I’ve written before about my friend Ehren and her myspace blog. After the recent failure of a majority of Californians to vote NO to the heinous Prop. 8 (and who are these YES voting people, I want to know? In my mind, they are scowling, bitter, uneducated and desperately miserable people), Ehren wrote a blog so important that I think everyone on the planet could benefit from reading it. She gave me permission to reprint it here.

HATERADE!
by Ehren O’Neal

this week, the cover of the advocate, looks like this:

people are pissed.

i personally have avoided trying to pin the same level of injustice that black americans have had to contend with on my experience of being a gay american. the cruelty on which this country was founded with was such that comparing anything else to it seems to be a further a front and injustice to the horrors those people endured. i always thought that gay people comparing themselves to black people was crossing a line and thought that it was a comparison best not made. in my mind, there was no comparison.

i have had a change of heart though. and allow me to tell you why.

about ten or so years ago, i thought that i would never have the chance to be married. i more than thought it, i firmly believed it. when the idea of domestic partnering was first becoming a reality, i was amazed but i was thankful. i thought that this was the best that things would ever be. a large part of the reason i was so willing to accept this and not even question why things had to be different for us was because deep down inside, i thought the idea of gay marriage was just the silliest thing ever. and i thought this because every gay person, growing up in america, has their own internalized homophobia to deal with. and this is some of mine.

i have been essentially out of the closet since i was about fifteen years old. while i have intellectually known that there is nothing wrong with being gay, i have lived most of my life with the nagging feeling that something was wrong with me for being gay. i have gotten this idea because i have been told that there is something wrong with being gay my entire life. it’s not because i’m gay that i feel this way, it’s because i have been told an naseum, that i am wrong for being this way.

have you ever thought you had an std? ever thought you were pregnant or had a cancer scare? maybe you have gotten a tattoo or hurt a part of your body? in these times, have you ever felt like whatever you situation is, it is being mentioned constantly around you? or in the case of your injured limb, you have never thought that anyone has touched you in that spot more than they did once you got a bandage put on it? it’s not that these things are happening more because of what you are going though, it is just that you are noticing something that normally does not apply to you. in a normal day, when you are not afraid you have the clap, you tune out how many times someone jokes about it, or mentions it. it doesn’t apply to you.

when you are growing up gay in america, you are surrounded by how other you are. it is constantly beating you on top of the head at every turn. you do not belong, you are unequivocally other and most certainly less than. you don’t grow up inside that world without internalizing it, it is impossible and because of this you accept a lot of things without question, no matter how self deprecating it may or may not be.

i grew up this way. even though i hated having to hide my relationship from any unfamiliar eye, i felt like this was the road i had to walk no matter what. in my mind, there was no other option. i would live in fear in my stupid suburban life until i was eighteen and i would immediately move to the gay ghetto of my choice so that i wouldn’t have to worry about being hurt by anyone ever again . i would forgo things in life that i wanted because if i was going to be gay, that was what the price i was going to have to pay.

as time went on and i got older, more of these notions started to fade away. i got more comfortable in my own skin as a person, i got more okay with my sexuality. and world around me started to get more okay with my sexuality. gay people started being recognized enough that most of middle america could and did say, “one of my friends happens to be gay. i don’t have a problem with gay people.” but, they did and a lot of people still do. and since so many people have found it in their hearts to be okay with us faggots, we in turn keep our mouths shut every time they say soemthing that reveals that maybe that okay isn’t really that okay after all. like when we get to listen to our straight guy friends talk about how okay they are with their sexuality and aren’t scared of gay guys, but then go camp it up at the parade acting like “nancy boys.”

so, why should i have to settle for a civil union? why can’t i be married? why do i need to wait to let other people get okay with the idea of things? where the fuck did i ever get the idea that it was okay to keep putting myself on the back burner for the good of everyone else all the time? oh that’s right, because of the institutionalized structure of society and how slow it is to change for anyone that is other. i keep forgetting.

now, the reason i am getting all soap boxy here, other than it being my nature, is because i watched this controversy bloom over the worn wood table on the view this morning. the idea of us getting the same rights as heterosexuals but not getting to call it marriage came up. well, see first it started that we were out of line for calling ourselves the new black. it’s not the same thing. i’ve heard this argument but over the last few years, it seems that most people don’t have that same connection with the civil rights movement and slavery that i do. and that you could talk about one, in theory at least, without having to consider the other, (that is provided you are smart enough to understand how one lead into the other enough in the first fucking place, if not then you are required by the law in my head to have to always consider both.)

so let us look at some facts here, shall we?

