out, and then tried to imagine it being my gender I wanted to
change.
I am grateful for my
struggle. It is the unexpected gift of it being so difficult. I wonder about
young gays today that it’s easier for than twenty years ago because of the more
accepting environment. Perhaps their gift is a more natural, peaceful existence
because of the world created before them..
By those that rose
up through the Lavender Scare in the 50’s, The Stonewall Riot in 1969, and the
AIDS crisis in the 80’s, they are the people who fought on the front lines in
the battle for equality for LGBTQ citizens. Hopefully that is their gift
“That’s
my biggest regret,” my mother said. “That we didn’t create a safe environment
that you felt you could come to us and that it was so difficult for you.”
I
told her not to regret a thing.
It was an illusion
of guilt she had created for herself, and held onto for fifteen years. It
certainly didn’t exist in my world, no resentment toward her or my father. I
couldn’t have had better parents.
“Mom,
society didn’t create a welcoming world, and it wasn’t around me to even know
it existed. How do you be something you don’t know exists? And when I did know
it existed, religion told me it was a sin.”
I told her to remember how impressionable a
9-year-old, the age I was when the Time magazine
cover with AIDS in bold capital letters. It was this mysterious, terrifying
thing out in the world. Imprinted and then associated with the homosexuals a
word that was like Voldemort to say. Along with the righteous preachers, who in
their minds now had proof the gays
were sinners. God was punishing them for their sin with a special gay cancer
that was killing them. Tell that to a
9-year-old. Instill the fear of death and the little gay boy in me went running
deep into the closet.
Boys were with Girls. It was everywhere around
me. There was nothing else. The other imprint of gay to my mind was that it
made Mr. Furley nervous, on guard with Jack because he was “gay,” and something
that could be laughed at, according to the audience.
Gay: (n) A person to be afraid of, on
guard with when near. Something to laugh at that was also a sin punished by God
with an awful death.
That was how the
beginning definition of what gay meant began to form in my child’s mind from
the world I lived in during those moments in the 80’s
But in the battle between humanity and being
humane there are those people that come and try to suppress or control you. But
also those that are sent to help lead you away from the ignorance and evil that
wants to eradicate you.
For me it was upon
my eighth birthday that one such person appeared from the heavens behind my TV
screen. A most unexpected gift, one that can only be received once in one’s
lifetime: first crush.
Mine arrived with the
release of his video on 14 May 1984, like a comic book Wham! Singing “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” so energetically just
to me was George Michael. The words would echo for years from my heart’s plea
with my head to wake up!
Right from the
beginning the bold-faced capital letters of his shirt screamed
CHOOSE
LIFE
Two words that my subconscious
would store and shout fifteen years later just as bold during dark moments when
I hoped death would choose me.
From the first thrust
of his hips, the double snap, and the frozen pose illuminating George from the
darkness as the fog rose around him for his first scene in the video he “put
the boom-boom into my heart” and “sent my soul sky high” when his lovin’
started.
“But something’s
buggin’ you. Something ain’t right,” he sang.
The world was
buggin’ my heart, like the princess and the pea, covering up my truth, hiding
it with layer upon layer of labels and rules about how to be a good Catholic
boy.
Oh George, how my heart wished you could
have woken me up and taken “me dancing.” But you placed a seed of desire in me
for something…different. You began to “take the gray skies out of my way,” you
made “the sun shine brighter” and were a spark that turned into a flame in my
heart. My subconscious held onto your words that “everything will be all right”
for future life moments when they would really be needed. The joy that exploded
from you as you sang and danced how could my heart resist? It couldn’t, and
didn’t.
The energy he
emanated while he performed, the bright white smile, those eyes staring
straight into the camera, into me. The bouncy feathered hair combed back all
had me drawn into what I thought was simply a song. But it was into a man.
As his voice goes
high the feathered head goes back to show his musical range then cuts to him
running down the runway, and into a new outfit.
Those shorts!
