June 26, 2015

I was lying in bed, probably looking at pictures of Khloe Kardashian, when my mom came into my room.

“Did you see it?” she asked, handing me her phone. I sat up, and read the headline of the article she had on the screen. I looked down at it and read the words, not sinking in.

Marriage equality passed in all fifty states. MARRIAGE EQUALITY PASSED IN ALL FIFTY STATES.

It still doesn’t entirely feel real, but it is, and I don’t think I will fully ever be able to express what this emotion is.

It is part blinding happiness. It is the happiness that all across the country, people are celebrating and dancing and loving and living.

It is part gratefulness that my personhood has been fully recognized in every state across the country.

It is part glee that we finally triumphed, and it feels like the end of a Disney movie where the good guys are cheering and the bad guys are grinding their teeth.

It is part sadness that generations of LGBTQIA+ before me did not live to see this day, and sadness that they didn’t see with their own eyes the brilliance and equality that they worked so hard for.

It is part peace that we, and by “we” I don’t mean just LGBTQIA+ people, but “we” as in everyone in the goddamn United States, can marry whomever we choose. By granting marriage equality, the institution has been restored. No longer will it be an elite club. Now it is something for everyone to hold faith in, to respect, to honor, to cherish.

When I came out at fifteen, more than four years ago, I didn’t think this day would come. The day that my mother would show me the news that marriage equality was passed nationwide. When marriage equality was passed in New York, I celebrated in silence by myself. But now, at nearly twenty years old, I can celebrate outwardly and proudly and I can feel the love and happiness pouring in over social media as all of my friends celebrate with me.

We are not only living history. We are also giving the next generation of LGBTQIA+ something that we were not given. We will be raising them in a world where they are recognized at this fundamental level with their heterosexual counterparts. I know that we are a long way from reaching total equality, and the fight isn’t over, but this is a huge thing. Marriage equality validates us in a way that has not been done before, and we will be giving our following generations a softer, hopefully better world to live in.

We are teaching the next generations that there isn’t anything wrong with being a boy who likes boys, a girl who likes girls, a girl who likes boys and girls, a boy who doesn’t like anyone, a girl whom everyone else sees as a boy. This isn’t just about marriage equality. This is about nudging our country towards acceptance and preaching self-acceptance.

I hope everyone relishes this day and basks in the sweet, hard-won victory for marriage equality. We did it, we’ve earned it, we’re here.

I’m always a little afraid to start a new season of Orange Is The New Black because it’s very emotionally-draining and I always get sucked into it faster than a bug down a flushed toilet. What a metaphor.

I went to Six Flags the other day and made the bad mistake of wearing a tank top with no sunscreen. That decision, paired with my vampire skin, had added up to some interesting tan lines, and by “interesting tan lines” I mean that I look like a nightmare and am trying to get my skin back to normal and I have to start working at my summer camp job where I get shirtless. And there are already hot people at camp, so when this human potato rolls up shirtless, with tank top tan lines no less, it become a big pota-no.

I’ve been following the whole Rachel Dolezal story and have been finding it so interesting, especially with the multiple connections people are drawing between her and Caitlyn Jenner. At first, I was like, “Um, what?” and then I was like “Oh, maybe,” just because people were saying that on one hand, people are largely accepting of Caitlyn Jenner, but we are condemning another woman for trying to cross some large divide. But then, after thinking and researching it more, I felt like we were wrong in comparing Caitlyn to Rachel.

Janet Mock summed it up excellently in a series of tweets. She wanted to completely stop the connection between trans-womanhood and Rachel Dolezal. She said that trans women of color are attacked daily because of “this pervasive myth that we are pretending to be someone we are not, and therefore should be extinguished.”

And I was thinking about how Rachel said that she felt black and identified as black and I realized that I didn’t know what that meant. I have never really felt “white” because I don’t think that’s a feeling. I think the only way to really feel a certain race or way or identity is to feel the pressing of society’s expectations on you. I was on Tumblr and saw this amazing post that said that young black women are subjected to so much fetishization and discrimination and expectations. Rachel didn’t go through that because she is white, and never had to be subjected to the unique experience of growing up as a black person in America. She chose to opt into that, and I think that’s where I become angry.

I am not black, so I will never understand what it feels like to be discriminated against because of the color of my skin. Being born a white person offers me some privilege, a privilege that is so pervasive and invisible to my eyes that it almost doesn’t seem there, but I guess that’s kind of the point of being privileged. You don’t have to think about it, you have the luxury of not thinking about skin color.

