Moving On In Trust

I considered donning one of my eight cow suits to get into character for this week’s thoughts, but decided that wearing a cow suit alone at my dining room table at 6am is weird.  Continuing with a farm animal theme, I’m as happy as a pig in slop that the recent election is over, and I look forward to “mooooving” on.

Before I do, however, I want to share a couple experiences as Pocatellians campaigned for and against and ultimately voted on Proposition One to retain the city’s anti-discrimination ordinance.

Two Sundays ago I visited with an MSNBC reporter on my front porch. I suppose it was more of an interview than a visit, but the camera was off as much as it was on. This reporter has released two video reports showcasing some of the efforts within the Fair Pocatello Campaign and the footage of Myrtle and I weren’t in either of them.  (I HAD to introduce my 31 year old box turtle to him.) I am relieved and not surprised that my interview hasn’t surfaced.

The relief comes in knowing that I don’t interview well. Sure. Give me some questions beforehand and let me go on a bike ride to process them, and I might be able to come up with something polished and articulate. But on the fly, I ramble, stutter, and cope with nerves through self-deprecation and snickering.  It was also the day before a scheduled haircut, so I was looking like a shaggy, makeup-less muppet whose eyebrows could use a good tweeze.  I’m also relieved because I’m carrying more weight than I usually do this time of year as I’ve traded riding for writing, and if I’m going to make some sort of national debut, I’d like to be looking lean and svelte.

My lack of surprise that my interview hasn’t appeared is that when it comes down to it, I love this place. It’s my home. I’m like a 3-legged farm dog that’s happy to work and be alive and enjoy an occasional scratch behind the ear. I found myself telling the reporter about the City Creek Trail, Lava Hot Springs, my two minute commute to work, and my fabulous high school and college years. I was much more interested in discussing the wonders of southeast Idaho than any troubles of growing up and living here.

My personal story doesn’t contain discrimination (that I know of); it contains fear of it based on other first- and second-hand accounts of GLBT people, newspaper editorials, and overheard derisive comments in both personal and professional settings spanning many years.  The reporter asked me if that level of fear had changed at all since I’ve been more vocal and shared personal stories in this forum. That’s a question that could take miles and miles on my bike to answer.

In putting myself out there, I’m putting a lot of trust in people. I’m trusting that I’ll get the same great service from local businesses that I always have; that friends that knew me before I started to write will still be my friends after;  that my quality of life will not diminish as a result of respectfully stating my opinions and sharing my perspective.  (I have had a couple negative experiences that I may share at some point, but the positives outnumber them.)  It can be scary to put such trust in people.

It’s been scarier to realize that at times I lack the same trust I’m asking of others. I told the reporter that I have found myself second-guessing people when I shouldn’t. When I read names of friends and acquaintances on the referendum petitions, I can’t assume what is in their heart and I have to trust that we can continue to live and work side-by-side. When a man of one faith calls for the right to fire me for committing one “sin” over another, I have to trust that not all people of his faith agree that faith warrants a license to discriminate. And, even if they did, if I treated them differently with knowledge of their opinions, I’d be doing exactly what I’m trusting others not to do.  I’m not asking anyone to alter a belief; I’m trusting everyone to treat me with the same fairness I afford them.

I’ve got bikes to ride, cow suits to wear and whimsical blogs to write.  One of my favorite characters Ferris Bueller said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Although I’m hoping we can move on and move on quickly, I’ll be sure to stop my bike and look around because I don’t want to miss any of the greatness southeast Idaho has to offer this summer.

The Book That Changed My Life

At the dinner party a couple weeks ago where I met some Century High School debate students, I also met a young gal from Irving Middle School. I awkwardly chit-chatted with her and her mother about awkward chit chat at parties. I wish I’d learned that in school. It reminded me of a book that changed my life.

Columnists use their platform form to educate, clear the air, harp, or celebrate. I’ll let today’s serve as a slight confessional: I don’t read much. Like hardly ever. I would be a better person, and certainly a better writer, if I let more words come before my eyes. Although with some of the stuff out there, I’d probably be more grumpy and discontent. Ignorance is bliss, right?

When I do read, it’s often like a born again experience and I want to share what wonderful things I’ve learned as if I’ve discovered something brand new. I bet my taste in literature is primitive and unrefined. This book that changed my life may not be all that ground-breaking or informative; it may just happen to be one that sustained my interest and now I think it’s the best thing in the world. Regardless, I became a more enlightened, content, and pleasant person after reading and applying this book.

A few years ago, I was attending a professional conference and needed to network with people.  I needed better social skills over all, but more pointedly in this environment. I came across a whole slew of books on Amazon that might help, but after painfully taking the time to read a few reviews, I only bought one book: “How to Talk to Anyone: 92 Little Tricks for Big Success in Relationships” by Leil Lowndes.