Those short, short shorts! Wheeewww
Weeeee! Showing all of those long legs. Rockin’ a pink sweatshirt with yellow
gloved hands clapping and shouting “Yeah, Yeah” after his wonder woman. Plus,
those earrings…in both ears! Something so different to me from what a boy did,
but I liked it.
Yeah! Yeah! We had our how we met story.
After my heart was
woken up to this man, George came to our next date with “Careless Whisper.”
The lyrics became
background to the snake charming effect of the sax and George’s slow sensual sways.
I couldn’t look at anything but him. His voice, the music, both carried me like
Pepe Le Pew floating through the air led by the scent of a different kind of
love.
George’s laugh,
the playfulness in his eyes toward her.
I wanted that. I began to want the silly fun that came with someone you love. Oblivious
that it was with him that I wanted it
with. She was invisible to me.
Even with the sad storyline
a thrill shot through me when the video came on Mtv. I could look at him—I still didn’t know him as George
Michael—again for a couple minutes, and cradle into that voice. When he sang, “please stay!” with arms stretched with
hope, my heart did. Bound to George in some otherworldly realm of his art and
his words.
By our third date George
drove it home to my heart with his next visit to my screen.
“Don’t you know
that Baby! I’mmm yooouurrr maaaan!” he shouted to me with joy, confidence, and
conviction, like an infallible truth.
My heart did then.
Oh the way he
moved his body and shook that tambourine; the black leather gloves and the many-buttons-unbuttoned
black shirt, revealing different parts of his chest as he jammed. He was having
fun. How could my heart not want that to be my man? Certain it wanted a love
with someone who it could be joyful with. That was George.
Wham! Just like
that. My heart loved a man.
I have to thank my
brother Joe for his keen sense of art, and for having a pulse on the culture
regarding music. He tapped into artists that resonated with him, and I
benefitted from his good taste during our developing years of pre-teen fun.
Moving from the
age of boom boxes and cassette tapes into CD’s and CD players, Joe’s filled his
birthday and Christmas wish lists for all the items he needed to explore his
interest and introduced me to Madonna, Michael, Prince, Whitney, and George. They
all felt like the cool older brothers and sisters of art. Well, one was a
boyfriend.
Up until then
George was just the mystery man I was drawn to look at on the screen when Wham!
appeared on Mtv. But he had a name.
There was this
“buzz” about this man named George Michael and his new single. The video was
censored in the U.S. because he was talking about sex, and wanting to have it.
Up until that point sex was this thing that adults did when they were married.
But George was
preaching about sex in a less…constricted way. Something that “not everybody
does…but everybody should.” Naturally I felt tickled inside wanting to hear and
see something that I was being censored from.
My body was beginning
to bubble with hormones. Sex education class was full of the logistics, what
happens, what goes where, diagramming the penis and vagina. Church continued
the only-when-married route. But then, all of the sudden there was this man
preaching around a different corner about sex, with his own viewpoint.
He didn’t need a
bible, rather just look in his eyes, he sang to my head.
Trust in what you
feel not what you’re told, my subconscious interpreted and stored as more ammunition
for the war between my head and heart twelve years later.
George said it was
natural, chemical, and logical. Seemed like a fun activity gifted to mortals
from the Gods.
“Sex is good,” he
said. “I am a love! Whoooo!”
Whoooo indeed
George, you are a love.
“Don’t you think it’s time you had sex with
me?”
Oh how he carried
the “me” with that voice, that extra thrust of his chin as that one word was emphasized
and lengthened.
Done.
Could somebody
lite me a shower, I need to take a cold cigarette.
Since my heart was
already forever George’s it was time to chip away at the thick layers of rules taught
to my head of how life is “suppose” to be according to the gender I was given. To
not think for myself, or follow what felt right for my one turn at life. Not an easy task to begin. But the one and
only person that could was, yes of course, George bringing Faith.
The darker side of
what gay meant had only been presented a couple years before with the Time cover of AIDS. Even a famous movie
star named Rock Hudson was gay and dying of AIDS, his frail picture on the
Enquirer covers at the grocery store, along with the preachers preaching.
