On Writing…

A look at what writing is for me, and the fear of losing it forever.

When I was in high school, I did my best to not stand out. I was struggling with the question of "Am I gay, or not?" and didn't want to have the answer literally beaten out of me. My fear left me standing quietly by as friends were bullied, harassed both verbally and physically, called names and what not. If I stepped forward, I'd become a target.

In my silence, I retreated to the safety of books. The complete works of Edgar Allen Poe. The fanciful world of J. R. R. Tolkein. The ancient mythology of The Illiad and The Odyssey. The futuristic tales of Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov. Anything I could get my hands on that would insulate me from the world "out there." It became my "Calgon, take me away" escape.

Little did I realize at the time that in reading I was learning to write. Oh, I knew my letters, the proper use of grammar, and could write complete sentences. Even had pretty good cursive penmanship. What I mean is that I was learning to write. Similies and metaphores, using imagery to paint a picture with a thousand words - or less. And in doing so, I had unwittingly found my voice.

But even that voice was, in my mind, silent. I believed that nobody could hear me. That I remained invisible, flying under the radar like a stealth bomber.

That is, until the last day of high school, back in May 1983. I'd been put in an advanced placement English class my last year, though I couldn't understand why. But on that final day, my teacher, Mrs. Marcheta Huerter, called me aside as my classmates ran from the room, whooping and hollering with glee. Mrs. Huerter looked me in the eyes and said, quite bluntly, "Never stop writing." Her words have stayed with me all these years.

Sadly, I got sidetracked. I majored in Geology in college, not realizing that Texas A&M University didn't have the program I'd been wanting. I wasn't writing, and didn't undrestand it was the path I should have taken. I finally accepted my orientation the summer after my sophomore year, and that made all the difference.

My junior year, Fall 1986, I changed my major to Psychology - just for the inside joke of having once worked with rocks, and would now work with the rocks in peoples' heads. I took a bunch of classes as electives - including a creative writing poetry course. I wrote freely about my first boyfriend in a number of my poems, and had no rejection from the professor or my classmates. I received praise for the vivid imagery or the powerful emotions my poems could invoke.

In February 1987, I had a shock. My first - and only - boyfriend showed up at my door, four months after I'd ended the relationship. He was sobbing heavily, gasping for breath between the sobs, not wanting to believe what others were telling him - that he had AIDS. I could tell that he did, his body wasted to skin and bones. I gave him comfort, knowing that would be me in the not-too-distant future.

I searched for places to get tested and made a list. From that came my first attempt to use my written voice to make a difference. I wrote an editorial article about the importance for everybody - gay and straight - to get tested for HIV, and submitted it to the Texas A&M student newspaper, The Battalion. I didn't expect they would actually print it, A&M being a very conservative university.

April 8, 1987, my article appeared. Inside front page, left hand side, starting just above the fold. It was surreal. Everywhere I went on campus that day I noticed people reading my words. Nobody ever spent that much time on the editorial page before. My words could effect change.

Fast-forward to 1996. I had been working for the university since mid-'87 and changed departments. My new job was providing computer support to the English Department. I was surrounded by faculty and graduate students who had devoted their lives to literature - as well as language and film. When I learned that the professor of the poetry writing course I'd taken ten years earlier was still in the department, I approached her. She remembered me and my work, and asked if I still had one poem in particular - she wanted a copy. I was overjoyed to know that somebody had noticed me.

In the course of settling into my new job, I wrote a number of memos to the department members, letting them know who I was and what I hoped to do for them. Apparently, a few of the tenured faculty believed that I was an upper-level English professor hoping to qualify for tenure one day. When they learned that I'd had three years of college - toward science, no less - and dropped out, they were stunned. How could a man who never pursued a degree in English - or Liberal Arts - write as well as I did? Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), I was flattered.