Engineers are rarely known for the charm and dashing social skills.  We can be literal and unaware. If we happen to be aware, then we can be self conscious. It’s a shame that the rest of the world hasn’t yet embraced the utility and function of white tube socks, but until they do, many of us could use a little help interacting with the public.

I read the book shamelessly in doctors’ offices and on plane en route to my conference. I used the book as a segue to talk with the passenger in the seat next to me. “Hi. I’m Billie. I’m reading a paperback on how to talk to people. I’m not very good at it. Are you?”

I became a fan Ms. Lowndes after this one book and I’m an even bigger fan of education a la Amazon.

* The young gal in this account happens to be transgender. I have seen her at various community events, but never quite knew how to approach her and introduce myself. I have countless success stories of interactions that didn't lead to a face palm by me or the other person because I've applied tricks in this book, and I chuckle now that I've brilliantly utilized the book itself as perfect fodder for an exchange. Again, I'll concede that my self-awareness may still be stunningly low and it's possible that her account of our meeting might be titled "The Amost-Comfortable, Chatty, Smiling Dork"  which is fine. But, I'm going to rely on my own perception which could be classified as a brief but friendly slice of bliss. (Hey, what was I saying about bliss earlier?)

When Drag Queens Say Goodbye

Ever have those weekends when you can’t wait for Monday so you can just relax at work? That describes most of my weekends in the spring, and I think I’m still recovering from one a few weeks ago.

I attended an early voting party on Friday followed by the Old Town Art Walk. Saturday entailed quality time with the lawn mower, weed whacker, broom and ShopVac in the morning, and a six year old’s skating party at Deleta in the afternoon. I have hit the age at which skating can now be considered a challenging cardio workout.

The whirlwind weekend continued Saturday night with another birthday party for a 50 year old yoga/running/all-around fitness nut. If she’d have had a skating party, I would have been hospitalized.  While enjoying the party cupcakes and an obligatory carrot stick, my date received a text inviting us to a drag show at Club Charley’s. Decisions, decisions. 

For those unfamiliar, Club Charley’s is Pocatello’s lone gay bar. The first weekend of the month features a show by their cadre of drag queens who call themselves “Charley’s Angels.” They lip sync and dance in dreadfully glamorous attire and the queen in charge, Spyke Naugahyde, delivers a wild stand-up routine.  All 6 feet and 5 inches of Spyke is a sequined sight to behold, and she keeps the audience engaged and laughing all night long.  (“She” is the correct pronoun when referring to a drag queen.)  

You won’t see anything more risque at a Charley’s drag show than you might see at a PG-13 movie, but the language would earn an R-rating. I only make it to about two drag shows a year at Charley’s, but for the last nine years, I’ve seen their act at the Bannock County Relay for Life. The queens have been a cornerstone for entertainment at the American Cancer Society Event, and they’ll be performing again this year at midnight. They do a great job revamping their act into an energizing show for the multi-age audience.

So, back to my weekend. We were already out and about. The sitter was secured for a few hours, and I found some ibuprofen to sustain me.  We arrived at Club Charley’s fifteen minutes before the nine o’clock show time. We spotted our friends at their reserved table and my stomach sank. The only chairs left were right in front of the stage.  Audience participation is part of the fun of a drag show, but I prefer to be a spectator, not a participant. I feared those seats and my Hawaiian shirt weren’t going to bode well for mere spectatorship.  I grabbed a couple of ice waters and settled in for the show.

Spyke opened with a lively welcome and explanation of drag show etiquette. She let the crowd know tips are appreciated because “it’s expensive to look that cheap.” Her opening outfit must have been really expensive. Spyke’s mom was in the audience and after a little back and forth, I could see where that sarcasm and wit originated.  Mama Naugahyde was a riot.

About midway through the show, my fears surrounding the location of my seat and loud Hawaiian shirt came true. Two queens grabbed my hand, pulled me to a chair in the middle of the stage, and danced around the blushing centerpiece, yours truly. Camera phones popped up in the crowd like whack-a-moles, and I wondered if this was going to become a teaching moment for teens about the repercussions of social media.  I closed my eyes and took my mind to a happier place, and was temporarily transported to a dentist’s chair. In the end, I survived, and I’m not aware of anything on YouTube. Yet.

The night’s show was also a farewell for one of the regular queens who is moving to Boise with her partner.  The queen’s stage name is “Ashley Liqueur,” and she is one talented performer. I graduated from engineering school with Ashley’s partner, and he’s always got a hug and a smile for everyone. That night, the poor guy clung to every parting hug.

