What Do You Do After a Tragedy?

I've received some heart-wrenching emails in the past, but this one had me in tears.  I was easily able to put myself in this young man's place, and to feel what he was feeling.  Here's his email (with a few edits for clarity):

Hello Sir,

I have been following your blog for quite sometime now but never wrote any comment or emailed you.  I was always fascinated with the kind of relationship you have with your partner. I wanted to have the same kind with my partner, but unfortunately he died, this 20th August 2013, Tuesday. We knew each other since March 2011, wanted to live life together, make a home together, work together, but everything was snatched away from us in one dreadful moment. I always told him your stories, and he used to say that he wanted to be like you and wants me to be like your partner–he wanted to write and take care of our home.

He went to his place on 19th August in Rishikesh on Rakhi (a Hindu festival). The next day, with his friend, he went to river Ganga, saw an old lady crying for help, and went to rescue her.  In the process, his feet slipped and he drowned, never to return again. We have not been able to find his body yet, which I am sure we won't be able to, after more than 15 days.

I also saw dreams.  He loved me truly and I also loved him truly. I am numb and blank. I have no energy left in me. Wherever I see, I see his face only. Everything reminds me of him.

I am writing to you, because I am sure you would understand what I am going through.  It's like I lost my family, he was my family. In a country like India, where there is so much taboo about gay relationships, our relationship flourished.  Though we were not out to our families, we enjoyed little things together, as I am sure you and Chris do. 

Please advise me what should I do: is it easy to move on, is it easy to trust someone else, should I marry a girl–what should I do? Please help your younger brother.

Regards,
N.


Here was my response (again, with edits as appropriate):

Dear N.,

It’s difficult for me to write this because I have tears in my eyes after reading your email, and I can scarcely see my computer.  I am heartbroken that this happened to you, that you are going through this, that it’s all still so new and so difficult.  You are courageous to write me now, when you are in such pain.  I can’t tell you how honored I am that you shared your story with me and trusted me with it.  I pray I write something that, in some small way, will bring you comfort.

Of course, I'm so happy to know you’ve followed my blog for a while, and that you’ve opened yourself up to what I write.  Thank you for accepting me, and my work, into your life.  Whenever I write something, I don't know if it will mean anything to anyone other than me.  That’s why it makes a difference to hear from my readers, and to know you relate to what I say.  

I’ve just read your email again, and my eyes are still filled with tears.  I’ve written posts on my blog where I’ve speculated what it would be like for me to lose my beloved partner, Chris.  So, yes, you are right–I do understand what you’re going through.  More than you know.  Losing Chris would be the single most difficult thing to happen to me.  I can’t imagine it.  That’s why I’ve written that I hope I go before him.  I hate the idea of leaving him alone, giving him no choice but to make do on his own.  But, on a purely selfish level, I hate even more the idea of having to live my life without him.  I don’t know how I would do it, or even if I could.

Oh, my goodness.  Your comment about enjoying the little things together with your partner struck a chord with me.  Last evening was filled with little things, starting when Chris arrived home from work.  Even including when he walked in the door, after not seeing each other since the night before.  I’m always relieved when he arrives safely, when I know he hasn’t been in an accident on the shuttle or the train out of the city.  Then there was sitting down to dinner together, something we do every evening but that is so special when you think about it, because, one day, our evening meal together will truly be our very last.  Such a simple thing, sharing dinner, but so meaningful.

Afterward, we went for a walk.  The weather was warm and beautiful, and we were in each other’s company–talking, laughing, joking, planning for the future.  All the things it's so easy to take for granted, until we can no longer do them.

And, then, when I held him, felt the warmth of his body next to mine, and kissed him good night.  It’s something we’ve done for the past twenty-one years we’ve been a couple.  But, again, some day, one of us won’t be here to do it.  And it’s critical that we savor each and every moment we have together, because, as your story proves, we don’t know when it will all come to an end.

It’s difficult for me to offer you advice on what you should do, because, although I’ve lost people who were close to me, I’ve never lost someone I love as much as I love Chris.  But, N., I’ve given some thought to what you’ve written, and I think I can help.

First, you must allow yourself the time and the space to grieve.  You must allow yourself to feel what you do at any particular moment.  This is where you come to terms, in the best way you are able, with the fact that your partner is gone.  Give yourself as long as that takes.  I know it won't be easy, particularly since you aren’t out to your family, and you can’t discuss with them the pain you're in and why.  But I pray you have a friend you can share this with and can confide in.  And, if you don’t, you can always write to me.  I will try to help you through it the best I can.