Sadly, in 2000, my thirteen-year relationship ended with a bang. Don't worry - nobody got shot. More the bang of the door slamming when I kicked his cheating ass out of the house and out of my life. I realized that we never had any gay friends, and it was something I knew I needed. I ended up founding a professional organization at Texas A&M for queer faculty, staff and graduate students, as well as queer professionals in the community. As first President, I wrote many emails to the group. I was often chastised for being "too verbose". What writer wouldn't take that as a compliment? I would always respond, "Was the message clear to you? Did it leave you with any questions on my opionion or reasoning? If you understood it, and everybody else understood, then the verbosity was exactly what was needed." The "complaints" soon died down.

Now, after twenty-five years of living with HIV, I've found my mind to be less focused, and the vast vocabulary that used to be ever-present has seemingly vanished. I struggle to write, even more to stay on topic. It's taken me over a week to write this, as I'm less certain of myself and what I've written.

If I've meandered in this, I do apologize. But it's why I keep writing. To recover that written voice I'd treasured so much throughout my life. The hope that, through this, I'll find what I've lost.

All because my high school English teacher, Marcheta Huerter, told me to never stop writing.

Why Alphabet Soup Upsets My Stomach

As a gay man, I have found myself at odds with many in the community on how we as a whole label ourselves. To be honest, the current trend has me concerned that our efforts have become splintered and divisive at a time when we need unity more than ever before. The “alphabet soup” approach needs to be retired, and a single defining word which encompasses all aspects of the community must become commonplace.

A bit of my own history first. As I stated, I am gay. It took twenty-one years to accept that fact about myself. It was the summer of 1986, between my sophomore and junior years at Texas A&M. When I had arrived as an undergrad in the Fall of 1984, Gay Student Services Organization (GSSO) was still fighting the university in federal court to get official recognition as a student group. Despite not yet being “out,” I wrote letters supporting “them.” I was on campus - still in the closet - the day the Supreme Court chose to not hear A&M’s appeal of the Fifth Circuit Court’s ruling that they had to recognize GSSO.

So, back to Fall 1986. I joined the now-recognized Gay Student Services at the first meeting of the semester. Spring of 1987 I was elected Vice President, and became the de-facto President that summer. After I dropped out of college at the end of the Summer semester - facing the reality that I had been diagnosed with HIV - I left GSS, since I was no longer a student.

In 1989, a group of lesbians wanted to force the organization to change its name, from Gay Student Services to Gay & Lesbian Student Services (or GLaSS). Two former officers of GSSO and myself defended the original name of the group, as did a few gay women who found the term “lesbian” to be too militant. Ultimately, our side lost the vote, and the next month, none of the lesbians who had forced the change were there - and they never returned.

In 1997, Ellen Degeneres infamously came out on her sitcom, Ellen. She didn’t announce that she was a lesbian. She proudly stated (through the open microphone), “I’m gay.” Not, "I'm a lesbian." Gay. Most people, when coming out to friends or their parents, phrase it the same way, regardless of gender. It’s easier.

Jump forward to August 2000. After my thirteen year relationship ended with a crash, I decided it was time for me to do something for the gay community - something I’d been denied by my now ex. I set out to create an organization for queer faculty & staff at A&M. The name our committee came up with prior to the first formal meeting was Gay & Lesbian Professional Network. I wanted to avoid the mess that GSSO/GLaSS went through by being pro-active.

No such luck. At the first meeting there was a bisexual woman and a transgendered woman. Each insisted that their designation be included in the organization’s name. I’d thought ahead and made certain the it was in the bylaws, but that wasn’t enough for them. I pointed out how important it was that those outside our community - Texas A&M University being well-known as ultra-conservative -  know who we were, and that a lengthy name or acronyms would just confuse everybody. After much debate and giving the members a month to consider, the vote was to name the group GLBT Professional Network.

I’ve done a great deal of thinking since then. Is it a detriment to our community to put every possible letter of the alphabet into every organization’s name for people to feel included? How do we decide the order of the letters - which comes first, and should that honor rotate? As you add Intersexed, Queer, Questioning, Asexual, Pansexual, Non-Sexual, Xenosexual, Unisexual, and more to the soup, wouldn’t it soon be easier to include every letter - just to be safe?