But I am a self-identified gay man. And I do understand that unique branch of discrimination, of unsubtle looks in the school hallways as people analyzed my clothes and my gait, of the terror of answering phone calls because I worried it would be pranks or loud chants of “faggot,” of trying to come to terms with a sexuality that was not embraced by my community, of being completely alone in dealing with everything. And so I put it into terms of that. If I discovered that a leader of the GLAAD organization was a heterosexual person pretending to be a member of the LGBTQIA, I would firstly be like, “Why?” and secondly I would want to scream.

Because that person has no right to pretend to understand the struggles I went through. They have no right to stand next to me and claim my childhood terrors, my psyche’s scars, my shattering, as their own. And so while I am not and will not ever be a black person or understand that unique struggle, I can sympathize, and I can understand why Rachel’s actions were so perverse. She did not have any right to claim those struggles as her own. Allies of minorities like gay or black are valued and crucial parts to the fight for equality, but she overstepped her boundaries and tried to claim those plights as her own. A white person does not understand the discriminatory experiences of a black person in the same way that a straight person does not understand the experiences of a gay person. You can sympathize, you can become angry, you can respect, but you will never know exactly what that felt like, what that struggle was. And that’s why I’m mad. Because she took something that didn’t belong to her and wore it as her own.

I usually don’t write about more political issues or discussions like the Rachel Dolezal situation because I am always so afraid of making people upset or being disrespectful or insensitive, so I welcome other opinions and thoughts. But I think it is important to open dialogues about issues like these, because they matter. I considered writing about the Charleston church shootings as well, but I haven’t fully verbalized my words, so the only thing I can really express is deep sorrow for the lives lost and anger that our government officials are dancing around the notion of racism as a motivation.

I think we, as a country, need to be angrier about things. We need to stand up and yell and get emotional and express our thoughts. Because anger is a powerful motivator. Anger, not blind rage, can be molded into something powerful and unbreakable and raw.

We need to be angry about the way black people are treated in this country and in the world. We need to be angry about how TV networks deal with uncovering child-molesters like Josh Duggar. We need to be angry about the violence and vitriol aimed against transgendered people. We need to be angry that it is 2015 and we are living in a society that does not value equality. We need to be angry.

I was about to apologize for not posting a funny, witty little blog today, but I won’t. This blog is a reflection of me, and I don’t want it to come across that I remain cheerful and untouched by the atrocities and unfairness of the world. I don’t want that to be something people think about me, but I also think that we, everyone, has a duty to start dialogues about contemporary issues. We need to start dialogues. We need to start action. We need to be angry. We need to care.

I wore a tank top to the gym on Sunday—yesterday, I guess. I’ve only actually worn a tank top to the gym once before. And it was a huge deal then. And it’s still kind of a huge deal for me now.

The idea of a tank top at the gym seems so innocuous you’re probably wondering why this is even worth a blog post. And to that I say, “Um, is this your blog? Get off my back, Barbara.” And I mean it, Barbara. Stop intercepting my mail.

I know it seems like a small thing. I wear tank tops all the time. Almost to my detriment. But wearing a tank top to the gym is outside of my comfort zone. Not even stepping outside of my comfort zone. More like goddamn LEAPING out of my comfort zone. But I have a lot of body image problems. I started going to the gym for a boy. I kept going because I felt like if I stopped, I was this heaving beast. And I’ve come to a place—or I’m beginning to begin to broach a place—where I can be comfortable with my body.

Hence the tank top.

The guys at the gym who wear tank tops are brawny and golden and hot AF. I’m a slim—obviously gorgeous—pale, hipster-type. For a long time, I felt very uncomfortable at the gym. I wasn’t benching as much as the other guys. I wasn’t rocking a six-pack that a Laundromat would be jealous of—get it? Washboard abs. I’m making a laundry joke. GOD, BARBARA—I wasn’t a bronzed Greek god. If anyone ever called me a Greek god, it’d be because I’m Hades, lord of the Underworld. Which is sort of chic.

But I wore a tank top to the gym and it was one of the most empowering moments of my life. Is that too monumental?

It was monumental because I could see the muscles in my body moving and rippling. And I don’t mean to be all like, “Oh, look at my muscles, bro” and have a pissing contest. I don’t mean to imply that I am completely ripped. But I have been going to the gym for over a year now, and I have definition. And I think I forget that sometimes when I’m wearing t-shirts to the gym. But wearing a tank top forces you to see your body as it works out. And I felt proud of my body. Not in a way “I’m swole” way. But proud of what my body can do.

