I've been on the road for two weeks now. It honestly doesn't feel like it's been that long. But it has. I have now driven 3,482 miles, traveled through seven States and one Province, gone camping with three rambunctious children in the Colorado Rockies, been 17 stories beneath the Canadian Rockies, seen some giant U.S. Presidential heads carved into the side of a mountain, and, most recently, hit a deer. And throughout all of this, and during all the little and big moments in between, my mind has been constantly churning a few different questions over and over again.
The one question that has been most prominent is simple, and it surprises me that I've never really taken the time to figure it out before: What does it mean to be a family? The second questions is related and actually used to drive me crazy: What does it mean to be a Loewen? I realized I can't truly answer the first question without first answering the second. Because family means different things for different people.
I have this memory of my parents often saying to me "represent the Loewen family well," or something along those lines whenever I was going to be in certain places or around certain people. That always bothered me, but I think I'm coming to realize that my parents never meant it the way that I took it. I don't think they said it as a way of telling me that I could only look and act a certain way or I'd somehow disappoint or disgrace them. That wasn't it at all. I think it was about that name, our family, holding weight, having meaning. I wasn't old enough by a long shot to understand any of that.
I was up in Calgary, Alberta and one night my cousin, Elizabeth, and I were talking about how, in western Canada, the name Loewen is widely recognized as being a Mennonite name. This then launched a discussion about denominational differences and origins, etc. But then Elizabeth said something that really stuck with me: "we're really just Mennonites in name and food only." I laughed, but what she said stuck with me. And, again, made me think about our name and about our heritage.
I used to feel this need, when talking about my family, to somehow separate myself from my Mennonite heritage. But spending time with so many different members of my family who have come to be diverse people with wide-ranging views on any number of different topics, I've come to realize that, in some ways, that heritage does define us, through all of our differences. And it is beautiful.
From a DNA-level love for basic, German-style meat and potatoes meals to a deeply ingrained appreciation for genuine hospitality to a complete inability to back down from a challenge (whether spoken or not). Loewens are never total rule followers (you can pretty much always find us pushing the line, if nothing else). We are sarcastic as hell and mercilessly pick on and torture the people we care about (I used to say sarcasm was my love language; now I just think it's part of my DNA). Loewens are curious and love to explore and figure out the answers to problems (or even feel the need to confirm, for certain, that the problem cannot be solved).
This is who I am. It's who my family is. And I wouldn't change or trade it for the world.
I've spent years complaining about, criticizing, and even publicly accosting my own family. I'm not saying there has been no value to any of that. There were conversations that needed to be had, things that needed to be said, etc. But the medium I chose was likely not always the wisest.
Loewens aren't always very good at confrontation. That's in my DNA, too.
People on TV often perpetuate this idea that friends are better than family because they'll accept every part of you, without question or compromise. And, sure, it's true that friends usually don't put up nearly as much of a fuss about a whole bunch of different things as your family might. But that's because you choose your friends based on any number of different sets of values, interests, needs, and desires. They also change over time. But I take issue with this idea that friends are "better" than family because of this ease of acceptance. Yeah, family is a lot harder. They challenge you and stand up to you and disagree with you and argue and fight and cry and hurt a whole hell of a lot more than friends do. But they are also permanent. And if you're one of those lucky few, like me, to have a family that is truly permanent, in all senses of the word, there is nothing better. Certainly not friends.
My family (and now I'm mainly speaking about my immediate family, namely my parents and brothers) and I disagree about some really important things. We fight and we get angry and hurt and upset and we talk and we cry and we hug and laugh and love and, at the end of the day, we figure it out. It might be slow and difficult. It doesn't always come easy. But nothing can ever or will ever be a big enough fight, a big enough disagreement on a big enough issue to make me turn away from them. Not because the issues aren't big enough or the disagreements aren't vast enough. But because I know them. And I know us. And I know we'll figure it out. I don't yet know exactly what that'll look like. But, you know what? It doesn't even matter. Because I know their hearts. And I know how they'll try. And I know they'll change. And so will I. Because that's what family does. They do what is necessary to love each other, to respect each other, to figure out the boundaries. At least that's what my family does.
That's another thing about us Loewens: we stick around. We fight for this family. We have each other's backs and we never give up on each other. We're always there for each other. And we always truly, genuinely, care about what's going on in each other's lives. It doesn't matter if what's going on may involve things with which we personally disagree. We're family. We want to know why each other are hurting or happy or sad. And we'll be there for each other, as best we can.
My family isn't perfect. No family is. There are definitely things about my family, beliefs that they hold, that, if I could, I'd change in a heartbeat. But those differing beliefs don't change the fact that my family has always, 100%, loved me and been completely there for me through every single thing that has ever happened in my life. Even when I was being unquestionably and undeservedly horrible to them. Even when I do things of which they fundamentally disapprove. None of it matters. None of it changes their love for me, their dependability, their amazing fortitude and grace.
I'm definitely still working on that last one. I think I got a shorter measure of Loewen grace in my DNA for some reason.
I get it now. What my parents meant when they invoked the Loewen name. I'm proud to call myself a Loewen, to be a part of this incredible family, both big and small. I just hope I can one day live up to it.
I can also genuinely say, for the first time in a while now, that I want to and am ready to go home.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Friday, July 3, 2015
I Am Not A Sin
I am gay. It is an essential part of who I am. It defines me. I didn't pick it up one day and decide it looked like a fun thing to try on for awhile. I also can't just decide to put it down. My queerness is essential to who I am.
And yet, and yet, and yet...
I hear nearly every day the mantra of "love the sinner, but hate the sin." How can that be? How can you love me but hate who I am? Not what I do. Not choices I make. But who I am?
I hate analogizing sexual orientation to race because it's incredibly essentializing and misses a lot of points, but I do think it has some value here: you cannot claim that being black is a sin, but still truly love black people. It doesn't work like that.
I saw on a Facebook comment the other day, in response to a post with a link to Matthew Vines explaining his interpretation of the major Bible verses used to condemn homosexuality, that the commenter could not even finish reading Matthew Vines' words because it made them sick to their stomach.
