QColumn: A Gay In The Life: Definition

Definition
By Steve Prince
What defines you?
If people’s lives are their stories, then what’s yours?
If your life is as a long feature-length film, what scenes stand out and remain projected in your mind, etched in your memory?
Is there a thread that binds these moments, these instances in your life, sewn deeply into you, making a tapestry of your soul?
Moreover, is this the story you wrote, or was it written for you?
What if someone severed one part of that thread? Would it unravel, scattering particles of your life into chaos? Or would these instances stand on their own, the same way each inhalation of air forgets the exhalation that preceded it?
Someone tried to cut my thread…
Tuesday, November 4th, 7:38 p.m.
“Does anyone want anything to drink?” Alex nervously calls from his kitchen. It’s the fourth time he’s asked this hour. Cody, Troy, Omar and I stare at one another pensively and shrug. Alex walks back into his living room, sits on his love seat, and curls his legs under himself like a cat. He sips his tea, and swallows tensely while watching the television.
Troy, the consummate dancer, absent mindedly taps his feet on the tile floor, as if the tapping will lessen his thoughts. Every few minutes he says aloud, “It’s going to be fine,” as if to ease our nerves.
With this last utterance of Troy’s, Cody springs from the couch and snatches his cigarettes from the glass coffee table. He walks out to Alex’s patio and lights up. The tip of his cigarette glows amber against the back drop of the inky black sea, illuminating the lines of worry in his face, a face normally carefree and smooth. Cody turns to watch the screen and exhales. Seductively, the smoke wafts in the air, caressing his head as if intermingling with his thoughts.
Omar is the most tense of all; he’s barely said a word all night. He sits stoically, feet planted. His fingers tap at his knee mechanically, speaking for the one thought repeating through his mind like a loud and leaky faucet.
I sit on the couch, hunched forward, my elbows resting on my knees, hands clutched together, fingers intertwined, knuckles white with the fear of what if? Like a door slam echo, one thought reverberates through my mind over and over… “Oh God, I hope he wins…”
Tuesday, November 4th, 8:42 p.m.
We celebrate. Barack Obama has been elected the next president of our United States. It feels as if the oppression of the last eight years as been expelled in one swift night. The five of us whoop and hug, in complete disbelief. We had tried to believe it, yet it seemed that to have a black president, and one who embodies so much hope, seemed impossible. Later on, we watch our President-Elect stand on a stage with the new First Family. They are beautiful. And then he speaks, and that is when the President-Elect does something that no United States President has ever done before, he acknowledges us; he acknowledges homosexuals. The word slipped from his rhetoric as easily as water from a pitcher, smooth and clear, yet the emotions swimming in my chest as he said it seemed to billow and overflow. I looked at my friends—all of us had tears in our eyes.
Tuesday, November 4th, 10:36 p.m.
The joy from earlier has now receded, like the shore sinking back into the sea just before the storm. We stare at Alex’s laptop. Prop 8, a proposition banning same-sex couples from marrying in California, is neck-and-neck. Earlier, the results were much larger, showing the Yes on 8 campaign ahead twelve points. But thankfully, the No on 8 votes were closing the gap. Only four points separated a decision that could possibly take away my rights. We stared at the screen, hoping.
Tuesday, November 4th, 11:13 p.m.
Troy sits on Alex’s couch nervously eating candy as his legs dangle lazily off the arm of the sofa. Alex sits beside him biting his lip. From outside, the smoke of Cody’s cigarette waltzes upon the ocean breeze unaware of the fear permeating the room.
Alex stoped biting his mouth. “What is it now?” He bit his lip again, awaiting an answer.
Omar’s gaze focuses on the computer as he refreshes the page. “It’s still too close.” His tone seems to forebode otherwise. “But they’re still winning.”

Tuesday, November 4th 11:42 p.m.
Cody exhales and opens the patio door. “What is it now?”
Omar responds. “Still too close.”
Wednesday, November 5th, Midnight
“What is it now?”
Omar shakes his head, unknowingly. Thirty minutes later, Omar and Cody leave. They both say they have to work, but truthfully, I don’t think they can stand the wait any longer. Alex assumes Omar’s seat behind the computer. He, Troy, and I try to make conversation, but the constant click of Alex refreshing the computer screen thuds through our chests, a hammer to our anvil.
Wednesday, November 5th, 2:00 a.m.
I slink into my bed after just getting home from Alex’s. I pull my laptop upon my knees and check CNN for the numbers. It’s still too close to know. Slowly, I drift to sleep.
Wednesday, November 5th, 11:25 a.m.
It’s been a rough morning and a long one. At seven, I awoke and immediately checked my computer to see that Prop 8 had narrowly passed. I purposefully didn’t answer the phone. I was too hurt to speak to anyone, and if I did I just got angry. How did this happen? And why did it happen to us?
I tried to focus on Obama, but even that didn’t make me happy; he doesn’t support same-sex marriage either. Ironically, I found myself day-dreaming, unable to focus on the daily tasks I needed to do.