How about that Sesame Street song? “Ab kadef gee jeckly mnop ker stu witsez”? I’m sure Bert & Ernie would love to sing it for us. I’d bet the Muppesexuals want to have their personal label in any organizations name, too. Would you risk angering Dr. Bunsen Honeydew and Beaker by ignoring their demands?

Or shall we just pick the letter of the week out of a bag of Scrabble tiles? Of course, how many would we need to pick to make everybody happy? I don’t think there’s enough letters in the alphabet to make everybody happy.

And when the words are shortened to just the first letter, how can anybody know what they stand for? Perhaps A is for A-sexual. Or maybe Andro-sexual. Could be Almost-sexual. How about Any-sexual? When only those on the inside know what the letters mean - and even then, not everybody in the community will be aware - it divides us, and thus weakens us and our voice.

Why Queer Queer Queer, QUEER is the Word

While gay may suffice for gay men and women, it doesn’t quite work for all aspects of our community. A transgender person may begin life as a gay man, but become a straight woman. Somebody born with indeterminate gender can still be straight, but still consider themselves outside the “norm”.

This is why I feel it’s time for us to embrace the queer.

Perhaps it’s best to start this discussion with the definition of the word.

strange or odd from a conventional viewpoint; unusually different; singular

The main reason many people in our community dislike the word queer is that first meaning. While I myself often embrace my strange sense of humor, and relish in being seen as odd by somebody that doesn’t know me (or even by those who do), I do understand how the word can still hurt. Any word, used to diminish another, causes pain to the one targeted. I know. I’ve suffered the slings and arrows of verbal name-calling myself - was called queer (among other things) in high school a number of times.

But as we age, we should learn how to turn the negatives that life (and people) throws at us and make them positives. Much like turning the pink triangle patch that homosexual men were forced to wear in the Nazi concentration camps into a symbol of our struggle. We remember the pain by claiming the mark as our own. A way to announce to the world, “Never again.”

Now on to the second definition. I can understand being different, but what makes it unusual? Look around you. Every person is unique. Now look in the mirror. Okay, not the best suggestion because you look exactly like your reflection - only reversed. But use that to see what makes you different, especially unusually so. Do you realize that  you aren’t seeing yourself as the world sees you? That the part in your hair appears to you to be on the right, but it’s actually on your left. Wow. That’s pretty unusual when you think about it.

As for singular, I’m going to defend this by showing my gayness. Why being singular is a wondrous thing. By using lyrics from a Broadway play. 'A Chorus Line,' to be exact.

One… singular sensation
Every little step he takes.
One… thrilling combination
Every move that he makes.
One smile and suddenly nobody else will do;
You know you'll never be lonely with you know who.
One… moment in his presence
And you can forget the rest.
For the guy is second best
To none,
Son.
Ooooh! Sigh! Give him your attention.
Do. I. Really have to mention?
He's the One!

There you have it. Queer embraces us all - not despite our unusual differences, or despite our singular-nes, or despite our strange and odd ways. Queer defines us because of these things. Queer brings us together, unites us, and strengthens us as a community. And that’s a good thing.

One last defense. The classic march chant. The one we say when “I’m mad and I’m not going to take it anymore” just doesn’t speak to us the right way.

“We’re here. We’re Queer. Get used to it.”

Or, in my opinion:

“We’re still here. We’re all Queer. You damn well better get used to it!”

We should not fear them, and if we are united in name, we become united in purpose, and the Power of Queer becomes invincible and unstoppable. And then they will fear us. We, the United Queers of America.

Especially when we don our gay apparel and it's not even a holiday.

Silver Flame (Happy Birthday, Robert)

I wrote this to Silver Flame for her birthday. She'd proven her friendship when she told me truthfully that Keith never wanted a lover. This is another poem I regret writing, but learned too late why.