I wanted to comment and ask if they really had a problem with his Biblical interpretation skills or just with the conclusion he was coming to. More specifically, was it contemplating the particulars of gay sexuality that was making this person physically ill? Did it really have anything to do with esoteric discussions of Biblical interpretations?
I've talked to my Dad a few times, not a lot because it's painful all around, but a few times, about our differences on this issue. And one thing he's said several times is that he just doesn't and can't understand it, and he lists off that he doesn't get it theologically, mentally, emotionally, or biologically. I always want to go, really? I expected the theological objection. I disagree with it and think it's invalid, but I was expecting it. But it made me wonder, how much of people's ostensibly religious-based objections to gayness have anything to do with actual, earnestly held theological beliefs and how much has to do with ignorance, fear, and yeah, a gut-level disgust with something that they personally don't and can't understand?
Pretty much all straight people don't and can't understand why homosexuality would be appealing. Doesn't matter if they're true allies or not. They don't and can't "get it."
Well, of course not! There's a very simple reason behind that: they are straight! They were born that way. As in, they don't (and can't) understand sexual attraction to the same sex because they simply are not attracted to the same sex.
Guess what? I feel the exact same way about the opposite sex. It doesn't make sense to me. Now, of course, for myself and a whole heap of other gay people out there, there's this little thing called compulsive heterosexuality that forced us, from the earliest of ages, to think straight relationships were our only option. So, yeah, I spent most of my life contemplating what it would be like to be in a romantic relationship with the opposite sex. It never felt good or right in any way. But I thought about it. A lot. Because that's what good Christian girls are supposed to do, supposed to think about. Not only that, but because of internalized homophobia, I actually tried to convince myself it was what I wanted. I spent years doing that.
Imagine, just for a second, being a straight person doing the same thing your entire life: contemplating and trying to force yourself to be excited for the prospect of one day engaging in a relationship with someone of the same gender as you. Feels uncomfortable, if nothing else, right?
Straight people probably don't think about their sexual orientation as being integral to their identity. In fact, I know that they don't. They don't have to spend years trying to figure it out. It's just assumed. They don't have to explain it to anyone else. Again, it's just assumed.
Anyways, back to my point: I'm gay. And it's part of who I am.
So when you say that being gay, or acting on same sex attraction, or however else you want to word it is a sin, you aren't just attacking my actions or my choices. You are attacking who I am, at my very core.
Last time I posted on here, I called for a conversation with my parents. We have had a conversation, and we're still trying to figure out how to dialogue about any and all of this. None of us are good at it. It's all very painful and awkward and it feels like we never get anywhere. There was this one moment during that conversation where I got frustrated and I was crying and as I walked over to grab a Kleenex, I just half-shouted "when will you just accept that your daughter is fucking gay!" My dad said "that's not helpful," and, yeah, on a big level, it wasn't. We were trying to have a dialogue on a subject that is emotional and awkward and hard to talk about all around. And it's never helpful when someone gets angry or curses or yells in those situations.
But, at the same time, there is just so much truth to it.
My parents and I can talk theology in circles until our heads explode. But I honestly don't think that theology is at the root of the disconnect. I think a disagreement about whether or not gayness is innate is at the true heart of it. And I don't know how to get past that. I truly don't. I can cite experts who make clear that being attracted to the same gender isn't a choice. I can cite incredibly in-depth research regarding how the church has not always condemned gay weddings, and has at times (back in the Middle Ages) even performed them.
But if a person can't get past the mental block surrounding the physical and biological mechanics of gay sex...then I honestly don't know where to go from there. It's like trying to explain why seafood would be appealing to someone like me who gets nauseous at the sight and smell of it. It just doesn't compute.
But here's the major difference: I don't think that eating seafood is wrong simply because I don't like it and don't understand why or how anyone could.
My parents believe that monogamous heterosexual Christian marriages are at the centre of God's plan for humanity. They've built their lives around that belief. They counsel couples and teach classes on how to better fit within that model. So I think this whole thing is harder for them than most, because their straight Christian marriage is so central to who they are, too.
But if I were to keep telling them that their marriage, their love is a sin, that they are hurting themselves and each other by continuing it, they would be hurt. And offended. Because it defines them.
Well this, my gayness, who I love, it defines me, too. And I can't change it. Believe me, I tried. I tried for the longest time. I hated myself for this. I hated being around others like me. Other gay people made me so incredibly uncomfortable. Because I knew. But I couldn't let myself go there.
But now I'm here. It's been well over two years now. I've embraced and celebrated who I am. I've found someone to love and build a life with. I can even get married now. In every single state in the entire country (!!!!!!!).
So I guess what it comes down to for me is this: don't try to to claim that you love me, that you want what's best for me, or that you in any way respect me, if you are going to then turn around and say that who I am is a sin. I can't change anyone's minds about the theology, and I definitely can't make anyone understand attraction to the same gender. But when you say that being gay (or acting on same sex attraction or whatever slightly nicer-sounding thing you want to say) is a sin, you are saying that I am a sin.
I am not a sin.
Furthermore, when the Church and every single Christian who has ever uttered the phrase "love the sinner, hate the sin" perpetuates this belief, they are telling me, every member of the LGBT community, and every other ignorant and/or bigoted person out there that we, the queer community, are not human. We are sins. So it's okay to not serve us at your restaurants, to not let us into your hardware stores. It's okay, because we are sins. It's okay to deny us marriage licenses, while granting it to every twice divorced person and every atheist marrying a Christian and every other person who walks through that door. Because that twice divorced person may have sinned, but they are not a sin. That Christian may have sinned by marrying an atheist, but they, themselves, are just a human who made a bad choice. A gay person, however, is, inherently, a sin. Until they stop being a sin, they cannot have civil rights. They can be discriminated against.
How long does it take to get from denying basic civil rights like marriage licenses and equal employment opportunities to enacting actual, physical violence?
Harvey Milk.
Matthew Sheppard.
Sakia Gunn.
Brandon Teena.
Lawrence "Larry" King.
CeCe McDonald.
And what kind of effect does calling LGBT people "sins" have on LGBT young people?
Tyler Clementi.
Leelah Alcorn.
Adam Kizer.
Jadin Bell.