George came in like
a savior not just for straight or gay sexuality, but, for sexuality. That it
was all good. That the barriers of
whom we could do what with, were actually just illusions created by others
trying to control your one turn at
life.
Instead someone
who seemed cool, and nice from what I’d experienced to that point, deep and
reflective at times with a soulfulness, and at other times dancing, singing, smiling,
and making people happy, and want to dance.
Taken to a higher
level beyond the physical act of sex to a more higher realm, as a new record
from the jukebox gets placed, interrupting “I Want Your Sex,” cuts to a shot of
Georg’s denim clad legs, the camera spinning and rising to his butt. That butt
said it all. The image seared into my subconscious. Perfectly on cue as the organ
music begins for something new from George.
Before the rising
shot reaches his head it cuts back to the jukebox, then to the left for high-heeled
female legs leaning, one foot on the box. Camera goes right for George’s denim
legs in the same posture.
Yes my subconscious
whispered, not girls…boys!
When the organ
music crescendos, the video cuts back to George, the twirling camera now on his
chest, rising to scruff, the leather jacket collar, up, a dangling cross
earring, and finally George’s eyes hidden by sunglasses.
Cut back to his
legs, the organ music stops, and George’s foot begins tapping to the faster
beat of a guitar. With the first word it cuts back to Georg’s midsection
shaking his hips and playing his guitar, and preaching I’ve gotta have faith,
gotta, gotta have faith. I mean, my God.
God George.
Amen.
George became a Father
Figure.
Father George.
His aura cast inclusion
and acceptance for all in his classic joyful soul.
That’s all he
wanted, something special, something secret, in my eyes.
Baby, he told me,
this time is forever.
Something told him
that together, we’d be happy.
My heart trusted
his instinct and took the plunge into eternity.
He would be the
one who loves me till the end of time. It was all he wanted but felt sometimes
love could be mistaken for a crime. Or, a sin.
It was all he
wanted, just to see his baby’s blue eyes shine. It’s obvious whom he’s speaking
to, duh, I have blue eyes.
He felt if we had
faith in each other, then we could be strong.
How
could one not love and want a man like that?
He knew love
couldn’t lie.
I’ll hold on George! I know you won’t let me
go.
“I’ll
be your daddy.”
He
already had me with Wham!
But
reaffirming his feelings from time to time carried me through the church of
George. He said he would be the one who loves me…till the end of time.
Thank
you, Joe.
George
and I met up again when I was a freshman in high school. I was at the center of
downtown, conservative, Grand Rapids, Michigan inside a brick and mortar
Catholic school. The school continued to bestow the “right” way—according to
them—to live my life.
While George’s
latest video—no George though, only his voice, his singing from somewhere, the heavens, or Source
Energy, I believe what some call it today. A bit less organized religion.
George’s
voice belted through the mouths of all the beautiful people in the video. He
was shouting about freedom; that he didn’t belong to me and I didn’t belong to
him. George was freeing his soul!
“You gotta give
what you take,” he sang.
George practiced
what he preached. The proof is in the countless charities he gave generously to,
wanting to remain anonymous. Giving concerts to raise money for AIDS. Plus random
people in public whose debt he erased after overhearing their worries in life. He
took in enormous capital and gave much of it back.
While George was
feeling freedom, I was having more mattresses added onto my truth, my pea. The
simple freshman worries like fitting in, making friends, and forming a high
school experience filled my world. A gay didn’t exist there, within those
walls, no LGBT club or any boy taking another boy to a dance. With just a
glimpse that possibly, maybe, there was this “other” world I belonged to, I was
sucked into the black hole, the norm.
However, there was
one person enclosed in the building that myself, and the rest of the English class
believed to be gay, Mr. Tubbs, the teacher. He fit the stereotype we had been
taught. Speaking with a lisp, and the mannerisms with hands that were more…feminine.
Jokes and snickers were made. Never by me. I had a face full of silver, braces
and wire glasses with bifocals. I wanted to fit in and I thought being good and
being nice gave me the best chance. Mr. Tubbs knew what every one thought. But he
showed up to educate.