we aren’t allowed to join the military for the overall morale of the men and also, to keep gay solider safe.

didn’t i read something in history class about how black people were kept separate in school and in the military for their own protection?

we can’t have “marriage” because “marriage” is between an man and a woman.

but i seem to remember once upon a time, the definition of being black was being 3/5 of a man. and from what i read, people were very fucking resistant to change this holy definition of what a man and a black person was.

oh and then there is other things about how we don’t get lynched?

yea, sorry. looks like we do.

so you see, we are the new black. because you’ll be pretty hard pressed to find people to openly admit that black people aren’t as deserving as white people anymore. but you won’t have to look very hard at all for someone to say those faggots are an abomination. and the reason why people won’t say it’s different is because it is so fucked up that no one will dare.

it’s different because we can hide it. that is why it’s “different.”

now, you think about how fucked that shit is for about twenty or thirty minutes. go head, i’ll be over here having a drink.

no matter how you slice that shit, it is some undiluted hater magic.

well, i am done getting hated on and i fully intend on getting up in some faces about al this because i am getting so angry that my arms start shaking when i hear this bullshit. you see, we are the new black. sorry blacks i guess you get to be the new white woman.

either way, we’re all moving up the east side.. you know, eventually, in another couple of hundred years maybe.

I have a little computer file where I save all of the search terms my stat tracker tells me that people have used to find my blog, but I’ve never been compelled to share any of them with you until now (some are sick, some are strange, all are disturbing in some way), but check this out:

country song to say goodbye to a trucker

Don’t be sad, Lurlene Sue. If you love something, set it free. if it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.

*Edited to add: I think we should all get together and write some country songs to say goodbye to a trucker. Please post your verses as comments, I will work on mine and get back to you asap.

My never-ending workload has put me about 5 blog posts behind, and I’m thankful that you have all been so patient with me.

I’m thankful that I know how to read, I have never had to go without food, and all but one of my grandparents are still living.

I have never broken a bone (just a wee fracture), my hair looks best when it’s a little dirty, I pick up foreign languages fairly easily, and I am pretty good at most sports without even trying.

Although I could stand to lose a few pounds, for the most part I can eat whatever I want. And while I’m not too keen on the wrinkle thing, being 38 means that if I don’t know who I am and what I want by now, I’ll never know. And what a relief it is to lay that burden down, let me tell you. It’s the not knowing for sure thing that kills.

Do you know that I think I have at least two…maybe three…people who would throw themselves in front of a bullet for me? Now that’s saying something. That despite the truth that we can never really know another person, that I have someone in my life who values my life more than their own. More than I value my own life, really.

I’m writing this off the cuff, and right now this is blowing my damn mind. Just think about it for a minute. Undoubtedly you also have someone in your life who would lay down his or her life for yours.

Is there someone in your life for whom you’d be willing to die? I know my answer to this, but do you know yours?

My friend Tyler pointed me in the direction of this website that sends postcards drawn by little kids to thank US American soldiers for their service (Thank you, Tyler). Some of you may know that I was in the US Army during the first Gulf War; receiving mail (and especially the drawings from school kids) was honestly one of the only joys in a life that was, for a young, lonely, creative person, a bleak existence.

This one made me cry/laugh in the ridiculous way that I do whenever something strikes me as sad, moving, and almost unbearably beautiful.

Thank you, Afiya, age 9, from Atlanta, GA. I love your crazy eagle, random black t-shirts, and sweet cloud words. I am so grateful for your life.

What you can’t see in this photo are the hundreds of tiny ants crawling all over my bowl of cereal. You’d think that after 4.5 years of living in the tropics, I would stop being surprised by things like this and start putting my cereal in plastic containers and/or the fridge. That’s what you’d think, but you’d be wrong.

Looking at this photo, I noticed two things about Lucky Charms that I hadn’t noticed before, despite the great number of boxes I can kill in a month:

1. They’ve added a marshmallow hourglass Lucky Charm. I’m on board with this, provided it is merely an addition and they do not take away any of my pink hearts, yellow moons, green clovers, or blue diamonds.

2. They mention that it is made with wheat cereal grains (Hecho con Cereal Integral). So that must mean it’s super healthy, right?

How can I be expected to produce the long blog post that’s coming later today without breakfast? I’m going in search of huevos rancheros or chilaquiles; they better be magically delicious or my Monday’s ruined.