If you think calling LGBT people, who they are, at their very core, a "sin" has absolutely nothing to do with LGBT suicide rates and violence against LGBT people, I challenge you to think a little harder about it. Think about it this way (and, again, I don't like to compare, but it's useful here): if there was a very strong narrative in this country that being black was a "sin," don't you think that the KKK, the Aryan Nation, and other hate groups would feel that much more comfortable carrying out their heinous acts of violence? And don't you think those people who called being black a "sin" would have blood on their hands too? Even if they never once enacted physical violence against a black person? Wouldn't it also be harder to make the argument that that violence is wrong? (I could go on and on about how distrurbingly close to the truth each of these statements are, but that's for another post entirely...)
When you call gayness a sin, you are saying that I, because of who I am, am less than you. I am not human. I am "sin."
There's nothing Christian about that. Believe what you want for your own lives. But don't call me a "sin." And stop deluding yourself into believing that you can label me "sin" and still claim to love and respect me. It's not possible.
I am not a sin.
And yet, and yet, and yet...
I hear nearly every day the mantra of "love the sinner, but hate the sin." How can that be? How can you love me but hate who I am? Not what I do. Not choices I make. But who I am?
I hate analogizing sexual orientation to race because it's incredibly essentializing and misses a lot of points, but I do think it has some value here: you cannot claim that being black is a sin, but still truly love black people. It doesn't work like that.
I saw on a Facebook comment the other day, in response to a post with a link to Matthew Vines explaining his interpretation of the major Bible verses used to condemn homosexuality, that the commenter could not even finish reading Matthew Vines' words because it made them sick to their stomach.
I wanted to comment and ask if they really had a problem with his Biblical interpretation skills or just with the conclusion he was coming to. More specifically, was it contemplating the particulars of gay sexuality that was making this person physically ill? Did it really have anything to do with esoteric discussions of Biblical interpretations?
I've talked to my Dad a few times, not a lot because it's painful all around, but a few times, about our differences on this issue. And one thing he's said several times is that he just doesn't and can't understand it, and he lists off that he doesn't get it theologically, mentally, emotionally, or biologically. I always want to go, really? I expected the theological objection. I disagree with it and think it's invalid, but I was expecting it. But it made me wonder, how much of people's ostensibly religious-based objections to gayness have anything to do with actual, earnestly held theological beliefs and how much has to do with ignorance, fear, and yeah, a gut-level disgust with something that they personally don't and can't understand?
Pretty much all straight people don't and can't understand why homosexuality would be appealing. Doesn't matter if they're true allies or not. They don't and can't "get it."
Well, of course not! There's a very simple reason behind that: they are straight! They were born that way. As in, they don't (and can't) understand sexual attraction to the same sex because they simply are not attracted to the same sex.
Guess what? I feel the exact same way about the opposite sex. It doesn't make sense to me. Now, of course, for myself and a whole heap of other gay people out there, there's this little thing called compulsive heterosexuality that forced us, from the earliest of ages, to think straight relationships were our only option. So, yeah, I spent most of my life contemplating what it would be like to be in a romantic relationship with the opposite sex. It never felt good or right in any way. But I thought about it. A lot. Because that's what good Christian girls are supposed to do, supposed to think about. Not only that, but because of internalized homophobia, I actually tried to convince myself it was what I wanted. I spent years doing that.
Imagine, just for a second, being a straight person doing the same thing your entire life: contemplating and trying to force yourself to be excited for the prospect of one day engaging in a relationship with someone of the same gender as you. Feels uncomfortable, if nothing else, right?
Straight people probably don't think about their sexual orientation as being integral to their identity. In fact, I know that they don't. They don't have to spend years trying to figure it out. It's just assumed. They don't have to explain it to anyone else. Again, it's just assumed.
Anyways, back to my point: I'm gay. And it's part of who I am.
So when you say that being gay, or acting on same sex attraction, or however else you want to word it is a sin, you aren't just attacking my actions or my choices. You are attacking who I am, at my very core.
Last time I posted on here, I called for a conversation with my parents. We have had a conversation, and we're still trying to figure out how to dialogue about any and all of this. None of us are good at it. It's all very painful and awkward and it feels like we never get anywhere. There was this one moment during that conversation where I got frustrated and I was crying and as I walked over to grab a Kleenex, I just half-shouted "when will you just accept that your daughter is fucking gay!" My dad said "that's not helpful," and, yeah, on a big level, it wasn't. We were trying to have a dialogue on a subject that is emotional and awkward and hard to talk about all around. And it's never helpful when someone gets angry or curses or yells in those situations.
But, at the same time, there is just so much truth to it.
My parents and I can talk theology in circles until our heads explode. But I honestly don't think that theology is at the root of the disconnect. I think a disagreement about whether or not gayness is innate is at the true heart of it. And I don't know how to get past that. I truly don't. I can cite experts who make clear that being attracted to the same gender isn't a choice. I can cite incredibly in-depth research regarding how the church has not always condemned gay weddings, and has at times (back in the Middle Ages) even performed them.
But if a person can't get past the mental block surrounding the physical and biological mechanics of gay sex...then I honestly don't know where to go from there. It's like trying to explain why seafood would be appealing to someone like me who gets nauseous at the sight and smell of it. It just doesn't compute.
But here's the major difference: I don't think that eating seafood is wrong simply because I don't like it and don't understand why or how anyone could.
My parents believe that monogamous heterosexual Christian marriages are at the centre of God's plan for humanity. They've built their lives around that belief. They counsel couples and teach classes on how to better fit within that model. So I think this whole thing is harder for them than most, because their straight Christian marriage is so central to who they are, too.
But if I were to keep telling them that their marriage, their love is a sin, that they are hurting themselves and each other by continuing it, they would be hurt. And offended. Because it defines them.
Well this, my gayness, who I love, it defines me, too. And I can't change it. Believe me, I tried. I tried for the longest time. I hated myself for this. I hated being around others like me. Other gay people made me so incredibly uncomfortable. Because I knew. But I couldn't let myself go there.
But now I'm here. It's been well over two years now. I've embraced and celebrated who I am. I've found someone to love and build a life with. I can even get married now. In every single state in the entire country (!!!!!!!).