You ask, is it easy to move on?  No, I'm sure it's not.  It would take me a very, very long time to move on if I lost Chris.  And here’s the thing.  I don’t think you should ever want to move on, not entirely anyway, from what you shared with your partner.  You will always carry a part of him in your heart, a part of what you shared, of what you were together, and you must always cherish that.  You must always honor what you had by remembering him, not focusing on his death and the fact that he’s gone, but on the wonderful human being and soul he was.

And on the wonderful time you spent together.  A little secret, N.  Some people, despite how old they become, never experience what you did.  Some people, for one reason or another, never find real and true love.  What a shame that is.  So you must celebrate that love.  You must let it burn within you.  You must allow it to comfort you when you are suffering, as you are now.  You loved another human being, and that’s no small thing. That’s why we are all here.  It’s what we must do.  And no one can take it away from you.

You ask, is it easy to trust someone else?  I don’t think that’s what you really mean, because, as far as I can tell, there was no betrayal of trust between you and your partner. You loved each other completely, and there should be no reason why you couldn’t trust someone else.

What I think you mean to ask is, is it easy to love someone else?  And, here, I must share with you what I learned from someone I once knew.  She had been married to a man, and they loved each other very much.  Then, he passed away after a long illness, and she was alone for some time.  Finally, she met another man, and she fell in love with him.

I asked her, can you love again?  And, what is love like the second time around?  And she said, yes, of course you can love again.  If you allow yourself to.  And then she said, love the second time around is still love.  It’s different, because the person you love is different from the one you loved before.  But it’s no less.  And it can be just as wonderful.  

I can only go by what she said, because, thankfully, I haven’t experienced this myself.  But I take heart from her words that I would be able to feel love again, if I lost Chris, and fell in love with someone else.  And I hope you do too.

You ask, should I marry a girl?  I find your question a curious one.  Why would you consider marrying a girl, if you are not heterosexual?  Because being gay in India is so difficult? Because you don’t believe you’ll ever find another young man to love?  Listen, if you’re gay, then you must be true to yourself, to the extent that you are able.  If you found love with a young man once, you must believe you will find love with another young man again.

Until then, I can’t let this opportunity go by without saying that, when you don’t have the love of someone else in your life, you must be able to count on the love you have from yourself.  This is a difficult thing for some people, especially gay men.  Many fall easily in love with someone else, and grasp on to it for all its worth, because, otherwise, they think no one will love them.  Because they feel empty and incomplete if they don't feel love from someone else.  

But the most important love you'll ever have in your life is that which you have for yourself. And if you need help with that, you’ll find many posts on my blog about that very subject. It is so important to me to show gay and lesbian people how important the love they have for themselves is, how not having it is detrimental to them in so many ways.  I sincerely hope you love yourself, first and foremost, especially during this very difficult time.    

I am so happy that you consider me like a younger brother.  Reading that brought a smile to my face.  I pray you’ve found comfort in my words, I’ve given you hope you’ll get through this tragic time, and you'll come out the other end of this feeling stronger and ready to experience the fullness and beauty of love again.

I send you my very best wishes and pray your life will be filled with the richness of love.

Your brother,

Rick

NALT (Not All Like That) Christians

I don't agree with absolutely everything Dan Savage says, does, or writes, but, on this point, I'm with him all the way.

I hope you'll take a few minutes to watch this video.  It could help you reconcile your belief in God and your sexual orientation.

The Little Boy

"What's the significance of Peter Pan?" he asked.

He is my sister's partner; together, they were over for dinner on a recent Saturday.

I had no idea what he was talking about; his question had come from out of nowhere.  What did he mean by Peter Pan?  And what did Peter Pan have to do with our topic of conversation?

I must have looked dumbfounded, because my sister's partner pointed to the top of the end table in our sitting room.  I looked to my immediate left and saw what he meant.    

In the summer of 1981, the same one that Princess Diana and Prince Charles were married, I was a little less than a year into my career with one of Canada's major financial institutions. I had accepted a six-week work assignment to provide vacation relief for an assistant administration officer in charge of the teller line at the Prince Rupert branch.

After flying to Vancouver, taking another flight up the coast of BC, and, finally, a bus off the island where the airport was located, I landed in a strange, small town, with no idea what I'd gotten myself into. 

