Colorblind

I am colorblind.

I’ll admit that I don’t necessarily understand all of the science about how that works. I just know that stop signs look green. Sometimes, fields of grass are red.

Often, when I tell someone, like a confused clerk in a clothing store who is baffled as to why I ask her what color a shirt is, I then have to explain that no, the world is not black and white. While I think that is an actual condition, your average, garden variety colorblindness just means that green can look red. Pink can look gray, or sometimes khaki. Blue can be purple, yellow can be orange, and teal never makes any sense.

I’ve always been colorblind, so it’s a bit of a non-issue for me. I suppose I pretty quickly learned I can’t always trust my eyes. I learned to ask questions. I learned that what I think I see may not always be how things are.

Things aren’t black in white. There are shades. Tilt my head a little, give something a different light, and it changes color.

Perspective matters.

This morning, I was overwhelmed on social media by people advocating dropping nuclear bombs on entire regions. Others were not able to see a religion followed by a billion people has to be about peace, else they would have already taken over the world. A few more can’t wrap their head around historical context. Fear of the unknown prevents reaching out to lend a helping hand.

To those, things are black and white. Good versus evil. Us versus them. Action without consequence. Action without questions.

I find myself wishing more people were colorblind.

Poem Post

It's been awhile, hasn't it?

I wrote a poem tonight and as usual, I suck at titles, so it doesn't have one at the moment. But, here it is:

I left the vestibule door open
when I ran in
jacked up on generic Kool-Aid
and store bought cookies
and I knew
as sure as I knew that my
new Reeboks were a size 11
that this year I was
gonna sing so loud
they'd hear me across the river
across the tracks
even if the old L&N coal train
went by
blowing it's horn at the
Black Bottom crossing.

I never was good at the craft part
of Vacation Bible School
I couldn't, still can't, paint
or work with my hands.
But Jesus loves the little children
red and yellow, black and white
I could sing it
over the clicking of Kodaks
the whipping of bulletins as fans
and the heathen kids riding by
on rusty Huffys outside.

Mama was gonna be proud.

I pledge allegiance to the Christian flag
Onward Christian soldiers
marching as to war

Oh, Victory in Jesus
My Savior
Forever

Lord, it's been a month of Sundays
but I still know all the verses to
How Great Thou Art
but my voice is rusty

The B-I-B-L-E was not the book for me
I stood alone
on grown man feet and
couldn't walk back through
the vestibule door.

Blessed assurance
Jesus is mine
Little ones to him belong
I once was lost
or am
or wasn't

The son has now outlived the Son
But I can look outside and
see Him in a December sky
in my boyfriend
feel Him in the marrow of my sternum
as I write these words
with shaky hands
But, oh God
Is it well with my soul?

Pilgrimage

Pilgrimage. It’s defined by dictionary.com as “any long journey, especially one undertaken as a quest or for a votive purpose, as to pay homage”.

I suppose that’s as good a word as any. To pay homage. That’s why I’m doing this. It feels a little creepy and maybe somehow gratuitous to take a tragedy that didn’t really involve me and then somehow make it about me. I get that. Know that I feel as uncomfortable about it as you think I should. It’s just that in my life there have only been a few of those touchstone moments, those moments when you can look at it in the very instant it is happening and realize that you are changing that very second.

A bit of background: My work currently involves me traveling to a location and working 20 days straight with only one day off. During those single days off, it’s common place to either explore the area I’ve been living in and not seeing due to work,  or maybe sometimes just find a spot to take a breath after working non-stop.

My current rotation has me in Denver, a city that should spring to mind visions of breweries, outdoor activities, snow-capped mountains in June, and any number of restorative activities to help me re-center after working through a couple of weeks. However, it only took about 24 hours of being here before I knew my day off wouldn’t be hiking, brewery hopping, or even just a drive through the mountains. It would be the pilgrimage.

It wasn’t long after I got here that I started moving around Google maps to sort of place where I am in the city and saw that word. Littleton. The mental Rolodex set to work trying to remember why that name stood out. About a second later it settled: Columbine.

I realize that countless words have been written about that particular event, words that are far more meaningful, far more insightful, far more helpful, if that’s even a thing. But, I know that on that day, I was changed.

Sure, there’d been school shootings before this, even one just across the state. But this was different. Maybe it was the magnitude. Maybe it was the media coverage. Maybe it was that I was already going through my own college freshmen depression. But I remember seeing the news and it took my breath. I cried all day.