He saw something
in me, not just that I was probably gay, but in my writing. He took me aside
and shared he saw something in it. He spoke of writing for the school
newspaper, encouraged me to develop it more.
It felt good to be
told I may have a talent for something. I did not exceed in any sports nor had
any trophies up to that present moment. I was open and interested in feedback.
But it also made
me a little cautious to be around Mr. Tubbs alone. Not because I thought he
would do anything like that to me, simply
because fear about “those” types had conditioned me to have my guard up.
One day, I took my
seat in the back corner. Once class began it wasn’t very long before everyone
noticed that Mr. Tubbs and I were wearing the exact same outfit. There was a “moment”
around the subject. Smiles and laughs. I felt so embarrassed. I was uniquely
associated with Mr. Tubbs through fashion.
I never wore the
sweater to school again. However, if I remember correctly the incident was
after school pictures. I believe there is a picture of me somewhere in the world with the neon laser background of the 90’s.
Remember that? Lol
But I am so
grateful to Mr. Tubbs all these years later for the encouragement he gave and
the path he directed me down that led to these words being written. I was
deeply saddened to know years after I graduated, he committed suicide. I can’t
imagine how difficult it must have been for him to be a middle-aged gay man in
Grand Rapids at that time.
As I went deeper
into the closet of denial, George continued to infuse this idea of freedom
around me. The following year after the video came out, Freddie Mercury, the
lead singer of the British band Queen died of AIDS. The association between the
sin of homosexuality and the gay cancer resurfaced. But George showed up giving
concerts, continuing to raise money for AIDS research.
The following year
he released “Too Funky.” Although caught up living the high school life, my
heart always smiled when George checked in with a sexy new sexy and beats,
belting playful words of love, reaffirming his commitment in my life.
He was not the star
of the video. But there were sexy peeks and flashes of George from the dark,
shooting the supermodels with his eye behind the camera. Even a few direct eye
glimpses, seeing me. He sent out an
erotic vibe. But he still looked dreamy to my heart, still the star to it.
But behind the
camera of George’s private life he was going through heartbreak. His first love
was losing his battle with AIDS.
By the time he
channeled his grief into his next album, “Older,” although he was, my heart was still smitten when I saw the cover,
a devilishly seductive looking George, half his face emerging, coming out of
the darkness, and a look in his eyes to turn any legs into Jell-o.
“Oh yeah,” he said
as he spun in the chair for his first scene in the video for “Fastlove.”
He still had it.
He just wanted to
have some fun. Role-playing Mr. Not Right for some fast love, the only thing on
his mind. My heart played along.
Meanwhile my mind
was wrapped deep in denial. I was in college, again trying to fit in, having
just joined a fraternity. The fraternity did social events with sororities, which
meant dates with girls. Even though I was a few months from my first gay encounter.
That summer I
visited a frat brother who was living in Florida. We took a road trip to Key
West. After a late, drunk night two drag queens catcalled my friend and I after
we passed Bourbon Street Bar. When we reached our hotel I lied down on the
front steps. My subconscious gasped for more of that air.
Shortly after my
fraternity brother entered the hotel, hands began rubbing all over my body and
underneath my clothes. My subconscious welcomed it and the pleasure it brought.
It had waited years for the moment that I would be touched by a man. Well, ok,
two men, in this case, but wearing the most glamorous of gowns for my big moment.
Once my mind
sobered up a bit it took back control. It blacked out the experience for years
after I ran into the hotel and under the covers.
George
crossed my path again nine months after I graduated from Michigan State. I
moved to Bucktown, a neighborhood of Chicago, to look for a job at an
advertising agency. That was what my degree said and that was supposedly the
next step to take according to society.
But
I was unaware of how depressed I was. It was fifteen months after Joe the
dancer died. The shock still felt fresh. Understanding how to operate in a
world without this son, brother, and talented young man seemed incomprehensible.
He was one semester away from graduating from the University of Michigan School
of Dance, ready to share his gift of dance with the world.
My subconscious
was also pushing itself to the surface, preparing to nudge me in yet another
world. All the beautiful words of ammunition from George it had been storing
over the years to free me were ready for use.