My body is strong and whole and it carries my air-catching lungs and blood-pumping heart and entirely strange brain. I think we forget that our bodies are crazily cool. I feel—and I’m sure I’m not alone—so constantly measured against impossible standards. And that wears me down; it makes me believe that this body is fallible and broken and something in needing of fixing.

I’m doing a body-positivity, body-art photo series for my journalism class where I have people write out messages—some sexual, some not—that they have received that objectified or dehumanized them. And then I photograph them. And because I have integrity, I included myself in the photoshoot. And that was so goddamn scary because I was only in boxers. And the photos will only be shown in my class. But when I was hunched over in my bathroom, as my friend—let’s call her Thea—photographed me with words like “Talk like a boy” and “Beg for it” scrawled over my body, I was self-conscious. How could I, with my white stomach and jiggles, show this to my class? What nerve did I have?

And that stayed with me for a few days until I presented the photos. No one jeered, no one freaked out that I didn’t have a six-pack. People were just impressed with the words and my honesty. And when I was photographing my models in various states of undress, I didn’t find them repellant for not being perfect. All I was thinking about was how brave and honest and powerful and wonderful and cool they were.

So let me say something. Our bodies are the vessels that carry our fractious, kaleidoscopic souls. They let us touch and feel and bleed and break and repair. They let us do all these things and they are imperfect, sure, and they might not measure up to an airbrushed magazine. But our bodies have experience. They have evolved over thousands of years. They are roadways of arteries, tapestries of skin, branches of limbs, that extend out and forward.

I was talking to my friend—let’s call her Lily—about body standards. She’s actually sitting next to me as I type this. She has no idea. How cray.

Anyway, we were talking and I mentioned that I heard something that goes something like this: “You wouldn’t talk to your best friend the way you talk to yourself.” We wouldn’t tell our friends that their fat rolls are horrible; that those freckles are unattractive; that their eyes should be bigger. We celebrate and we sing of their beauty.

So let me be your best friend if you can’t. Let me angle the blade away from your fractious soul and give you time to grow new skin. You are beautiful. That body that you are pinching and prodding is doing exactly what it needs to do: let you live. If you’re reading this, you are breathing with lungs that are contracting and flexing.

Sometimes I cannot take my own advice. But I think I will go to the gym in a tank top more often. To remind myself that my body is good enough. That my skin is pale but like porcelain. That my freckles are from a sun that warms the earth and lets plants grow. That my hair is unique and coppery. My body is strong and it’s because I decided to make it strong. I gave myself these muscles through hard work and sweat and—let’s face it—a lot of complaining on Twitter. But I did it. The gym stuff. Not the Twitter stuff. I mean, I did the Twitter stuff. REGARDLESS.

This post is written basically just for myself. Because writing things out—especially life-affirming, body-positive things—even if you don’t believe them, makes them more concrete. I might not be able to look at myself and be body-positive 100% of the time. Maybe not even 60% of the time. But I’m writing this because I want to say, “Yes, I stand behind this ideal. Yes. I believe in this even when I don’t believe it. Yes.”

I’m wearing shorts. Yes. Yes.

I’m sitting on a bench in the hallway, and my ankle knobbles are pressed against the uncomfortable surface, and I’m trying to angle them away. What is the official term for ankle knobbles? I don’t even know if I want to know.

I’ve been up since 6:00 a.m., when I had to crawl out of bed like something out of Splice—you thought I was going to reference The Grudge, didn’t you?—and get ready for a train to take me from my homeland—my bed at home—to my other homeland—my bed at school.

I have five weeks left of school, and I can taste summer, warm and light, on my tongue, on my skin. But I won’t fully celebrate until there are leaves on the trees. I always find the process of waiting for leaves to bud to be the most agonizing of all processes, aside from waiting for the microwave to beep or for that last minute on the washer to be done. One day, the trees are dead things, black bark and skeletal branches. Then they are frosted in pale green buds. And then, one day, they are covered in lush, sexy leaves. Yeah, I said “sexy.” Those leaves are sexy, green and soft and shady.

Usually, I don’t really care about summer that much, but I am jonesing for this one. I think it’s because of the winter Boston has had. This is the first time I’ve worn shorts outdoors since September, and my knees are like, “YAAAS.”

I’ve only got five weeks left of being a sophomore in college. In fact, in five weeks, I’ll never be able to call myself a sophomore in anything. I’ll just be a soft moron—a pudgy idiot—and that’s a weak joke, I’m sorry.

I just lied; I’m not sorry.

But that is so crazy. Why didn’t high school go by this quickly? By the end of sophomore year in high school, I felt like I had aged a hundred years. I had lost all my baby fat—in my face, I’m still porky other places (nonsexual)—and had grown about a foot. I looked like a completely different person. In college, all I’ve learned is that I can’t keep mixing patterns.