As the show wound down with touching tributes, performers and audience members alike started to tear up. With the heartfelt acts and sincere words, I felt like I was intruding at a family gathering, but that didn’t last long.  I was welcome at the holiday table. I’ve never seen such crying at a drag show, and even I shed a couple tears. Especially when I noticed through the hugs and choked-up farewells, not one of the crying queens’ makeup ran.  Not one. Their makeup is that good.

Many of the queens and patrons of Club Charley’s are family to each other, and there’s no denying the sadness when your family leaves or when drag queens say “goodbye.” 

Honey or Venom

High School Graduation Day is almost here. For some, the day looms while for others, it beckons. Just yesterday, these graduates were babies, but any day now they can join the military, embark upon missions, move away for college, or continue to hole up in the basement playing video games. What will inspire these graduates?

I can still recall the inspiring speech at my sixth grade graduation 29 years ago.  I could fill volumes with reflections stemming from my atheist mother’s decision to send me to a religious elementary school, and that sermon alone would command a few chapters.

I don’t know if it this is really true, but it made for a great story that made its mark on my heart. At my graduation the pastor spoke of a chemical in a flower that a breed of spider used to make its venom. He noted that a certain bee used this same chemical to make honey.  He contrasted the sweet and pleasing aspects of honey with the dangerous and dastardly effects of venom

In his rich, German accent, he spoke of two brothers who grew up with an alcoholic and abusive father. One brother also became an alcoholic and was homeless; the other a sober, successful businessman and doting father. When asked individually what led them to their respective lives they each replied,

“My father was a mean alcoholic, what would you expect?”

From the same thing, one learned what to become and one learned what not to become.

Since that graduation day, visions of honeycombs and bees and spiders and webs flash through my mind when I feel myself react and have split seconds to guide my thoughts, words, or actions.

Graduation is a gateway to new experiences and independence.  We have situations, traits, or family members we haven’t chosen, but like a blossoming flower, a world of choices opens with that diploma in hand. Attitudes, pens, tongues, and behaviors can all be channeled with honey or venom. My mom was kind, funny, and perpetually optimistic. Her world view aligned perfectly with that graduation address and its themes of positivity, choice, and taking control of my own happiness.

Graduation is an ideal time to consider life choices, happiness, and next paths. Will they be paths flowing with honey or paths wrought with venom? Either way, the choice is ours and we get to make it over and over, not just on graduation day.

Family and Fairness

During the summer between my  second and third grade school years, I made a schedule on notebook paper. I know it was that particular summer because my second grade teacher gave me a stuffed Garfield and a farewell card at church the Sunday after school got out. I loved that Garfield immediately, but I was torn about how his new arrival would affect my other stuffed animals.

I had a small yellow bunny, a Snoopy, a larger pink rabbit in overalls and a Winnie the Pooh. I already felt bad for Pooh because his felt eyebrows and mouth had crumbled years before and Mom had to keep redrawing his facial features. Now I felt worse that he’d have to accommodate Garfield’s addition to the familial unit, so I made a schedule. I rotated all five animals’ placement trying to painstakingly ensure they received the same attention during bedtime cuddles.  I wanted to be fair.

Appeals for fairness had to be carefully considered in my house.  I was an only child of a divorced child protection social worker. Any time I whined or logically stated that something wasn't fair—that I didn't have shoes, clothes, Pop Tarts, or a dad in the house like my classmates—my mom came unglued. She’d disclose what kids in her caseload had suffered. In retrospect, the details probably weren't appropriate for my age, but  I sure got the picture. Life was not fair, and someone always had it worse than I.

When I consider the plight of others, it’s easy for me to champion the fight for fairness.  Garfield deserved to split time with Snoopy and Pooh! But when I consider championing my own fight, I still hesitate. I feel a lecture from Mom coming before I open my mouth or sit down at my computer.  I've concluded that simply sharing some of my own experiences offers a glimpse into what the Fair Pocatello campaign is about.

My family has always been contrary to the norm, or at least contrary to what is painted as what the norm should be.  Divorce is often no less sad today than it was when my parents split, but it is much less taboo nowadays. I was never teased, per say, for being a child of divorced parents, but I was certainly recognized as different and told by young peers that I didn't have a real family.  

What is family? My definition includes a unit which contains and instills love, devotion, a sense of belonging, lessons in interdependence and contributing, sometimes at your own sacrifice, to the well-being of the other members. That sounds a lot like mom and me and my other familial relationships today.

In 2002, when my partner’s father died and I needed to ask for emergency time off work, it was a gauntlet from my cubicle to my manager’s office.  When I had a catastrophic neck injury in April of 2011, she debated about how to ask for time off to accompany me to Salt Lake.  Each of these stressful, traumatic, and sadly normal human experiences were compounded for us because sexual orientation is not a protected status for employment.

