So, I got a little tired of the old format and decided to change it up.

I like the new thing. It lets me put my own picture as the header. Above is Michael Skellig off the West Coast of Ireland- I was looking down from the top of the peak to snap the picture…

Yay! let me know if you like it…

” The happiness of most people we know is not ruined by great catastrophes or fatal errors, but by the repetition of slowly destructive little things.”
-Ernest Dimnet

I’ve been watching with interest the many protests and sniping on the socio-political “right” and “left” during the past few weeks and months. The topics have ranged from whether the Octu-Mom should be allowed to keep her babies, to marriage equality in the cornfields of Iowa, to protesting the taxes that have built the sidewalks and courthouse steps upon which the protests have taken place, to whether the Portuguese Water Dog as a breed is suitable for the Executive Residence, etc. I found it seductive to take a stand, especially when I see a fallacy in the argument presented. In some I have resisted, in others I have joined in with gusto. But then I got to thinking….

There’s a basic fallacy in the whole conflict model of engagement.

That fallacy? Being right is a realistic intellectual objective.

Perhaps in the realms of scientific evidence persons can claim to be right, but frankly, it doesn’t last for long. Our understanding of science has generated Nobel prizes for science one year and then in subsequent years generated another for disproving that  previous leaureate’s work. Happens all the time, according to a scientist friend. “Our understanding is constantly changing according to our grasp of the relationships we can see at the time.” He was speaking of particles and atoms and the like, but it might well apply to the socio-political climate of the day as well.

The fallacy of rightness implies a certain unified perspective, from a particular value or belief system in the social strata and theoretical orientation in the scientific world. Therefore, we can only be right if we all agree on what we see/feel/think/believe/and/or experience. 

In that model relationship implies agreement. Absolute agreement, in fact.

Which is why it doesn’t work.

The seduction of conflict lies in the power we are given by our preferred social group when we win an argument, a fight, a war, a marriage license, etc. It is simply the power of being right, and, as such, illusory and fleeting, as our ability to see and judge things is constantly changing. Nevertheless we want it- or, we are supposed to want it. It seems to me to be the adult form of the peer pressure we were pressured to forego in high school. We neglect the differences that make life interesting. We forget that tolerance and curiosity toward something foreign to our own experience only increases our experience and therefore the database we maintain for making judgments about things. When a mind is closed to new information, it becomes, much like my first computer, obsolete.

So, here’s my insight for the day: I’m going to work at being curious rather than being defensive.

This comes from my fundamental belief that everyone has something valuable to offer, even if it seems crude to me at the time. I want to enjoy engaging with others and presenting my thoughts and experiences rather than defending them. It seems a less stressful approach. I want to remember the openness of curiosity and attention rather than defaulting to the tightness of defensiveness, anger and sarcasm.

This isn’t an ideaological, high-brow approach, it’s simply that I like myself (and others) better when I can manage to do that.

Let me know what you think….

(Hit “Comments” above to leave a comment)

A recent Email exchange (names and situations have been changed to maintain confidentiality):

Dear Greg,

 So, I feel pretty hopeless.  Another 90 days sober with the same hideous thoughts and feelings I’ve always had. Of course not too long ago I didn’t know that I couldn’t turn to drinking and drugging. Now I know I can’t do that because I become so destructive and all gets worse. When I’m sober I have my failure to contend with and regular debates about the point of all this.  I take the substances and the men off the table and I’m just left feeling isolated with no fucking idea where to find some peace and hope.  I get some from AA because it’s all I know, there are people there, and about 5 sporadically attending gay people. 

Any suggestions?  I read your blog in response to Milk which prompted this email to you. What could work for someone like me with my own homophobia, all the religion stuff in my head, having a major birthday this year, afraid that there is really no support network of people here and now outside of AA?  Maybe it’s not that black and white.  Perhaps there’s something in addition too what I’m doing now.  Something’s got to give though…,

Frustrated

Dear Frustrated,

I just spent the weekend with 15 Gaybies.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it’s generally used for younger gays. In this case it applied to those from 16-22. And they were much more sophisticated and self-aware than I was at their age.

We had formal presentations about safe sex, HIV, relationships, spirituality, humor & health, and I presented on “Coming Out of Guilt and Shame”- and honestly, their shame (mostly) was dwarfed by my own adolescent case of it. We told our coming out stories, we made bracelets, we ate and laughed, watched movies and played “Apples to Apples”- Okay, I fell asleep on the couch- everyone else played… We had at least 7 take HIV tests, we stayed up late, ate too much candy, laughed a lot, cried some and, for the most part, became a community. A community relatively free from harassment and fear, from pain and secrecy. The acceptance was implicit, the care and concern overt.