My mind floated to an image of myself sitting on a beach. The sun illuminated the beige sand and the cool breeze skipped across the shore. Patiently, I waited for something to happen. Something was coming for me. I knew it. Finally, in the distance, a broad ship came sailing into view, strong and stout, with billowing sails. As it chopped along the waves, my heart bounced with it. But then it began to turn away. I was confused; wasn’t it coming for me?, I thought. Watching the ship’s sails bubble merrily, the ship soon faded from view. The air stood still as the waves cheered. And then, without warning, a grey wall of water lurched from the ocean, slow and deliberate. Like a pillow engulfing my face, it gathered around me and then smothered me whole, finally washing over me completely. Cold neglect sent shocks through my body. As I pictured this scene in my head, a sour taste swam in my mouth, the taste of dejection.
Like spilled ink on a page, rage soaked into my heart’s every pore. I wanted to yell at someone. No, I wanted to hit them. I was brought back to twelve-years-old, as a chubby kid. I visited a friend’s church at the time—I can still see that youth minister’s face, hot with hate as he preached against homosexuality, sweat beaded on his pink, bald head. “Are you washed in the blood?” he angrily yelled into all our faces as we shrank bank. I thought of that man, and I wanted to hurt him. I imagined throwing him down on the floor and straddling him, while I beat the living shit of him. I imagined blood spewing from his mouth, hot tears coursing down my cheeks but I would just keep hitting. I wanted him to hurt as much as I hurt right now.
Wednesday, November 5th, 9:45p.m.
“You have to come meet us, Stevie,” Alex said over the phone. He was really pouring on his Columbian charm.
I didn’t feel like seeing anyone today and the thought of going to West Hollywood seemed too much for me right now. Alex and Troy had been there earlier for a rally, but I couldn’t go because I had class. I didn’t know if I wanted to go to a protest march anyway; to be with other people might make my rage go away and I wanted to hold onto it for as long as I could. I was afraid that if I let it go, the emotion that would replace it would be too painful.
Alex finally convinced me, so I met the boys for a drink. I have to admit, I did feel better being with friends. As we sat there mourning, we also laughed. It felt good to remember that I could still be happy. Later on, we went to a diner and Cody met us. The four of us sat there trying to figure out why this happened. In our myriad of emotions, we all shared one—we all felt assaulted. Maybe misery does love company… All I know is that listening to my friends’ grief, hurt, and anger normalized my own feelings and made me feel less alone. I’m very grateful to have them.
Yet as I found solidarity in them, my rage began to change. I could feel it molting inside me like a bird revealing its gleaming feathers. Martin Luther King, Jr. said that anger is our poison. It was then I knew this would be a life-changing event for me, something I’d never forget.
Thursday, November 6th, 2:15 p.m.
I walked into work and Jay Day pounced on me like a cat on a bird. “Girl, are you going today?”
“Of course,” I responded. I didn’t even have to ask what Jay was referring to—the protest at the huge Mormon temple in Los Angeles. Alex, Troy, and Cody were planning on going as well.
Jay leaped and sat on my desk with the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old. “Oh, you haven’t lived until you’ve marched in a protest. Is this your first one?”
I nodded.
“Oh, we’re going to have so much fun!” Jay exclaimed pumping his fist in the air. “Let’s leave the office at two and we can just walk to the temple.”
As the morning passed, I tried to remain as quiet as I could. I still didn’t feel like talking to anyone in particular. Especially, straight people. I know that seems narrow-minded, but I felt somewhat singled out for being gay. The feelings echoed my own paranoia when I first came out. I remember walking around knowing that I had finally assumed my truth and how freeing it felt; however, at the same time I remember thinking are they staring at me because I’m gay or I’m I just crazy. Also, as out as I am, I try to keep my politics in the office setting a little more private. Jay Day did not.
He turned and walked back to his office. “We’re going to show those conservative dickwads what they can do with themselves!” I smiled.
Ten minutes to two, we both left the office and made our way to the temple, both carrying signs. Mine said, “Church + State = H8T” and Jay’s said “One Discrimi-NATION under God.” I forgot that Jay Day had been a Mormon for twenty years. As we walked towards the temple, Jay recounted several stories of his struggle of being gay and his faith.
“This is the temple that I went through and attended every week,” he said, pointing to the gilded statue in the distance rising about the buildings of Westwood. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this to my temple.”
It seemed interesting that after twenty years of being out of the Mormon Church, Jay still referred to the temple as “my temple.”
“Do you know what they said when I told them I was gay?” He paused; I didn’t answer. “Well, I went to them for help and said ‘I’m having feelings for other men, and I’m pretty sure I’m a homosexual.’ I felt desperate. And then, THEN, they told me these feelings could be erased. All I had to do was aversion therapy.”
“What’s that?” I asked, thinking I should know.