My ex’s daughter is finishing her junior year in college. She competes on her collegiate cycling team and on many Mondays this spring, she sent updates and pictures from her racing weekends.  Her emails were addressed to her mom, dad, aunts, uncles, grandparents and me. She began them with “Dear Family.”  I choked up every time she wrote.

My family is different. Regardless of the many spins, facets and arguments around Pocatello’s non-discrimination ordinance and the upcoming vote, to me it’s about family and fairness. Whatever my family is and whomever it encompasses, it brings me joy, comfort, and support, and it’s as goofy, fun and complicated as any other.  Whatever my family is, the idea that I could be fired or denied housing because of it baffles and saddens me. I should be able to support and nurture mine like any other family, shouldn’t I?

My mom might even entertain this appeal for fairness, and it’s in that vein that I already early voted “no” on prop one. 

The Unicorn in Wyoming

My friends Susie and Al Matsuura traveled to Greeley, Colorado a few weeks ago to visit their daughter and son-in-law.  On their day of return, a relentless snow started in the morning. They drove out of one storm and into the remnants of another. They crawled into Cheyenne, Wyoming just as that part of the interstate reopened. Al grew up in Idaho, and this was his farthest trip east. He commented to Susie while they waited for traffic to pick up, “See, I told ya. Nothin’ but traffic jams in the East.”  I snicker at his classification of “the East”, but Al’s right about Wyoming in the spring. Traffic jams and snow.

My first spring snowstorm in Wyoming came when I was three. Mom loaded me in some sort of Chrysler or Oldsmobile, something big and boat-like, and we headed to Denver to see her sister and my cousins, Mike and Sarah.  I was so excited because Mike is five years older than I and he had cool toys.

The snow started around nightfall and it fell and fell until we were stuck on the side of the road. I’m not sure if we had other car trouble or if it was only the snow storm galaxy that stopped us. Mom started playing with the CB radio. I begged for a turn, but was relinquished to my imagination and stuffed animals in the back seat window sill.

 “Breaker one-nine, breaker one-nine, this is Bossy Billie. What’s your twenty, Pooh Bear? Over.”

 I picked my own CB handle. My dad had a radio in his bar. He’d strike up conversations with truckers taking the I-30 shortcut between Pocatello and I-84 in Wyoming and welcome them to stop in at the Lava Lounge. This was well before drinking and driving laws, and well before he quit drinking.

I loved the CB. It possessed such fanciful exchanges and interesting characters. I always wanted to ride with the truckers, but Mom never let me. She wasn’t having much luck in her CB game until a deep voice came over with, “Yes, ma’am this is Unicorn. What’s your twenty? I can gitcha to Kemmerer.” 

When Unicorn arrived, my memory tells me he was a Super Mario-looking character with a mustache and curly black hair. My dream was coming true and I was going to get to ride in a big rig.  I was oblivious to leaving our car and belongings on the side of the road. Why did we have the TV anyway?

Unicorn let me blast the horn. He explained the knobs and controls. He let me talk on his CB. What a fanciful snowy adventure with Pooh Bear, Unicorn and a ride in a big rig! I barely noticed Mom crying.

Unicorn took us to a dark mini-mart in desolate Wyoming.  We woke a younger couple and they let us in. It was an A-frame building and I got to pick out an orange push-up ice cream in the middle of the night while Mom and Unicorn explained our quandry. 

When day came, mom left for a while and I stayed with these strangers. Until she returned with our car, I played on the spiral staircase leading from their living quarters down to the store. It was like a castle. They let me descend the stairs and pick out more ice cream. For free! To this day, I think spiral staircases are about the most magical thing ever designed.

I don’t recall much more of the trip because it was boring and quick. We didn’t stay with my cousins long and although I was disappointed, I was distracted in wanting another ride with Unicorn. In mere days, we headed back to Lava. There was more crying. I figured Mom was just afraid of snow and car trouble, so I let her know we’d be okay because Unicorn was out there.

 I had no idea until years later that this enchanting childhood memory was when my mom left my dad.  Her loneliest, most uncertain and fearful days were a handful of my best so far.

That weekend signified that a traditional fairy tale “happily ever after” wasn’t going to be for my parents. Mom and I moved to Pocatello. She had to find a new job, had to go back to school, and had to find a daycare for me. She had to establish a completely new network of friends and support in a new and foreign town. Hers certainly wasn’t a traditional fairy tale life, but in my head, my child hood was. It may not have held princes and princesses, but I’ll be darned, it did have a unicorn.