Each of these campers came from somewhere in Montana, from a high school, college, or a home that didn’t (couldn’t) know them as well as the group assembled in that lodge did. That group made for immediate relaxing of defenses, moments of availability, and, as I witnessed, a few moments of pure joy at being understood and pure sorrow at leaving it all behind when it was over.

I said during our closing, “It is a privilege to share this time with you. Just remember you are not alone- you take us all with you as you leave and I take all of you with me as I go.” And it’s true. The privilege of watching these brave, young men tell their stories, explore new ideas, share their thoughts and opinions and try out social skills with each other in that safe space stays with me still. It’s a glimpse of the future, and if the experience of the past weekend is any indication, I think it’s going to be pretty amazing.

We were at the Black and White Ball last night in Missoula to benefit the Western Montana LGBT Community Center. It all started out fine. My clothes fit, I looked pretty good, Ken was handsome, a great circle of friends- dinner with people I love very much, and a ballroom full of people who supported me and my relationship as much as I supported theirs (or their desire to have some such). The atmosphere was nurturing, mostly. There were a few people obviously avoiding other people, but it wasn’t ugly or drama-filled or really at all awkward.

I was enjoying myself and my partner and my friends and the party immensely, and then something happened.

It crossed my mind later that the old cliche’ “there I was minding my own business, when suddenly…” seems to apply here. I really was. Minding my own business, I mean. I was talking to Hobie about something sort of innocuous but interesting, when Ken grabbed my hand and said to Hobie, “Could you excuse us for a minute?”

I was confused. Ken doesn’t really do that. Interrupt, I mean. And he hasn’t ever just grabbed me and pulled me aside for any reason that I can remember. I thought, “Oh shit, I’ve had a few drinks and maybe said something that I shouldn’t have and this is his way of telling me to keep my big mouth shut. That’s sweet- and a little embarrassing. I wonder what I said?” He was pulling me toward the front of the ballroom- toward the band, which was playing “A Rainy Night in Georgia” and the less crowded area of the dance floor. I figured I should ask him what was up. “Is there something wrong?” I said into his ear. He just grabbed my hand tighter and took me out onto the dance floor. “Nope,”he said. “I love this song and just wanted to dance with you.”

I was stunned.

Ken doesn’t dance. Or so he says. I’ve tried to get him to dance with me, but he’s always refused saying he feels he looks like a big, awkward bird and has no rhythm, is accident prone and etc. I always say it doesn’t matter, I don’t care what you look like or how you dance and still, he’s not been up for it.  And so, we haven’t danced.

I didn’t push it, because there are certain things I don’t like to do- long distance running for instance, that Ken enjoys. I figured if I let some of my things go I wouldn’t be pressured to go jogging or spend six hours in a shoe store. It’s that compromise place you reach when you love someone so much you realize that part of what you love is their difference– there’s no need to be exactly alike or enjoy the same things. Otherwise, why bother having a partner at all? I want someone who shows me the view from their life, through eyes and experiences not my own. And this he does. Sometimes with a grace that takes my breath away. Sometimes it’s more akin to blunt force trauma. Mostly it’s somewhere in between. But tonight-

He pulled me close and kissed me lightly and we gracefully moved to the music. In a room filled with people that didn’t see us as freaks or perverts or abominations of nature, we simply danced.  A very normal thing for people in love to do in a public place where there’s music….

It was wonderful. Stunning. Perhaps one of the best moments of my life. I felt safe and at ease and excited and, well, just right. I still do.

And as the music ended, and I felt all warm and happy, full of love and grateful for the surprise of this man, I found myself thinking, ever so briefly, “I’m going to return the favor someday.”

I don’t think it’ll be running, though.

I actually forgot that this was the sinister day until reminded by my friend Ryan’s horror-themed Facebook posts (Jason, hockey mask, etc). I wondered about the residual dread that still seems to dog our culture, either superstitiously, politically, economically, psychologically or spiritually.
Or maybe they are all the same….
Some behavioral psychologists have claimed that superstitions are simply ways to avoid taking possible personal responsibility for bad outcomes.
Some religious historians have claimed that superstitions flourished in cultures that were punitive and within which, religious authorities held too much power over a large, fearful lower class (think the Middle Ages or the Salem Witch trials)
Whatever the case, it’s obviously linked to forces beyond the control of the ordinary human, usually ascribed to God or gods. These Deities can seem very capricious and even cruel in their messing about in human fortune- that is until science, reason or simple awareness provides a less Divine explanation….
Got me wondering, “What do I use to avoid taking responsibility for my own involvement in my life/relationships/country/world…?”