I feel like I’ve become a badass in these last two years. Not, like, a real badass. Like, I would never go on a motorcycle, or litter without feeling guilty, or cheat on a test. But a badass in that I know have opinions. I didn’t really have opinions in high school; I was too focused on being a bitch and stalking—I mean, having healthy crushes on—cute boys. I was so fake that any opinion I could’ve possibly mustered up would be pre-fabricated and as fake as my summery glow—it’s Jergens tanning moisturizer. But now I’ve stopped being a bitch—I’m just a straight-up asshole now (only sometimes, I swear)—but I can have real opinions because I can be real.

Does anyone else feel like that? Like high school was playacting and college is this rough terrain that scrapes and bruises and tears away at those costumes? Not in a bad way, but in a good way. In a way that allows me to shed and molt and about twenty other metaphors for growing up.

I started reading David Sedaris. And I’ve been listening to Bea Miller. And these two things—one old, one young—fit very well with me right now. David Sedaris is kind of who I want to be, but he’s old and still doesn’t seem to have his life together—which is a fucking blessing—and he’s still being crazy. But he’s done more drugs than I’ve done/will probably ever do. And Bea Miller, I’m fairly certain, is a toddler but her songs are so good! “Young Blood” and “Fire N Gold” are slaying me right now.

Today is the first day of the “100 Days Project” that my friend—let’s call her Nora—told me about. And I want to do it but what do I do? Poems? Haikus? Could that be hai-cool? Maybe I should just do 100 days of bad puns. But I feel like I would make it to about day 20 when an enraged Instagram follower punches me in the face for putting them through such terrible comedy. I don’t want to come-die.

Okay, I’ll stop.

I lied. I’LL NEVER STOP.

Also, Bea Miller was born in 1999. She is younger and literally more successful than I will probably ever be. JUST KIDDING. I’m gonna be so successful. People with big egos always reach success, right? That’s what Keeping Up With The Kardashians and The Real Housewives franchise has taught me. O Andy Cohen, guide me onto the path of success.

This blog has sufficiently come apart at the threads, so maybe let’s wrap up? Yeah? Okay. You hang up first. No, you. No, you. No, y—

*line has been disconnected*

It’s 1 am.

I almost considered not writing this post and even now my fingers are trying to click quietly over the keys to avoid making any noise. I’m not succeeding.

I almost considered not writing this but I’m afraid if I don’t capture the motion of these feelings now then I’ll lose them by morning. Because 1 am isn’t cute but sometimes it’s the time for writing.

I don’t think I have ever felt a single emotion singularly. I have never been completely desolate or delirious. Everything is tempered with something to a certain degree. But right now I’m feeling so many emotions strongly that I wonder if it is possible to feel multiple emotions singularly; for them to exist privately in their own moment untempered but not cancel each other out. Can that happen?

Because right now I can’t decide if I am happy or sad and I know that I am both because I want to smile and cry and the balloon in my chest is just full of air and it’s getting fuller and I want to scream to let all of it out but I can’t.

I am sad and relieved and hurt and upset and embarrassed and glad and angry all at the same time and I feel them all like stones dropping into my ocean, plunk plunk plunk one after the other saying “We’re here; we’re with you.”

I am relieved that this thing is over but I can’t let go of the fear that I’ll lose something in letting it go. It was a crutch, a painful one that make my heart crimp, but it helped me walk. Walking alone is scary because I’m as wobbly as a baby giraffe and god knows how those supermodels manage to canter on those knobby knees. Sorry, went on a tangent.

I’m writing this post for me; not for the views or the laughs. I’m using this post as a time capsule. I feel these things and they are filling me up and I want them to. I feel thick with feelings and I don’t want that to go away. I want this moment, of piercing sadness and ringing happiness, to be crystallized and tucked away so that one day when I’m okay with the letting go-ness, I can reread and think about how kaleidoscopic my stained glass soul was at 1 am on March 11.

I’m starting to see this blog for what it could be: not just a professional—okay, laxly professional—way of showcasing my writing style, but also a way of me to express and process and verbalize and hurt and love and think and ramble. Also to use beautifully tangled runaway sentences that barrel on. Because that’s what I want my writing to be: I want it to be the words that describe the pain in your chest; the words that name the breathless, wonderful, wonderfully scary air in your lungs; the words that ring around your choked-up throat. Because that’s what it is for me; it lets me do all those things and more and I’m realizing how precious that is. Because our feelings are like this holy hymn and I want them to exist in a place that allows them to exist singularly together.