So I guess what it comes down to for me is this: don't try to to claim that you love me, that you want what's best for me, or that you in any way respect me, if you are going to then turn around and say that who I am is a sin. I can't change anyone's minds about the theology, and I definitely can't make anyone understand attraction to the same gender. But when you say that being gay (or acting on same sex attraction or whatever slightly nicer-sounding thing you want to say) is a sin, you are saying that I am a sin.
I am not a sin.
Furthermore, when the Church and every single Christian who has ever uttered the phrase "love the sinner, hate the sin" perpetuates this belief, they are telling me, every member of the LGBT community, and every other ignorant and/or bigoted person out there that we, the queer community, are not human. We are sins. So it's okay to not serve us at your restaurants, to not let us into your hardware stores. It's okay, because we are sins. It's okay to deny us marriage licenses, while granting it to every twice divorced person and every atheist marrying a Christian and every other person who walks through that door. Because that twice divorced person may have sinned, but they are not a sin. That Christian may have sinned by marrying an atheist, but they, themselves, are just a human who made a bad choice. A gay person, however, is, inherently, a sin. Until they stop being a sin, they cannot have civil rights. They can be discriminated against.
How long does it take to get from denying basic civil rights like marriage licenses and equal employment opportunities to enacting actual, physical violence?
Harvey Milk.
Matthew Sheppard.
Sakia Gunn.
Brandon Teena.
Lawrence "Larry" King.
CeCe McDonald.
And what kind of effect does calling LGBT people "sins" have on LGBT young people?
Tyler Clementi.
Leelah Alcorn.
Adam Kizer.
Jadin Bell.
If you think calling LGBT people, who they are, at their very core, a "sin" has absolutely nothing to do with LGBT suicide rates and violence against LGBT people, I challenge you to think a little harder about it. Think about it this way (and, again, I don't like to compare, but it's useful here): if there was a very strong narrative in this country that being black was a "sin," don't you think that the KKK, the Aryan Nation, and other hate groups would feel that much more comfortable carrying out their heinous acts of violence? And don't you think those people who called being black a "sin" would have blood on their hands too? Even if they never once enacted physical violence against a black person? Wouldn't it also be harder to make the argument that that violence is wrong? (I could go on and on about how distrurbingly close to the truth each of these statements are, but that's for another post entirely...)
When you call gayness a sin, you are saying that I, because of who I am, am less than you. I am not human. I am "sin."
There's nothing Christian about that. Believe what you want for your own lives. But don't call me a "sin." And stop deluding yourself into believing that you can label me "sin" and still claim to love and respect me. It's not possible.
I am not a sin.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Growing Up
I just graduated law school. That's right, I can officially call myself a lawyer.
I still have a long road ahead of me. There's bar prep and then taking that grueling two day long test, then waiting (way too long) for results, and then somewhere in there I have to hit the ground running to try and get a job.
It's all happening. It really is. These are the things I've been dreaming about and preparing for since I was fourteen years old.
Something else really, crazy big is happening, too.
This amazing, thoughtful, talented, generous, beautiful girl. And I am completely in love with her. I can see myself building a life with her someday. And it's been so amazing, this journey I've been on with her for the last few months. I don't think I have the words to describe just how much she means to me, but I'm gonna try.
Do you know all these cheesy rom-coms about people falling in love with their best friends after dating all the wrong people for so long? Yeah, this was nothing like that, and yet I'm dating my best friend nonetheless.
We knew each other from work. And by knew each other, I mean we had sat in the same room with a bunch of other interns a couple of times. We never even made eye contact and so (despite my awkward best efforts), we never did the stereotypical "I see you, too" queer person head nod thing.
I didn't know it then. I never would've guessed or imagined that that girl would change my life.
Like so many bored and slightly lonely people out there, I used Tinder off and on over the past year or so. Never too seriously. I talked to a handful of people and went on a couple of dates, but, back in February, I was literally only on there because I was bored. I wasn't looking to start anything, mostly because Tinder is a strange, strange universe full of shallowness, awkwardness, and weirdly amusing shenanigans. So I was bored. And, while I would sometimes take my time in reading people's profiles and looking at their pictures, that one day in early February, I was just in a particularly bored and antsy mood and I just swiped right on pretty much everyone for a couple of minutes. I would like to make up some sweet story about how I saw her picture and felt butterflies or something corny like that. But that wouldn't be true.
I once tried telling her this part of the story and she told me to just stop digging...
So, no, I don't have a specific memory of that one magical right swipe. But, man, am I glad I did swipe right.
She immediately recognized me (for reasons that are hers, not mine to tell) and messaged me with something along the lines of "yay for another lgbt intern at our work." Being the awkward idiot that I am, it took me two whole days of non-stop messaging and one completely fabulous date to realize that she wasn't just "networking" with me...
Yeah, I'm that much of an idiot.
So I kept seeing this girl, and she kept telling me how she likes to take things slowly and that we weren't going to label whatever this was. Even though I already knew I was falling for her, and falling hard, I told her I understood, and that was fine. I didn't want to scare this amazing girl away.
Thankfully, she actually sucks at taking things slowly.
Within basically a half a month of that first fateful Tinder message, we were "official." And, let me tell you, as I dated this girl and got to know so many amazing things about her, I not only fell in love with her, but she became my best friend. I can tell her anything and everything and I feel so incredibly comfortable around her.
I'm not someone who makes friends easily. When I do become close with someone, it's usually fairly instantaneous. There are two other people in my life who I have instantaneously clicked with. And when I click with someone like that, I immediately know that they are going to mean something to me for the rest of my life.
So, yeah, there's this feeling I get when I meet someone new and I just "know." It's always been like that with her. Maybe not from day one, but definitely since we put labels on things.
She's let me express parts of myself that I've kept hidden for a very long time. She helps me bring out my inner little kid. She might even one day see my hyper side. She challenges certain thoughts I've resigned myself to and encourages me to have faith in myself, despite my issues and scars.
She lets me love her and do my best to protect her, even when I know that's not something that comes easily to her.
There are parts of parts of my life that I've learned to compartmentalize. I do this because of certain priorities that I've chosen to have in my life.
This post is about growing up. And part of growing up is realizing when you have to speak up, when to confront situations that aren't healthy. And part of growing up is realizing when you have to change some priorities in your life.