---

Silver Flame

It is said there grows
At the edge of World's End
A flower formed of twilight.

Tall and graceful it stands,
As the lily in water.
It's ebon petals burn
With silver flame.

Dancing in the shifting currents
Of the gentle West wind,
Shining with the argent light
Of a thousand distant stars.

Mighty Orion bows deeply,
As Luna rises from behind the flower
To chase the sun away.

Venus looks upon the fragrant blossom,
Blessing it with her smile.
And Pluto rises from his nether realm
To behold such a view as this.

Fiery Mars drops his crimson sword,
Falling before the flower's fragile form,
Ceasing his endless war.

Neptune's daughters laugh with joy,
And sing to fair Adonis
Of fish that swim the foamy waves
And coral castles in the sea.

And should ever that gentle bud
Lose its argent fringe,
Or be lost to view amidst the world,
Still know that its beauty lives,
And the Fates bless it all the more
For having lived at all.

Breathless

This poem is one I wrote for myself the day before I ended what I saw as the month-long relationship with Keith. I had to come to terms with the fact that it was the right thing to do. Didn't realize at the time I wrote it that sometimes the wind returns and needs your embrace.

---

Breathless

To catch a gentle wind,
Breath of the Earth;
To feel the soft wet kiss
Of sweet rain on lips,
For even a brief part
Of the shortest eternity
Is as divinely impossible
As touching the fiery heart
Of the most distant star.

But I have done this.

And perhaps again,
In a different world,
I will do so once more.

And yet will I release the breeze
When my heart dares not continue
To bind the dying wind.

For happy am I in heart and soul
To have caught the wind,
And happier yet
That I could return its freedom.

---

The Legend of the Cookie Monster

NOTE: This is the introduction to a book I'm working on. It's sorta-kinda-maybe based on semi-true facts. To a degree. Any similarity to a real person will be so fictionalized as to be unrecognizable - except to those who know who it's supposed to be, that is. Still deciding if this will be written for adolescents or possibly for young adults on up. Depends on how things go in the story. - Dave

Intro

Legend of the Cookie Monster

Deep in the Hill Country of Texas, a monster lurks. Oh, not your typical brutish fiend like Dracula or the Wolfman. No, this one is more of an annoyance than a terror. Well, perhaps not in everybody’s eyes. Those who have encountered it seem mixed in their reactions and perceptions. But opinion defines more often than fact.

You see, this monster has a name. Not one given to it by its mother at birth, but one that describes what it is, and its typical victim - as it were. And that name is - the Cookie Monster.

Now, despite the label, it doesn’t just go after cookies. Anything with sugar - the more the better - is likely to meet with an untimely demise. Nothin’ left but a scatter of crumbs, or juices puddlin’ on the floor where the beast devoured the sweet.

I’m not here to judge the creature. We all have a hankerin’ for a nice sugary dessert now and then - myself included. Can’t blame the poor thing for giving in to temptation time and time again. Hell, I know when I was a child, I sometimes wished I were the Cookie Monster myself. No more broccoli or green beans for me. Give me chocolate cake and ice cream for every meal and I’d be happier than a June bug in July!

Yes, the Cookie Monster has been around for quite a long time. My grampa told me stories when I was but a boy. As I grew older, I began to think his tales were as tall as a the state capitol building. But lately, I learned I’m not the only one who heard talk of this critter.

And then I met folks who swore they’d seen it with their own two eyes.

--

PWA Campout

This is a flyer for the PWA (Persons with AIDS) Campout held twice a year at a private campground near Cameron, Texas.

Clicking the thumbnail will download the PDF file, which can be printed or shared with other gay men living with HIV/AIDS who might be interested in coming to the campout.

 

 

 

These are some photos from past campouts.