Because I’ve been working my ass off and am also chronically lazy, lethargic, and useless, M. and I found ourselves without anything in the house to eat for dinner last night.  While we live near many restaurants and we do have a Hogar Pizza a block from our house, we were both so exhausted and the weather so chilly (68 degrees!  Criminy!) that that measly block felt like a vast frozen tundra that neither of us had the courage to cross.  We sat stupefied for about half an hour, starving, until eventually  I faced the fact that my attempt at using the Jedi Mind Trick to make food materialize in our house wasn’t working.

Then, we suddenly got the bright idea to order a large half pepperoni/half sausage pizza from Domino’s because they deliver.  Let the pizza man freeze on his little moped, who cares?!  I just reminded myself of something funny (strange, not ha ha).  Virtually no pizza joints or delivery restaurants in Playa will deliver food to you when it’s raining.  They just say Nope, sorry. So they refuse to deliver during the times when you are MOST LIKELY to want delivery.  Boggling.  I’ve had pizza delivered in Chicago during a blizzard, for chrissakes.

Since my Spanish is better than M.’s (face it, sweetie, it is), I’m the Official Take Out Orderer in our household.  I went through the typically painful process of straining to understand rapid-fire, garbled Spanish, carefully spelling my strange foreign name 6 times, and answering the laundry list of questions about my order and the exact location of the house:  It’s on this street, in between this street and this street, Casa #3, it’s an orange house across the street from a condo building, there is a blue van parked in the driveway, my neighbor has a dog that will bark, there is an old car wash on the corner, etc. I’m not kidding, they INSIST that you give them multiple landmarks so that they can be sure to find your house, and yet STILL the delivery man will simply drive up and down your street honking his horn until you run out to flag him down.

The pizza arrived fairly quickly and we were pleasantly surprised until we heard the total.  Are you ready for this?

230 pesos before tip.  Two Hundred.  And Thirty.  Pesos!  BEFORE TIP! Dudes, that is like 20 bucks for a crappy Domino’s pizza!  We paid it, obviously, because we had ordered it, but that stupid pizza nearly got us into a blowout fight.

I will NEVER order Domino’s pizza here again. Never.  And I swear, no matter how tired or cold I am, I’m going to the grocery store tonight.

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I know that I can be profane at times, but it’s mostly because I think swear words are so funny when used properly. I didn’t think, however, that my blog would score high on the Cuss-O-Meter.

What do you all think? Are you offended by my language? Does it put you off, or do you find cuss words as funny as I do (in the appropriate venue, of course)?

I started this blog a while back, right after my trip home to Chicago, but never finished. With my computer on hiatus, it’s been fermenting until now. It may or may not have gotten a bit too rank and heavy, so I’ll do my best to post some innocuous Halloween photos in the next day or two to soothe everyone’s ragged nerves.

Ok, so Ima talk about my period and blood and female shit, so if you’re a squeamish “man” who’s too chicken to buy tampons for your girlfriend then you better check out now. Consider your sackless asses warned.

Now, for the rest of you…Look into my eyes…you are getting very, very sleepy…

I am slightly embarrassed to mention that my period took me by surprise at the Labor Day picnic I attended in Chicago this past September. Let me remind you all that I am 38 years old. Since I’ve only been getting my period every month for the last 25 years (that’s 300 chances to get it right, for those of you not standing by with calculators), it’s only natural and totally forgivable that I was not prepared and had to avail myself of the International Lady-Emergency Hotline to get straight (Martina to Katie to Heather and…SCORE!! And the crowd goes wild!!).

After 25 years of monthly spontaneous bloodletting, one might think that sooner or later one would start to run out of blood and that the “end” years of the Bleeding Game would result in fainter and fainter episodes of cramping and clotting. That over time, the quantity of flowage would be directly proportionate to the ever-lessening quantity of wishful eggs-to-be-released. That my PMS would infinitesimally dissipate and my menstrual discomfort slowly, but surely grind to a complete stop, to the strains of creepy organ music distortedly unwinding in a slow motion Merry-Go-Round nightmare.

But no. That’s not how it has been for me. I’m starting to think that Mother Nature, She’s got it out for me big time. I’m pretty sure that vindictive bitch wants me to give birth and She hasn’t exactly been a shrinking violet in letting me know it, increasingly making my periods heavier, longer, and harder to endure than ever. My period used to be a gentle little procreation reminder each month, a charming Victorian glove slap saying, You cad, you are wasting our time, but now it’s a back-alley beat down that practically leaves me in traction and only able to communicate by blinking. If I’m found soon in the bottom of a lake, handless and with my feet sunk into cement, you’ll know that only my childlessness is to blame, and Mother Nature is the culprit.

Because I’m the faithless traitor. The one rejecting Her simple fertility demands, the careless slut reaping all the benefits of sex with none of the penalties. The mocking vixen sitting motionless, watching all her freely-given figs wither on the branch.