I've mentioned my family a lot on this blog. My family, specifically my parents, and I have been through a lot together. They've stood by my side through twenty years of school, through countless doctors appointments and random, seemingly inexplicable medical issues, and through unspeakable physical pain. My mom, through so much of that, has been equal parts my compassionate companion and emotional punching bag. I'm not proud to admit that last part. I think I've tried to apologize for that, but here's the thing about my mom: she has the wisdom to realize that that wasn't me, and that I honestly didn't even realize I was doing it. So she took it in stride. And never left my side (even when I thought I wanted her to). My dad has always been my rock, the voice of reason, and the one who can always calm me down.
My parents and I also carry around some major baggage in our relationship. Throughout my life growing up, but especially in high school, I felt that my parents would not truly love and accept me if they knew what I really thought, how I really wanted to act and speak. So I hid myself away and became increasingly bitter and angry and depressed. I eventually became suicidal, and blamed my parents. I'm not rehashing this to try and refocus blame or even to explain any of it away. From my perspective, that's our history. And it took me a very long time to get to a point where I could accept the fact that they do, in fact, love me unconditionally.
Whether or not they accept me, truly, accept me, is still a work in progress, especially since I came out.
In fact, I know that they don't accept me. My dad told me soon after I came out that if and when I start dating someone, he will never invite my girlfriend into his home because to do so would be to display "approval" over our relationship.
That hurt. It hurt so much (and still hurts so much) that I shut down and stopped talking, really talking to my parents again, to a certain extent.
I love my parents so incredibly much. They have been there for me through an incredible amount. And I know that they love me. I also know that they do want what's best for me. But the problem is that their version of what is "best" for me is nowhere near my life.
In fact, there's a giant fucking chasm between the two, and I don't know if anything will ever be able to close that gap.
I've been dealing with accepting and processing all of this for a couple years now. And I honestly thought I was ok with the status quo. With the "don't ask, don't tell" life we had set up.
Part of growing up is facing some harsh truths.
This isn't okay. Any semblance of a good relationship my parents and I have is a farce until they are at least willing to accept the fact that this is the life their daughter is pursuing, it makes her happy, and nothing is going to change that.
More to the point, the status quo is hurting my parents, it's hurting me, and it's hurting my girlfriend.
There are so many little things that are different now that hurt so much. When my two oldest brothers met and started dating their now-wives, my parents were engaged and wanted to meet and get to know these amazing women that my brothers would one day build lives with. When we had family dinners or even went up to Canada to visit extended family, the women my brothers were seeing were welcomed with open arms. When my grandpa died a few years back, my sisters-in-law weren't able to make it, but they were more than welcome to attend the memorial service. And anytime there was a graduation in the family, my brothers' girlfriends-turned-fiances-turned-wives were expected to attend, if they could.
I graduated from law school yesterday and my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me. Not because she didn't want to. She would've loved to be there. But I made the choice to not force an incredibly awkward meeting between this amazing girl that I'm in love with and my parents, the two rocks who have stood by me through it all.
I shouldn't have to make that choice. But I did. And it sucked. For me. For my girlfriend. For my family. Because they're missing out, too. They're missing out on this huge journey that I'm embarking on, and they're missing out on this amazing girl that I am hopelessly in love with.
They know so little about her. They don't know about her adorable obsession with pigs (or the fact that she wants to teach their grandson how to oink properly). They don't know how she caught on to Dutch Blitz (my family's card game obsession) faster than anyone else I've ever seen try and learn. They've never played Dutch Blitz with her. They don't know about the cat we rescued together or our amazing bowling skills (actually, Grandpa Scheerer would likely be disappointed by our horrible bowling skills if he were still here, but still...)
They don't know how happy she makes me. With just a look, just a smile, just a simple #luff text message. It's hard for me to be happy. I lived so much of my life wallowing in the dark, hidden places. I felt a measure of this happiness when I first came out. But like I said then, that was more about finding peace (at last). I have that here, too. But I also have happiness.
But then I go home. And I can't let my heart gush over with all the things I want to tell my mom about this amazing girl. I can't tell my girlfriend, "my dad really isn't intimidating or scary at all, I swear!" I can't get excited for the first time my dad cracks one of his incredibly dry and hilarious jokes around her and she realizes there's nothing to be afraid of.
I also spent so much of my life nervous about my dad finally revealing that he actually is in the CIA when I finally start seriously seeing someone and he breaks out the interrogation tactics. Because I'm his little girl. And he wants to protect me from ever being hurt.
That's what I don't get. I don't understand how someone who has always vowed to do everything in his power to protect me would let his religious-based, moral objection to the gender of my significant other stop him from being my dad, stop him from wanting to protect me. I definitely don't get how he could let himself hurt me like this.
And I know I have utterly failed at communicating any of this to my parents. But every time I tried to even mention the tiniest morsel, like saying what we were doing that weekend or telling them something funny that happened, both my parents just shut down, stare straight ahead, and then change the subject.
I want so badly for my parents to understand and accept that this isn't about morality, it's not about religion, it's not about their convictions. It's about real life people who are hurting. It's about their daughter who dreads coming home half the time because she knows that the moment she walks in the door, that happiness she felt all weekend is going to evaporate the moment no one asks about this girl that has stolen her heart.
I love this girl, and I want to build a life with her. I want my parents to be a part of that life, I really do. But part of growing up is re-evaluating your priorities. I would never cut my parents out of my life. That's not in any way what I'm saying. But there will come times, there will be life events, seasonal celebrations, and just everyday family gatherings where, if they don't start engaging in and, yes, accepting, this part of my life, they will stop being my top priority.
I don't want to have to make that choice. And I know that I shouldn't have to. I know we need to have a conversation. I also know that my parents need to meet this girl. That meeting her doesn't mean that they've changed their moral or religious views. It just means that they love and accept me and want me to be happy. And that they want to be engaged in my life. But mostly, it involves them making the choice to stop hurting me and hurting us.
I still have a long road ahead of me. There's bar prep and then taking that grueling two day long test, then waiting (way too long) for results, and then somewhere in there I have to hit the ground running to try and get a job.