 

 

[meteor_slideshow slideshow="pwa-campout"]

Dating in the Modern World

Why finding a relationship seems more difficult these days

As every day passes, we as members of the gay community find ourselves at the center of a political and social conflict which seems to be tearing the nation and our lives apart. A fight we never asked for, but one we feel obligated to participate in — or avoid. It's our lives, after all. Who are they to tell us how to live? Who are they to tell us who we can love? Who are they to tell us that beige goes with everything?

It seems a distraction at times. The fight takes a great deal out of us, and so we feel rushed to find anybody to stand at our side in the battle for truth, justice and the GAYmerican way. As long as they fit our excessively strict criteria, of course.

If the queer community, in all its various and diverse facets, comprises an estimated ten percent of the world's population, finding a match is certainly more difficult for us than it is for the heterosexual horde. They have nine times more chances at love than we do. Britney has seven more to go. Liz has one or two, depending on how you do the math. Condi Rice has a lot of catching up to do; her dance card is quite empty. Unlike the Carpenters, she hasn't even 'just begun.'

But there are other factors affecting our ability to find "the One." Turning thirty or even forty is certainly an obstacle (in our community especially), but more dreaded — believe it or not — is HIV. It is far harder for somebody who has tested positive to know where they fit into our relatively small niche in the universe. It can isolate you to the point that you believe you will never date again.

I know. I felt that way myself.

But in the course of more than twenty years living with this, I've learned a few things. I realized that stigma begins within ourselves, and only we can end it. It's easy to allow others to humiliate and ostracize us and make us feel ashamed of ourselves when we accept it from them. Far too easy. The pain and fear of rejection just adds to our lowered self-esteem.

Now, ask yourself: was I talking about being HIV+, or being gay?

Sometimes, you must put yourself in the place of the other person to see things from a new perspective. A person living with HIV/AIDS is no less human than you, and you are no less human than a straight person. Which means, believe it or not, a straight person is no less human than you, though you are allowed to question their concept of taste, especially in clothing and what they call 'dancing.' You may even question the humanity of some. Falwell, Robertson, Rove and Phelps come to mind…

Now, to answer your previous query (or was that mine?). I came out and became positive within weeks of each other twenty-one years ago at the age of twenty-one. It had taken me so long to come out to myself because I was letting others stigmatize me. When I tested positive, I had already learned the lesson, and refuse to this day to let the words of others knock me down. That playground proverb, "I'm rubber, you're glue," has a moral that is effective even for adults.

What does all this have to do with dating? My point is that we often set standards so high that even we would not pass muster, peering through the eye of a needle wondering why nobody can get through to us. We limit our field of view to only the pretty people, thinking the plain are beneath our notice. I have found more value in the mundane than in the plastic unreality in which most of us seem to live.

Must be fit, hung, masculine, muscular, neg, blond, butch, slender, young… the list goes on. And that’s just the woman… Okay, maybe not.

The harshest are six simple characters: DDF UB2. Not sure if there’s more offense in the apparent ignorance of the “DDF”, the seeming lack of intent to play safe, or in the fact that people can’t spell out the words. You aren’t paying per character; if you’re going to discriminate, at least be intelligent enough to write it in plain English.

How would you feel if no one could see past the battle scars of your life, failed to notice who you really are? Or only saw the plastic we wrap ourselves in and passed you by as nothing special, just another piece of meat in a zippered bag?

Remember the words of Shakespeare: "To thine own self be true." If we are to find our perfect match, we must first know ourselves. Know our imperfections, and thus overlook them in our potential mates. See what others see in us, and refuse to return the disservice of judging the book by the beige cover. Abandon your plastic façades, and embrace the real you. Just don't do it in public; it creeps people out. Could even get you arrested in some states.

Who knows? Maybe your knight in shining armoire, or your damsel dyke on a bike is closer than you think. Look again with your eyes wide open, and let the new world dawn. It's only over when you give up, and when you stop trying so damn hard to find perfection.

We are, none of us, perfect. Well, none of you are at least.

Hmm. Maybe it’s time I start taking my own advice…