But my mind clung
to the familiar, my slavery to what someone else said was best for my life. It
was too much to move into two new worlds. One had to be paused. Fear continued
to fight back. The war was bubbling.
George’s
arrest in a Beverly Hills Park bathroom for a lewd act was a few months after
Joe’s death. There had been the rumors for many years that he was gay. George
cared nothing for rumors and held onto his belief his private life was his own.
But after the arrest George confirmed it.
When
I found out it, it didn’t matter to me. But my heart smiled to itself and a
sooth came over me on a cellular level. My subconscious had an ally, one who
shared his words and talent to bring joy, new thoughts, and perspectives into
the world; a man who raised and gave millions. How could someone not like a man
that did all that because of what he did in his private life?
Six months later
George rose from the scandal with that last sexy laugh. By shining more of a
spotlight on the subject with his video for “Outside.” The video turns a public
restroom into a disco, with George, hot as ever in an officer uniform—more
role-play—along with scantily clad female officers dancing around him.
Good for you George, I thought. Good for you!
I mean come on. He
nailed it.
Meanwhile, nine
months later in Chicago I had put on my suit once to go downtown and deliver my
resume to various agencies. The rest of the time I distracted my unknown
depression by learning the city, walking around, going shopping, or rollerblading
throughout the neighborhoods. All the new, fresh stimuli kept my mind occupied
with the external.
While I waited to
hear back for interviews I was drawn to a routine of rollerblading to Lincoln Park
Zoo everyday. To the point where my roommates would come home from work and
simply ask, “How was the zoo?”
Being by the
animals brought me peace. I wanted to be near comforting creatures. Not
realizing one reason I was drawn to them because we had being in cages in
common. I felt so stuck, no motivation to really look for a job.
One day I entered
Virgin Records on Michigan Avenue and bought “Ladies and Gentlemen the Best of
George Michael.” Disc one was titled “For the Heart,” disc two, “For the Feet.”
George felt he was needed and his words came to me once more. He always made my
heart sigh whenever, his words floating around, not giving up on me.
Listening to “For
the Heart,” brought me back, hearing them from Joe’s bedroom and on MTV. His
beautiful words about love came beaming like a lighthouse in the distance to my
subconscious, which was happy they were coming from both outside and inside.
In addition to the
oldies George had a duet with Elton John, singing Elton’s “Don’t Let the Sun Go
Down on Me.” The proceeds from the song were divided among ten charities for
children, AIDS, and education. Huh, another gay doing good in the world, giving back enormously. Go figure.
George’s words reminded
me “You Have Been Loved” and encouraged my spirit to “Heal the Pain,” two songs
for my heart. I surrendered to the memories and words and music that carried me
away to a realm that felt peaceful; protected from the world for some moments
of time as it passed away in my coach house that sizzling summer in Chicago.
My feet couldn’t
help but respond to the disc that was for them. I danced while waiting at home
for phone calls—no mobiles—for interviews or jobs. I had a single twin mattress
in the center of my hardwood floor bedroom. I painted the walls a rich green
all around me. It was like an oven in the brick house. But my subconscious was
thrilled to have George and other artists singing with empowerment and
enclosing me with their energy.
George and Aretha
reaffirming it all singing to my heart they
knew I was waiting for them. He
drove it home to my heart as if shouting on its behalf, “find me somebody to
love!” ending the album collaborating with the remaining members of Queen, a
shining tribute to Freddy Mercury’s words.
I did get a job,
at an advertising agency, in downtown Chicago. The offer was a message on the
machine one afternoon. She told me to call back in a week when she would have
more details. I never called back. I didn’t know what I wanted but it wasn’t
that. Then started to try and figure it out.
In the midst of figuring
out a direction, the interviewing, and George time, I found myself intoxicated
one night and stumbled upon Boystown. The bars were closing, people dispersing.
I walked up and down the street, just being
in that world, until there was a lone,
hunky Latin boy at a bus stop. When I had the nerve to say “hi,” he invited me
home with him. My subconscious finally scored.