And I have to admit, She’s starting to get to me. I feel like a POW caving under torture, giving not only my name, rank, and serial number, but also top-secret information that will breach every security device I’ve installed over the years to protect myself from motherhood.

After all, as my family and friends can attest, I have always loved kids, especially babies (sweet Christ, I could eat babies for breakfast every single day of my life and never tire of them). I met my friend Keersten’s new baby a few weeks ago and had to be physically restrained from swallowing little Elsa whole, booties and all.

When I met M. over 8 years ago, he made it very clear from the absolute start that he unequivocally did NOT want children. And in my not-quite-30-year-old-and-attitudinal state, I thought, “So fucking what, buddy? What makes you think I even WANT to have a kid, sheesh! And even if I did, what in the hell makes you think you’re such a great catch?!” (Ah, how quaint the beginnings of long relationships look through a telescope.)

I have been truly ambivalent about it for many years, unsure whether or not I should or should not have children. Struggling with massive self-centeredness and feeling unequal to the monumental task of raising a well-adjusted little person. Knowing that if I DID decide that I wanted to be a mother that it would mean leaving behind someone I love and disrupting my entire life.

Something that bothers me is this: Any idiot can have kids. The dopes, they’re not sitting home worrying about overpopulation or the sort of psychological damage they’ll inevitably inflict upon their children. They’re just out there breeding indiscriminately, instilling in their kids the same fucked-upedness that threatens to end our planet. It’s the people like me, people like my friends, people like you, who value education, the arts, critical thinking, who shun racism and homophobia and sexism and lots of other –isms, we’re the ones who NEED to be having babies. And I feel in some ways that my refusal to do so (and my friends’ refusal to do so; I have few friends with children) is a real dereliction of duty, a lazy shirking of responsibility to our race.

I thought I’d left this battle behind for good, consoling myself with the fact that there are LOTS of ways for me to have kids in my life without having to mother them, should I decide in the future that I need more shortie time. I am still of the belief that in the unlikely event I should decide to mother, I will opt for non-biological motherhood, since I get overwhelmed and sad thinking about the amazing number of existing kids who need parents, but don’t have them. I don’t have to squeeze a kid out of my vag to love it fiercely enough to kill anyone who tried to hurt it. My nephew and niece are living testaments to the truth of that sentiment.

Until recently, this has only been a philosophical dilemma, but lately I’ve been feeling like I’m engaged in an all-out monthly war game: Brutal, hand-to-hand combat with my own body. It’s pretty apparent to me that at this late date, neither one of us is going down without a fight.

Most days I’m ok with my childlessness and hardly ever think about what I’m missing with my decision not to have children.

Other days, I see things like this and feel like shit about not having kids in my life.  I want to just grab this kid and gobble him up, bones and all.

So where did I leave off in this tale? The dress…oh yeah, the dress. Well, when I arrived at my mom’s house just 3 days before my reunion, the dress hadn’t arrived, despite my having ordered it 12 days earlier. I checked the order receipt and saw that it said I was to have received a shipping confirmation from FedEx when the dress was shipped…which I had never received. I was in a bit of a panic and called the 800 number for the store. I explained that my event was 3 days away and I didn’t even know if the dress was going to fit me. Katie the customer service rep calmed me down, explaining that she would check into it and not to worry—if it hadn’t been shipped yet she would overnight it to me.

Katie called me back 15 minutes later and said, “It’s on today’s FedEx truck.” Yay! The box arrived as promised, I pulled it out and nervously tried it on…and it fit like it was tailored for me. Yay!! All that working out had paid off, for a change.

The reunion was held on Saturday, September 6 at a country club in Zion, IL. The night before, I stayed with my friends Adam and Martina in Chicago. Martina was my secret weapon, since she is a makeup artist and I need all the help I could get in that department. We woke up the next morning and went to get our hair did. Afterward, she got out her trowels and sandblasters and went to work on my face. I don’t know how she did it, but she managed to make my not-sleeping self look all glowy and (dare I say it?) pretty. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Martina is a multi-talented, beautiful, intelligent woman and I’m so relieved she loves me.

When I was all ready to go (but not in the dress yet, duh!), I hopped in the car and drove across town to pick up my friend Scott, whom I’d harassed for months about attending the reunion. We drove to my friend Amy’s parents’ house in Winthrop Harbor to get dressed and head to the reunion together along with my other friend, Jerry. The window controls in my mom’s car are in the center console, so during the hour-or-so-long drive, Scott kept unexpectedly rolling up my window, making my ears pop in the process. It was just like being in High School again and hanging out with the annoying prankster. I wish the “child lock” feature had occurred to me. The more things change….