It's all happening. It really is. These are the things I've been dreaming about and preparing for since I was fourteen years old.
Something else really, crazy big is happening, too.
This amazing, thoughtful, talented, generous, beautiful girl. And I am completely in love with her. I can see myself building a life with her someday. And it's been so amazing, this journey I've been on with her for the last few months. I don't think I have the words to describe just how much she means to me, but I'm gonna try.
Do you know all these cheesy rom-coms about people falling in love with their best friends after dating all the wrong people for so long? Yeah, this was nothing like that, and yet I'm dating my best friend nonetheless.
We knew each other from work. And by knew each other, I mean we had sat in the same room with a bunch of other interns a couple of times. We never even made eye contact and so (despite my awkward best efforts), we never did the stereotypical "I see you, too" queer person head nod thing.
I didn't know it then. I never would've guessed or imagined that that girl would change my life.
Like so many bored and slightly lonely people out there, I used Tinder off and on over the past year or so. Never too seriously. I talked to a handful of people and went on a couple of dates, but, back in February, I was literally only on there because I was bored. I wasn't looking to start anything, mostly because Tinder is a strange, strange universe full of shallowness, awkwardness, and weirdly amusing shenanigans. So I was bored. And, while I would sometimes take my time in reading people's profiles and looking at their pictures, that one day in early February, I was just in a particularly bored and antsy mood and I just swiped right on pretty much everyone for a couple of minutes. I would like to make up some sweet story about how I saw her picture and felt butterflies or something corny like that. But that wouldn't be true.
I once tried telling her this part of the story and she told me to just stop digging...
So, no, I don't have a specific memory of that one magical right swipe. But, man, am I glad I did swipe right.
She immediately recognized me (for reasons that are hers, not mine to tell) and messaged me with something along the lines of "yay for another lgbt intern at our work." Being the awkward idiot that I am, it took me two whole days of non-stop messaging and one completely fabulous date to realize that she wasn't just "networking" with me...
Yeah, I'm that much of an idiot.
So I kept seeing this girl, and she kept telling me how she likes to take things slowly and that we weren't going to label whatever this was. Even though I already knew I was falling for her, and falling hard, I told her I understood, and that was fine. I didn't want to scare this amazing girl away.
Thankfully, she actually sucks at taking things slowly.
Within basically a half a month of that first fateful Tinder message, we were "official." And, let me tell you, as I dated this girl and got to know so many amazing things about her, I not only fell in love with her, but she became my best friend. I can tell her anything and everything and I feel so incredibly comfortable around her.
I'm not someone who makes friends easily. When I do become close with someone, it's usually fairly instantaneous. There are two other people in my life who I have instantaneously clicked with. And when I click with someone like that, I immediately know that they are going to mean something to me for the rest of my life.
So, yeah, there's this feeling I get when I meet someone new and I just "know." It's always been like that with her. Maybe not from day one, but definitely since we put labels on things.
She's let me express parts of myself that I've kept hidden for a very long time. She helps me bring out my inner little kid. She might even one day see my hyper side. She challenges certain thoughts I've resigned myself to and encourages me to have faith in myself, despite my issues and scars.
She lets me love her and do my best to protect her, even when I know that's not something that comes easily to her.
There are parts of parts of my life that I've learned to compartmentalize. I do this because of certain priorities that I've chosen to have in my life.
This post is about growing up. And part of growing up is realizing when you have to speak up, when to confront situations that aren't healthy. And part of growing up is realizing when you have to change some priorities in your life.
I've mentioned my family a lot on this blog. My family, specifically my parents, and I have been through a lot together. They've stood by my side through twenty years of school, through countless doctors appointments and random, seemingly inexplicable medical issues, and through unspeakable physical pain. My mom, through so much of that, has been equal parts my compassionate companion and emotional punching bag. I'm not proud to admit that last part. I think I've tried to apologize for that, but here's the thing about my mom: she has the wisdom to realize that that wasn't me, and that I honestly didn't even realize I was doing it. So she took it in stride. And never left my side (even when I thought I wanted her to). My dad has always been my rock, the voice of reason, and the one who can always calm me down.
My parents and I also carry around some major baggage in our relationship. Throughout my life growing up, but especially in high school, I felt that my parents would not truly love and accept me if they knew what I really thought, how I really wanted to act and speak. So I hid myself away and became increasingly bitter and angry and depressed. I eventually became suicidal, and blamed my parents. I'm not rehashing this to try and refocus blame or even to explain any of it away. From my perspective, that's our history. And it took me a very long time to get to a point where I could accept the fact that they do, in fact, love me unconditionally.
Whether or not they accept me, truly, accept me, is still a work in progress, especially since I came out.
In fact, I know that they don't accept me. My dad told me soon after I came out that if and when I start dating someone, he will never invite my girlfriend into his home because to do so would be to display "approval" over our relationship.
That hurt. It hurt so much (and still hurts so much) that I shut down and stopped talking, really talking to my parents again, to a certain extent.
I love my parents so incredibly much. They have been there for me through an incredible amount. And I know that they love me. I also know that they do want what's best for me. But the problem is that their version of what is "best" for me is nowhere near my life.
In fact, there's a giant fucking chasm between the two, and I don't know if anything will ever be able to close that gap.
I've been dealing with accepting and processing all of this for a couple years now. And I honestly thought I was ok with the status quo. With the "don't ask, don't tell" life we had set up.
Part of growing up is facing some harsh truths.
This isn't okay. Any semblance of a good relationship my parents and I have is a farce until they are at least willing to accept the fact that this is the life their daughter is pursuing, it makes her happy, and nothing is going to change that.
More to the point, the status quo is hurting my parents, it's hurting me, and it's hurting my girlfriend.
There are so many little things that are different now that hurt so much. When my two oldest brothers met and started dating their now-wives, my parents were engaged and wanted to meet and get to know these amazing women that my brothers would one day build lives with. When we had family dinners or even went up to Canada to visit extended family, the women my brothers were seeing were welcomed with open arms. When my grandpa died a few years back, my sisters-in-law weren't able to make it, but they were more than welcome to attend the memorial service. And anytime there was a graduation in the family, my brothers' girlfriends-turned-fiances-turned-wives were expected to attend, if they could.