While in Prince Rupert, I remember leaving the branch every day at lunch, walking down the hill to the one and only shopping centre in town, entering The Bay (Canada's oldest department store and institution–now regrettably owned by a large U.S. corporation), and taking the escalator down to the lower mall, where a deli was located, and where I ordered my lunch to go. It was on one of my many trips through The Bay that I saw it.

It was a small tchotchke, sitting on an end table in a living room arrangement, in the home furnishings department.  Standing only seven inches tall, it was made of clay, kind of a tan color, and unmistakably charming.  It was a little boy, perhaps eight years old, sitting with his legs crossed, forearms leaning on his calves.  He wore a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and suspenders.  His hair was thick and tousled, his face sweet and innocent, and his expression peaceful, as though he'd been caught spending a lazy afternoon sitting on a patch of grass somewhere.

And, inexplicably, I felt an instant connection to him.  For some reason, I related to this little boy, and I had to have him.  I had to have him, bring him home, find a place for him somewhere in my bedroom, in the house where I still lived with my parents, and make him a part of my life.  Somehow, I knew I would not feel complete without him.

Over these thirty-two years, a lot of tchokchkes have come and gone in the apartments, town-home, and single-family house where I've lived, but the little boy has always been there.  In fact, as home decorating items go, the little boy is the only one that remains from an entirely different era of my life–when I was just twenty-one, lost as lost can be (who was I?  what was I meant to do?), and still a good five years from coming out of the closet.

I looked at my sister's partner that evening they were over and told him the story I just told you–how the little boy came into my life.  And then I said something that surprised me:  that it might sound strange, but that little boy was, in some sense, me.  And that having him around over the years had not only been comforting, but also necessary, as far as helping me bridge the distance between who I was then, and who, over three decades later, I was meant to be.

The fact is, that little boy remains a constant reminder, during the countless times I pass him every day, of where I came from, and how far I've come.  Of who I outright rejected, even hated, for much of my life, because he was so different from other little boys, and because of what I believed he'd put me through as a result.  And of who I must now remain at peace with and love, if I'm going to remain at peace with and love who I am today.    

The following is a quote from Nate Berkus's The Things That Matter, a wonderful book I highly recommend.  He writes:

I think people sometimes confuse loving things with being materialistic, or grasping, or lusting after the things that tell the world who you are.  But to me, surrounding yourself with the things you love has nothing to do with impressing other people or gaining status. [Things] represent who people are and all that they've loved and seen (p. 16).

I would also add, and experienced. 

The little boy and me?  We've been on a long journey together over all these years.  Perhaps I was able to find the strength to make that journey because he was there, because I could always count on him.  No, I know that's the case.  I know he's given me the strength I needed to get to where I am today.   

And our journey isn't done.  God willing, we still have a long, long way to go, him and me. And I know, with him along, we'll make it.  We'll find our way to exactly where we're supposed to go.  

Thought for the Day, #64

Why do gay people feel they must be the best little boy in the world?  Is it because they're compensating for a kind of guilt that they already have in them about something they already know to be wrong or feel to be wrong?  It can't just be coincidental. There is something going on here.  I was tremendously interested in pleasing my family. Anybody is, I think, of a certain kind of upbringing. And homosexuality was, of course, such a violation of that picture that it was a great pressure in itself to deny it or to compensate for it in some way.

(From an interview with writer Andrew Holleran in Something Inside: Conversations with Gay Fiction Writers, by Philip Gambone, p. 181.)

Self-Acceptance Is Not Just About Sexual Orientation

A gay man goes to a spa to have his face injected with Botox and dermal fillers.  He's obsessed with getting rid of lines and wrinkles.  His age?  Twenty-seven.

One of my favorite gay male bloggers admits to having life-long body image issues.  He writes about the rituals he puts himself through, to ensure people he doesn't know don't see what he perceives to be his physical imperfections when he wears a Speedo swimsuit.  He's in his late 40s.

A gay writer writes, in a recent article appearing on Advocate.com:

A few months ago at Pride in West Hollywood, I was standing on the crowded front porch of the bar Micky's, waiting to enter, when an extremely handsome 50-something friend of mine stormed past.  I asked where he was going and he replied, "Home.  I'm pissed."  Why?  "Some queen just shoved me and said 'Get out of the way, old man.'" (From "In Defense of Aging," by Jon Bernstein)

It's occurred to me more than once, as I read these pieces, that it isn't just our sexual orientation we, as gay and lesbian people, need to accept.  It's also our bodies, our faces included, and, more specifically, ourselves as we age.