Getting ready at Amy’s parents’ house was a strange, time-traveling experience that transported me back to taking pictures with my dates before the prom. I half-expected her parents to pop out and give us a lecture about not drinking peppermint schnapps from a flask while standing outside the gymnasium or letting the boys go too far with us.

Here I am flanked by two of my favorite people in the world, Scott and Jerry.

I made Scott laugh by jumping up and down, hugging myself, and saying, “I feel like a princess!” That’s one of the things I kind of wish I hadn’t done, but I was absolutely delirious with happiness to be with these three people. I mean, look at them. I have loved these people for most of my life. How many things in your life can you look at and say, I loved that when I was 13 and I STILL love it just as much? For me, besides Chuck Taylors, these old friends are just about it.

Even as far as the reception desk, Scott continued trying to convince us that there was still time for us to bail out and go to a bar instead.

The shortest version of this story is this: I had a great time. A phenomenal time. I was determined to enjoy myself and I certainly did. My only regret is that I didn’t talk enough with people, but that is because I was WAY too busy dancing. After the third time someone asked, “So how did you end up in Mexico,” I decided that was it (I’m so bored with myself and that story!) and that I was just going to be a dancing fool all night, and that is what I was. Nearly every photo of me is with sweaty hair and melty makeup (sorry, Martina!). There are some REALLY embarrassing photos of me floating around out there, waving my hands in the air like I just didn’t care. Which I didn’t. What a fun night and I can’t wait for the 30 year reunion. Uh, never mind, I can wait. I forgot about the almost being 50 then thing.

My friend Liane’s father and (I think) aunt dropped by to say hello to Liane, Christina, Bonnie, and me. The four of us were very close friends in HS. None of them has aged one little bit, they are even more beautiful now than they were then. I look like a giant getting ready to chomp on their bones in this photo.

Cheri, dancing with her date. Cheri was part of the tireless reunion committee, who took on the monumental task of organizing this event. Well done, reunion committee!!

Jerry, who hardly ever cooperates for a photo. In the background, Scott chatting with Michelle Michel. That’s her name, no kidding! In HS, she used to sign her name Michelle², how cool is that? Much cooler than the way I used to use hearts over my “i’s” or write little triangles instead of an “a.” God, the humiliation.

I truly love this photo. We were at the bar, of course.

Scott, with Liane’s husband Eric. Eric was NOT an ex-Zee Bee and he was really brave to take us all on at once. Everyone loved him.

Christina and me. At one point in our lives, you could find us in a car with our other friends, stealing lawn ornaments or mooning passing motorists. There wasn’t shit else to do in Zion, trust me.

At some point in the evening, Pat Burnett tore this off the wall and wore it like a cape to complement his already-interesting ensemble of kilt and flame tights. He has always been one-of-a-kind.

See, there I am, dancing with another woman’s husband. What a “ho.”

See what I mean about the “arm in the air” thing?

Here, my friends Darci, Samantha, and Scott pose with Madame Tussaud’s wax impression of me. Looks so real! How did they ever capture that drunken look?!

Hold me closer, Sweaty Dancer…!

The DJ was kind of shitty (sorry, committee, I don’t blame you) because he didn’t focus on the 80s music the way he should have. I felt cheated that Michele Moreno and I couldn’t reenact our golden moment of being 15 years old, standing on the metal railings outside of Pearce Campus, singing Bryan Adams’s “Heaven” while waiting for our moms to pick us up from cheerleading practice. In the end, we had to find our moments when we could, and I’m quite sure that LaVerne Elliot and I glossed over 20+ years by dancing sweatily to Prince songs while Scott Lucas and Samantha Bishop, our former Homecoming Queen, did shots of Jack Daniels at the bar.

Afterwards, my three dates and I drove to a local bar to meet our other friends, listening to the horrible mix tape my mom had in her car stereo all the way. Scott made me laugh so hard by doing the “revving motorcycle” sounds so enthusiastically during “Leader Of The Pack” that I am not sure I will ever recover. We wound up at Harbor Lights for a few more drinks, but looking back with cold eyes, I can see this was just a prolonging of the inevitable pain of probably not seeing these people again for another 10 more years.

In the end, without the “having to get older” factor, I would be onboard for biannual high school reunions. At least.

My little sister and her husband arrived here on November 2 and are only staying 5 nights, so I have been spending every second of my free time harassing them rather than all of you.  She leaves tomorrow, so you’ll be back on the hot seat soon.

I love my sister.  She’s awesome.