My Aunt Donnie died on Sunday.

I have gone through a whole range of thoughts and emotions, which is why it’s taken me so long to be able to write about her and her affect on my life.

Aunt Donnie was the last remaining of my mother’s older sisters, and always, my favorite-even though I know you’re not supposed to have them. Why? Because she took an interest in me and my brother and sister. She talked to me like an adult. She bought me interesting books. She took me places I never would have gone without her. She and Uncle Bob took me (and later on, my brother and sister) to the metropolis of Seattle from rural Montana summer after summer. I got to know my cousins better. She got me a library card at the Shoreline library and encouraged me to use it- I used to take one of cousin’s old bikes to the library every day, loaded down, to and from, with books. She enrolled me in day camp at Hamlin Park. She and my Uncle Bob took me and my brother to Mariners games. She let me stay up late, reading, as long as I wanted when I was at their house. They took us to real Chinese food. We went to the Pacific Science Center and museums and fairs and interesting shops downtown. In short, she opened up the world to me in a way I never would have been able to do without her.

She was my Auntie Mame.

I always wondered why she was called “Donnie”. That was not a name I’d heard on a woman before. Once, I asked her. She said “Because the Irishmen in Dublin Gulch couldn’t pronounce Donna.”

It stuck.

Her courage, her tenacity, her stubbornness, her good heart- all that stuck, too.

It still sticks, despite her ill health in the last few years. Despite the fact that I haven’t seen her for awhile- my fault. It sticks because she was a force of nature in my life and the life of my Mom and Dad, my sister and brother.

She was and continues to be a force in my life. Her encouragement gave me experiences that shape me to this day, and I’m grateful for her presence in my life.

I’ll miss you, Auntie Donnie.

It was the Oscars, arguably the gayest night in entertainment, and I was holding back tears.
No, I wasn’t visibly moved by Penelope Cruz or her dress, I wasn’t on the brink because of the sadness of losing the talent of Heath Ledger so early, I wasn’t even farklempt at the fabulousness of Hugh Jackman’s confident singing, dancing and general over-all hunkiness- although…
Anyway, what got me all moist behind the eyes was the articulate and impassioned speech of a writer named Dustin Lance Black who was standing onstage holding an Oscar for writing the Best Original Screenplay- MILK.
These are some of his words that night:
“…When I was 13 years old, my beautiful mother and my father moved me from a conservative Mormon home in San Antonio, Texas to California and I heard the story of Harvey Milk. And it gave me hope. It gave me the hope to live my life, it gave me the hope to one day live my life openly as who I am and that maybe even I could fall in love and one day get married. I want to thank my mom who has always loved me for who I am, even when there was pressure not to. But most of all, if Harvey had not been taken from us 30 years ago, I think he’d want me to say to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told that they are less than by their churches or by the government or by their families that you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value and that no matter what anyone tells you, God does love you and that very soon, I promise you, you will have equal rights, federally, across this great nation of ours. Thank you, thank you, and thank you God for giving us Harvey Milk”

Being “less than”- that’s what got me. It is the attitude, the phrase, the feeling that permeates the hearts and minds of everyone at some point in their lives. As a therapist, as a friend, as a citizen, I’ve heard it often. I sometimes catch myself believing it.
My first response is to retreat shamefully into denial “No, no, don’t talk like that”, “That’s not true”, “You don’t really believe that, do you?”- but really, it’s a feeling, a thought, an attitude born out of experience, out of shame, out of fear and out of ignorance. And in the sense that it still happens to every one of us- especially those denied rights despite biological science and personal understanding of experience, it is true.
But it is not always going to be true.
Those of us who are denied life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness in the name of prejudice or religion or social distaste are simply not the same anymore. We’ve lived through too much. Hell, we’ve died through too much.
And if those words of Dustin Lance Black mean anything, it’s that guilt and shame are temporary conditions, imposed only if we let them.
And I think we’ve passed a significant mile marker on the way to true freedom with those words spoken on national television. We just need to believe them.