I graduated from law school yesterday and my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me. Not because she didn't want to. She would've loved to be there. But I made the choice to not force an incredibly awkward meeting between this amazing girl that I'm in love with and my parents, the two rocks who have stood by me through it all.
I shouldn't have to make that choice. But I did. And it sucked. For me. For my girlfriend. For my family. Because they're missing out, too. They're missing out on this huge journey that I'm embarking on, and they're missing out on this amazing girl that I am hopelessly in love with.
They know so little about her. They don't know about her adorable obsession with pigs (or the fact that she wants to teach their grandson how to oink properly). They don't know how she caught on to Dutch Blitz (my family's card game obsession) faster than anyone else I've ever seen try and learn. They've never played Dutch Blitz with her. They don't know about the cat we rescued together or our amazing bowling skills (actually, Grandpa Scheerer would likely be disappointed by our horrible bowling skills if he were still here, but still...)
They don't know how happy she makes me. With just a look, just a smile, just a simple #luff text message. It's hard for me to be happy. I lived so much of my life wallowing in the dark, hidden places. I felt a measure of this happiness when I first came out. But like I said then, that was more about finding peace (at last). I have that here, too. But I also have happiness.
But then I go home. And I can't let my heart gush over with all the things I want to tell my mom about this amazing girl. I can't tell my girlfriend, "my dad really isn't intimidating or scary at all, I swear!" I can't get excited for the first time my dad cracks one of his incredibly dry and hilarious jokes around her and she realizes there's nothing to be afraid of.
I also spent so much of my life nervous about my dad finally revealing that he actually is in the CIA when I finally start seriously seeing someone and he breaks out the interrogation tactics. Because I'm his little girl. And he wants to protect me from ever being hurt.
That's what I don't get. I don't understand how someone who has always vowed to do everything in his power to protect me would let his religious-based, moral objection to the gender of my significant other stop him from being my dad, stop him from wanting to protect me. I definitely don't get how he could let himself hurt me like this.
And I know I have utterly failed at communicating any of this to my parents. But every time I tried to even mention the tiniest morsel, like saying what we were doing that weekend or telling them something funny that happened, both my parents just shut down, stare straight ahead, and then change the subject.
I want so badly for my parents to understand and accept that this isn't about morality, it's not about religion, it's not about their convictions. It's about real life people who are hurting. It's about their daughter who dreads coming home half the time because she knows that the moment she walks in the door, that happiness she felt all weekend is going to evaporate the moment no one asks about this girl that has stolen her heart.
I love this girl, and I want to build a life with her. I want my parents to be a part of that life, I really do. But part of growing up is re-evaluating your priorities. I would never cut my parents out of my life. That's not in any way what I'm saying. But there will come times, there will be life events, seasonal celebrations, and just everyday family gatherings where, if they don't start engaging in and, yes, accepting, this part of my life, they will stop being my top priority.
I don't want to have to make that choice. And I know that I shouldn't have to. I know we need to have a conversation. I also know that my parents need to meet this girl. That meeting her doesn't mean that they've changed their moral or religious views. It just means that they love and accept me and want me to be happy. And that they want to be engaged in my life. But mostly, it involves them making the choice to stop hurting me and hurting us.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Limitless
I recently got a hair cut.
Not that uncommon for me, especially recently. I love trying new styles and going edgier and edgier without crossing the line into unprofessional for my line of work.
What makes this hair cut different, why it spurred me to dust off my semi-annual blogging shoes is because of what it exposes.
You can see my scar.
The scar I got at 11 years old when a neurosurgeon cut into my head. The scar that ended the pain I had been living with for months. The scar that meant my rescue.
I've had this scar now for more years than I lived before I got it. It's part of me. But I don't think I ever really wanted it to be. Yeah, the medical struggles I went through as a kid were something I'd bring up in casual conversation. I'd randomly and sarcastically say that my brain is too big for my skull and I have the scar to prove it.
But it wasn't something I really, truly wanted people to know about me. And I think I finally know why.
It's because I didn't know what it meant about me. And I think cutting off my hair, exposing the visual proof of what I went through, what I survived, this piece of me that shapes so much of who I am is actually forcing me to come to terms with it all.
But, you know, it's not actually about exposing to the world the fact that I had brain surgery. What's so different about leaving my scar exposed is that it forces me to think about what I went through. About the pain.
Chronic pain is a singular experience. I don't think anyone who hasn't lived through months and then years of uncontrollable, debilitating, life-altering pain can ever grasp the impact it has on a person's life. You just don't get it till you do.
When I was 11, I dealt with chronic pain for 4 months. It started August 1st, 2002 and ended November 22, 2002. And it changed me. When I was 20, in my junior year of undergrad, I started on a journey of chronic pain that wouldn't stop for nearly two years. It started in March of 2011 and wouldn't finally stop until January of 2013. And that journey changed me more.
Those are facts and dates that I know and even talk about if it comes up in conversation. But I don't often stop, sit, and think about what it actually means for me.
You know with bar applications due this week and work supervisors giving me their tips and tricks on studying for the bar, the topic of how difficult the bar is has come up quite a few times. And quite a few times I've heard classmates or co-workers or supervisors tell me that taking the bar exam will be the hardest thing I ever do in my life.
I honestly have to stop myself from laughing every goddamn time I hear it.
I know I haven't been there yet, I know I have no clue how time/life-consuming studying will be. I know that I have no clue how mentally, emotionally, and physically draining actually sitting down and taking that test will be. I don't know.
But I do know this with absolute certainty: on my list of hardest things I've gone through in my life, it won't even rank in the top 5.
There's something about living with chronic pain that gives you the confidence to understand exactly how far you can go. I didn't think I could make it. But then I did. And now I know. I know exactly how much I can take.
I know that I can make it through the most grueling academic transition of my life (first semester of law school), all while barely being able to walk or even use my hands. I made it through first year while hopped up on a huge cocktail of medications, medications that enabled me to show up to class, but that was about it. My mind was so gone half the time, both from the mind-altering effects of the drugs and the emotional and psychological drain of the physical pain, only slightly dulled by the meds. I couldn't concentrate in classes. There was one night I got home from class and the pain, which was normally just in my arms and legs, extended to the rest of my body. My neck was stiff and I couldn't move. It was like I was paralyzed. I might have even been on my way. I had to be rushed to the ER so they could give me IV dilaudid (read: drug store heroin) and then a lumbar puncture (i.e. my worst fear on the face of the planet). I went home and then got up and went to school the next morning and started again.