Jay stopped walking and turned to me. “Electroshock therapy.” He laughed bitterly. “Can you believe that? Well, that’s when I said ‘All right, I think we’re done here.’ And I left and never went back.”
I looked at the temple, we were almost there. I shuddered.
We rounded the block and turned to see the temple in its full glory. A throng of people gathered around the front gate of the temple while news vans and police surrounded them. Chants rang in the air like clear bells, as signs bobbed up and down like buoys in the sea.
Jay and I made our way through the crowd to find the rest of the boys. However, it took me a while to make it through the mass of people, not because there were so many, but because I knew so many people there. It served as a pleasant reminder of the community I was a part of. What felt even better is that many of the people there weren’t gay or lesbian, but straight allies.
We finally found the boys and I quickly introduced them to Jay Day. Within minutes, we joined the crowd and chanted along with them.
“Hey, hey, ho, ho…Homophobia is got to go!”
“What do we want? EQUAL RIGHTS! When do we want it? NOW!”
“GAY, STRAIGHT, BLACK, WHITE! MARRIAGE IS A CIVIL RIGHT!”
Soon we began marching around the temple, making our way to the center of Westwood. As we marched, car horns erupted, their drivers giving us thumbs-up in the air. We snaked by a middle school and students opened windows and stuck their heads out. They cheered and made peace signs with their fingers. Even people came out from their homes to watch the spectacle. Most waved and chanted along with the crowd. It seemed an out of body experience to march with friends and two thousand other people that I knew accepted me for who I am. Words can’t describe the immense amount of pride I felt for myself and the others marching.
As I looked at Jay Day, tears filled in his joyful eyes as he glanced back at a church that once accepted him under a false pretense. I realized I was witnessing a huge step in Jay Day’s own coming out process, while at the same time experiencing one of my own. His bittersweet smile reminded me that we are more alike than we are different. I looked up a the Mormons standing behind their gated walls; I wondered if they were as scared as I felt.
As we marched up Westwood Boulevard, the protesters walked in the right lane while cars made their way down the left side of Westwood. Drivers gave thumbs up or held out their hands to high five. Then, the crowd began to bottleneck; something was happening. Slow but just as deliberately the crowd moved on, and then I saw what happening. A black pickup truck in the left lane had pulled into the crowd, but thankfully police had stopped it. Inside the truck, a man yelled at the protesters. Protest organizers flurried around the people who had stopped to argue. “Keep marching! We have to keep marching!” They yelled. I joined in their efforts. I knew that if we tried to fight back, people would be arrested and then this once peaceful protest would turn into a news story of violence.
And then I saw the blood. About five feet to my left stood a man in a white shirt, now drenched in crimson. Two men were in the back of the truck yelling at the protesters. I then saw a can lying at the feet of the hurt man, who was still standing. Blood poured from his broken nose like water from a hose, red and vibrant. Yelling at the driver for throwing the can at him, blood splattered and hissed from his mouth. Someone attended to the hurt man, so I kept trying to move the crowd along. Police took care of the men in the truck; but still, as I walked by I felt something hit my arm. I looked up. One of the men in the back of the pickup truck had spat at me. His face looked monstrous. “Fag!” He blurted out.
A second of shock began to hit me, but I forced my mind move my feet. Outdated black and white images flashed before my mind. Images of blacks in America fighting for civil rights, scenes of women burning bras, but now these images came in vivid color, my friends and I at their center. I looked at my friends straight in the eyes, and then a silent agreement was made. We kept marching that day and we haven’t stopped since.
Love. Love defines me. It is the thread of humanity that truly defines all of us. The way I love my friends, my family, my pets, my partner, and myself, these relationships give me proof of my existence, its feeling. That’s what the people who want to take our rights away don’t understand. To acknowledge heterosexual love yet not hold homosexual love in the same legal regard negates the essence of my being. I wish I could say it doesn’t bother me, but I can’t. It will always bother me because I’m just as deserving, worthy, and unique as anyone else. I just want the same rights that my brother, my neighbors, and my enemies have. I strive for the same type of humanity that I believe most humans strive for. I just want to be validated.
The best part of my week happened last night actually, at a bar. Troy, Cody, Omar, Alex, and I went to Popstarz to blow off some steam and dance. After a while, we walked into the crisp night to cool off and so Cody could smoke. I looked down at my phone to see I had a voicemail. I listened to the message and then I saved it.
“Hey, you guys” I called gathering them around. “You have to listen to this. My seven-year-old nephew left a message.” My brother had sent me a text earlier saying that he told my nephew Carter that Uncle Steve had a rough week and that he ended up explaining to my nephew that I was gay.
This was the message from my nephew:
“Hey Uncle Steve, it’s Carter. Heard your having a rough time in California. Yeah, it’s rough here too—I’m sick.” He paused and sighed. “But I just wanted to let you know, I love you… no matter what.”
That night, in the middle of West Hollywood, five gay men in their 30’s stood around a cell phone with tears in their eyes, grateful that they felt loved.