But a mountain of
shame filled my body, stuffing it like a turkey. I had an enormous secret that
must never get out. So I got out of Chicago. I thought I could leave the
experience and shame there. Unfortunately me followed me wherever I went. War
had begun.
My subconscious,
with George’s backing would go down to the death for its life. The war would
last for the next three years until, like George before me, came out to the
public. With the help of an Amsterdam Angel.
During the war George
made another appearance, this time bringing in reinforcement with older art sis
Whitney. Their playful, sexy duet “If I told You That,” about friends exploring
the possibility of becoming lovers delivered a dose of good vibes to my heart.
George, his usual seductive self on the dance floor with his moves and words; Whitney
fierce as ever by his side. My heart felt the support of good friends, from
many years ago, back by its side.
George continued
bouncing back when he released his fifth album Patience in 2004. He said it would be his last album on sale to the
public. Instead future music would be available to download along with a list
of his favorite charities. Anybody that wanted his music could make a donation.
He
appeared on Oprah to promote the album. It was his first appearance in America
for a few years.
He still…looked…great!
Butterflies
fluttered around my heart, free from their cocoons and beautiful. George and I,
free from ours, feeling love for life. George even found love again and Kenny
was sitting in the audience. When he sung “Amazing” for the audience, it said
my sentiments, exactly.
George, I think you’re amazing!
I
could go on and on. The point I’m expressing with my thirty-three years
experience of George from that first Wham! on my eighth birthday to his fifty-fourth
birthday today, is actually Nicole Kidman’s point.
When she accepted
her Oscar, she said, “Art is so important.”
It was said with such conviction. Her words struck deep and stayed with me. I
wondered why she felt so strongly about art and its importance, beyond
entertaining and an escape.
This story is why.
So that people can learn to think for themselves and create the life they want
to live with their one
shot at it. George made my time in the war easier by going to the frontline,
the world stage, singing, “everything will be alright.”
I share my story,
as those before me did, because I would not wish that level of self-hate upon
anyone. The thought of my nephews, or any of my cousin’s children going through
a level of such self-hate because they feared whom they might choose to love,
that they would rather die, is not something I would wish on anyone. I can only
imagine parents’ painful feelings around the thought. Perhaps like my mother
felt.
Trump’s refusal to
acknowledgement June as Pride month was such a disrespectful slap in the face
to the LGBTQ community, especially those that died for equality. The tiny steps
he and his accomplices are slowly taking to prevent people from thinking, and
choosing for themselves are simmering behind closed doors.
Just as the majority of the American people
have felt embarrassment, and the need to apologize for Trump’s bullying and unkind
behavior to world leaders, I wish to apologize to the American people for Betsy
DeVos. She comes from my hometown, Grand Rapids, Michigan. Yes, her family’s
name is on many buildings.
But it should be
expected that people with a great fortune take such actions, like George. But
DeVos, along with the rest of the 1% also receive enormous tax breaks, it’s a
drop in the bucket to them, and, had it been taxed could have used to help the
country fund programs like Medicaid, which they’re trying right now!
But this way they can
slap their name on the side, brand their name as good, and an example to be
followed according to their views on how life should be lived. It also puts
them in a better position to buy power, as Ms. DeVos did, to become Secretary
of Education.
Once in power, and
surrounding themselves who other 1% club members with views like theirs, to
impose their constricting ways of how the country should think. To do that,
getting rid of the gays with their conversion therapy, a double dose of conditioning.
Educated people using their brains are less likely to be controlled.
Defunding the
arts, not valuing it’s importance, stifles those that may think differently
from what those in power are tying to condition to the masses. Art has always
influenced politics and politics has always influenced art.
But those in power
have something for that too. Make education so difficult and expensive that
people can’t attain one. Why make it so out of reach to get an education? When
it is those very people you educate that are the innovators of the future to
keep everything going?
Keep people dumb,
easier to control, and get away with more, making insurance too much to afford.
Pay a wage so little that they are exhausted slaves to keep roofs over their
heads and food in their bellies. Too tired to think on their own.