I made it through. I made it through the chronic pain and the academic load, and on top of all of this, I was struggling with and finally coming to terms with my own sexuality. By the end of my first year of law school, I had come out, to myself, to my closest friends, to my family, and finally to everyone else. I had surgery on my spine and side to finally alleviate the pain. I slowly but surely recovered from that shunt surgery. I weaned myself off of all the medications I had been relying on to simply keep moving for the prior two years.
I made it through the most grueling, physically painful, emotionally and psychologically draining year of my life. And then I kept moving. Because that's one of the things that chronic pain teaches you: you can't stop. You can't pretend that the pain isn't there, but you can't put your life on hold just because it hurts. You have got to push forward. Which is exactly why I don't often stop and take stock of what my journey through chronic pain has taught me. Because life keeps going. So did law school, and I had to catch up.
But then I chopped my hair off. And I realized that everyone I encounter, when they look at the back of my head, will know that something has happened to me in the past that has shaped me, that has forever altered me. And, you know what? Before I went through that two year long chronic pain journey, I never would have had the confidence to show off my scar. But now I do. Now there's very little that I don't have the confidence to do. Because, as I said, I know my limits. Which is to say, I know that I don't have any that I can't push through if I need to. I know that you strip everything away from me and I'll keep going.
Not that uncommon for me, especially recently. I love trying new styles and going edgier and edgier without crossing the line into unprofessional for my line of work.
What makes this hair cut different, why it spurred me to dust off my semi-annual blogging shoes is because of what it exposes.
You can see my scar.
The scar I got at 11 years old when a neurosurgeon cut into my head. The scar that ended the pain I had been living with for months. The scar that meant my rescue.
I've had this scar now for more years than I lived before I got it. It's part of me. But I don't think I ever really wanted it to be. Yeah, the medical struggles I went through as a kid were something I'd bring up in casual conversation. I'd randomly and sarcastically say that my brain is too big for my skull and I have the scar to prove it.
But it wasn't something I really, truly wanted people to know about me. And I think I finally know why.
It's because I didn't know what it meant about me. And I think cutting off my hair, exposing the visual proof of what I went through, what I survived, this piece of me that shapes so much of who I am is actually forcing me to come to terms with it all.
But, you know, it's not actually about exposing to the world the fact that I had brain surgery. What's so different about leaving my scar exposed is that it forces me to think about what I went through. About the pain.
Chronic pain is a singular experience. I don't think anyone who hasn't lived through months and then years of uncontrollable, debilitating, life-altering pain can ever grasp the impact it has on a person's life. You just don't get it till you do.
When I was 11, I dealt with chronic pain for 4 months. It started August 1st, 2002 and ended November 22, 2002. And it changed me. When I was 20, in my junior year of undergrad, I started on a journey of chronic pain that wouldn't stop for nearly two years. It started in March of 2011 and wouldn't finally stop until January of 2013. And that journey changed me more.
Those are facts and dates that I know and even talk about if it comes up in conversation. But I don't often stop, sit, and think about what it actually means for me.
You know with bar applications due this week and work supervisors giving me their tips and tricks on studying for the bar, the topic of how difficult the bar is has come up quite a few times. And quite a few times I've heard classmates or co-workers or supervisors tell me that taking the bar exam will be the hardest thing I ever do in my life.
I honestly have to stop myself from laughing every goddamn time I hear it.
I know I haven't been there yet, I know I have no clue how time/life-consuming studying will be. I know that I have no clue how mentally, emotionally, and physically draining actually sitting down and taking that test will be. I don't know.
But I do know this with absolute certainty: on my list of hardest things I've gone through in my life, it won't even rank in the top 5.
There's something about living with chronic pain that gives you the confidence to understand exactly how far you can go. I didn't think I could make it. But then I did. And now I know. I know exactly how much I can take.
I know that I can make it through the most grueling academic transition of my life (first semester of law school), all while barely being able to walk or even use my hands. I made it through first year while hopped up on a huge cocktail of medications, medications that enabled me to show up to class, but that was about it. My mind was so gone half the time, both from the mind-altering effects of the drugs and the emotional and psychological drain of the physical pain, only slightly dulled by the meds. I couldn't concentrate in classes. There was one night I got home from class and the pain, which was normally just in my arms and legs, extended to the rest of my body. My neck was stiff and I couldn't move. It was like I was paralyzed. I might have even been on my way. I had to be rushed to the ER so they could give me IV dilaudid (read: drug store heroin) and then a lumbar puncture (i.e. my worst fear on the face of the planet). I went home and then got up and went to school the next morning and started again.
I made it through. I made it through the chronic pain and the academic load, and on top of all of this, I was struggling with and finally coming to terms with my own sexuality. By the end of my first year of law school, I had come out, to myself, to my closest friends, to my family, and finally to everyone else. I had surgery on my spine and side to finally alleviate the pain. I slowly but surely recovered from that shunt surgery. I weaned myself off of all the medications I had been relying on to simply keep moving for the prior two years.
I made it through the most grueling, physically painful, emotionally and psychologically draining year of my life. And then I kept moving. Because that's one of the things that chronic pain teaches you: you can't stop. You can't pretend that the pain isn't there, but you can't put your life on hold just because it hurts. You have got to push forward. Which is exactly why I don't often stop and take stock of what my journey through chronic pain has taught me. Because life keeps going. So did law school, and I had to catch up.
But then I chopped my hair off. And I realized that everyone I encounter, when they look at the back of my head, will know that something has happened to me in the past that has shaped me, that has forever altered me. And, you know what? Before I went through that two year long chronic pain journey, I never would have had the confidence to show off my scar. But now I do. Now there's very little that I don't have the confidence to do. Because, as I said, I know my limits. Which is to say, I know that I don't have any that I can't push through if I need to. I know that you strip everything away from me and I'll keep going.
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