I know something about this.  Up until I reached the age of 50, I was more or less happy with the way I looked.  I'd faced the fact I would never have the buff body I'd always wanted, despite nearly twenty years of working out, which had made me fit but not buff.  And I thought I was still on the upward swing of looking better and thus feeling better about myself.

Then, in October 2009, I hit the proverbial wall.  Suddenly, there was no longer a four at the beginning of my age.  I'd reached the half-century milestone, and I started to realize that maybe my long and steady climb toward that ideal of physical perfection had come to an end (or was surely slowing down, due to no fault of my own).

Over the next several years, I sunk into a deep depression.  A cup-half-empty type by nature, I began to fixate on everything that confirmed I was no longer getting better, I was getting older.  That stomach area that would never be flat, even defined, despite my hard work over the years.  Those criss-crossed lines below my eyes (not to mention the laugh-lines at their corners) that looked like a sheet of graph paper tilled sideways.  And that grey hair that was no longer just above my ears but had pretty much take over my entire head.

For two and a half years, I dreaded getting older.  That's dreaded with a capital D.  I hated what I saw when I looked in the mirror.  I hated that, despite my commitment to eating healthier and exercising, I would never be young and beautiful again (I was once one, no doubt, but the other is open to opinion).

That dread was so bad, it permeated my entire life.  There was not one single thing I looked at, or experienced, that didn't have a dark cloud hanging over it.  I began to have panic attacks again (something I fought hard to overcome in 1994 and then ten years later).  I was scared to get into a car for fear of being in an accident.  I was scared I'd lose Chris (even though there was a period when I believed he would be better off without me).  And I was scared of dying before I achieved what I thought I was put here to do.

Nonsense.  All of it was nonsense.

You know what turned me around?  It was so simple, you won't believe it.  And it can work for you too.

I was walking through the parking lot at our local Save-On Foods in the spring of 2011, and a saw an old lady carrying bags of groceries to her car.  There was nothing special about her. She was an old lady, just like any of the old ladies I'd looked at throughout my life.

But for the first time, I saw her.  No, I mean I really saw her.  Not just the fact that she was old, but beyond that.  Inside.  I saw her soul.  I saw the incredible dignity she had as a simple human being, completing an everyday task.  And I saw how utterly beautiful she was. Yes, beautiful.  Lines and wrinkles and sagging skin–all of it.  In that moment, she struck me as stunning.  And I could not imagine how I'd never seen aging like that before.

From there, I put the pieces together:  If we're very lucky, we get to age.  Aging is neither good nor bad, it just is.  It's a part of life like any other.  But, truth be told, it's even better than everything before, because it's our time to put to use what we've learned about the world and ourselves.

In the Advocate.com article referred to above, Bernstein writes, "The journey of self-discovery takes a lifetime."  And so it does.  If we're lucky, the great blessing for all of us is that we're around long enough to end that journey when it logically should, so we learn everything we possibly can about having an open heart, a generous spirit, and an easy laugh.

And the body?  It's nothing more than a vessel–a vessel that gets us from point A to point B, whether the journey be physical, intellectual, or spiritual.  By all means take care of it, respect and honor it, because it's the only one you'll ever have.

But, in the end, it doesn't matter one speck what it looks like, as long as it gets us to where we're supposed to go.  And the longer we're here–assuming our focus is right–the more likely we are to arrive at exactly where that is.

"The Language of Love," A Short Film

Thought for the Day, #63

To the question 'Is the term "gay fiction" a legitimate term?', writer Joseph Hansen (1923-2004) had the following to say:

Not as far as I'm concerned.  Once, due to a misapprehension on my part, I ended up with a story in a gay anthology.  I won't do that again.  I don't believe in gay anthologies; I don't believe there is such a thing as gay literature.  And I simply won't have anything to do with that.

We're all on this planet together.  We'd better try to understand each other and tolerate each other and get along with the business of being human beings, because there's plenty of stuff that all of us need to improve, and one of them is not our sex lives.  There are a lot of other things ahead of that. 

There is too much that contributes to a feeling of "us" and "them"–we're here and they're here, and we're different from them, and they're different from us.  One of the things that made me most angry about that anthology that I contributed to was that when it came out the title was Different!  Different is what we don't need.  All-the-same is what we need.

(From Something Inside: Conversations with Gay Fiction Writers, by Philip Gambone, pages 36-37.)