That is the bigger
picture I see of these people who are choosing evil over humanity. Taking us to
war with each other and ourselves. It is not survival of the fittest in
humanity, rather survival for all. They are trying to devolve humanity.
Art, education,
two causes important to George are so
important.
My father and
grandfather both fought in war so that I, and future generations wouldn’t have
to. It seems to go pretty well, until a Republican gets in office, at least in
my lifetime.
When my father
died in December I wrote in an earlier blog he had left behind letters for my
brothers, nephews, and I that he had been writing for years, to carry us
through life without a father and Jaja.
It is an extra
squeeze on the heart to lose someone before the holidays. A couple weeks later,
they and their life already become last year. So I opened one letter shortly
after the New Year. I needed to bring my father’s voice—if it couldn’t be
him—into 2017.
“If I have one regret
it’s that we didn’t have more in common,” he wrote.
Stinging to read
for moment, like hearing my mother’s regret. But then I remembered a
conversation my father and I had in November, weeks before he died. He said it
could be the last time we saw each other—which it ended up being—“and I know
we’re good.”
“Yes Dad we’re good,” I said. “Yes we didn’t have much
in common growing up. I was into arts and crafts, and you fishing, hunting, and
sports with the other boys. But we had Indian Guides (a Native American version
of boy scouts) you, me, and Joe. Remember that?”
“Yes I do. That
was a lot of fun.”
“Absolutely. You’re
name was Graywolf. I don’t remember mine. Why did you pick Graywolf? Do you
remember?”
“No I don’t. But
probably because I started to go gray.”
“We had that, and
all the travels we did with Mom since I moved out of the house. Visiting me
everywhere I lived, Laguna Beach, Provincetown, and New York, and all the travels
we did to new places. Plus, all the quality time we’ve had this last year.
There are a lot of memories there to reach for as the years go on.”
“Yeah, we did a
lot.”
I hope that
consciously or unconsciously the regret he wrote in that letter twenty-five
years before that conversation vanished forever. When my father did die and I
found out about the letters, it was bittersweet to learn we had one more thing
in common. We were both writers.
As I wrapped my
head around what I wanted to express with this blog with the same conviction of
Nicole to the importance of art, as well as freedom, acceptance, and equal
rights for LGBTQ I realized my father and I had one more thing in common. We’d
both been to war. Both with the hope that those that came afterward would have
an easier and more free life, or not have to fight so hard.
I would never
compare a war with oneself to one’s experience of seeing actual humans gorily
killed in front of you as my father did. But from the standpoint of facing an
enemy that wanted to kill you—even if yourself is the enemy you face—I feel I
can.
I can’t understand
how any parent would want their child in any kind of war. Or make it worse and
harder on a LGBTQ person by trying to convert them. Crazy. But there are people
out there in power—currently—who think and feel this way and it is wrong.
“You’ll never
find, peace of mind, until you listen to your heart.”
---George
Michael
I wrote a song
over a decade ago. A love song that I thought was finished until the second
half just came to me a few months ago. In my day dreams years ago, there was
never any doubt if I could choose any singer, of course, it was George. The
fantasy was he was singing to me after he’d found out everything I’ve just
written above, we’d have a good laugh together because of the “boom boom” he
put into my heart thiry-three years ago.
Bittersweet now. Not
meant to be.
“What I really am
is a writer. You give people music for years and years when you write. You tie
yourselves to big events in their lives. You tie yourself to their childhood
and their growing up, and it’s a real privilege.”
—George
Michael
Oh George, you
tied yourself to my childhood, growing up, and well beyond. Your words, like my
father’s will carry me on a high for a long time.
Gone to soon but
it has been my privilege.
Godspeed wherever
you are
Big kiss
And all my love,
Jason
xxx
I leave you with
this song for all the freaks out there for Pride, I’m coming to dance with you
right now, parade in an hour!
Play some George
for yourself and try to tell me it doesn’t get your heart boom-booming and your
feet dancing!
Happy Pride! May all your rainbow dreams come true!