Yes. I did mourn the victims. All of them. I cried for lost innocence. I cried because I realized that my generation would never know of a world with a safe place. We would be the first to come of age when metal detectors and lockdown drills were commonplace, where the pop of a light bulb going out induces a moment of panic.

I cried, because I knew that without the strength a couple close friends had given me, without the grace of whatever God there might be, it could have been me.

I’m hesitant to write another story about a gay boy being bullied. I’m actually kind of irritated with the word “bully”. It sounds so playground in a parking lot world. So, I’ll exercise some brevity to just say that once we moved to a new town when I was in sixth grade, until the day I left that town for college, my life was hell. A home life that certainly needed some psychological intervention was made worse by a school life that daily told me I was worthless and weak, with a constant threat of violence. To say that I didn’t often think of turning the tables would be a lie.

We’ll never know what was going through their minds on the day two boys did the unthinkable. But on the day they did it, I broke.

I’ve never said it out loud before, but I felt bad for them.

No. Their actions are not excusable.

Yes. Their victims are the victims.

But, I guess to make tragedy make sense, we all process it through our own experience, and it’s what I admittedly assume is their hurt I can relate to. I can still feel. I can still be back to it with a quick memory. I can still feel that flash of terror when passing a certain boy, even now with us both grown men, as I walk through Kroger with my mom. That day back in 1999, I realized what that pent up hurt and pain can do. While watching news footage from my dorm room floor, I realized what living with hurts that deep can do and knew I had to find a way to get it out of me.  I dove deeper into writing, forcing myself to journal to get out what was inside. I also stopped watching anything that depicts violence.

The connection I made to Columbine compels me towards it when it’s a 10 minute drive away. And so, I set the GPS on my phone and point the rental car that direction.

***

I’m afraid there’s no pathos here. I went. I couldn’t bring myself to even turn onto the actual grounds of the school, let alone get out of the car. This sort of tragedy tourism I’d embarked on didn’t feel right. But in driving past the school, I can say I’m almost certain the sign out front is the same sign I remember seeing from news footage.

I turned the car around in the neighborhood next to the school and was surprised to see couples out for an evening walk, a boy and his dog playing fetch in a front yard. On the other side of the school is a park where a group had set up a grill and was playing volleyball. The day’s Little League games were wrapping up. It was so normal. People had moved on.

And that’s exactly as it should be. Life does go on. It may not seem like it, but I’ve moved on. You mark the hurt and the way it changed you, then try to move through the world as best you can. But you make the pilgrimage for the same reason people go to Ground Zero or Gettysburg. You go to not only pay homage to what happened there, to the victims, but to whatever it is you’ve found in yourself there. I’ve made the pilgrimage. I have no desire to go back.

Blame It All on Garth

“Ain’t it funny how a melody/can bring back a memory/take ya to another place and time/completely change your state of mind.”

            “State of Mind”- Clint Black

Coming from me, it may sound odd that my favorite Christmas gift was a Garth Brooks box set. I’m the guy who repeatedly listens to Fiona Apple and drove 10 hours to New York to see Bjork. I think I even surprised a few people when I mentioned the box set was on my Christmas list (thanks Sis!). But, as the name of the set suggests, blame it all on my roots.

I grew up in Eastern Kentucky where the prevailing music was either hymns in church or country music on the radio. My earliest memories are of me surrounded by music. In retrospect, what’s surprising is that while my parents certainly influenced what music I was exposed to, the music I listened to was my music. Mine. I owned it. 

For every birthday, I got records. When my grandparents would give me a dollar, I couldn’t wait to get to Mack’s or the TG&Y to buy a 45. 45s could usually be had for a dollar and would give me a chance to get a taste of a little bit of everything. I kept them in what had been a gallon Neapolitan ice cream bucket. This let me carry them and my portable record player with me everywhere I went.

For clarification, I’m not talking me as a teenager or even a tween. This is me at 6 years old, with my Randy Travis, Reba, Judds, Don Williams, Ricky Skaggs, Gene Watson, Barbara Mandrell and the records of countless others literally dragging behind me throughout the house. I sang along. I learned every word, even when I had no idea what most of it meant. It became my escape.

It wasn’t until looking through the box set today that I realized it’s dedicated to Garth’s influences. His own music and the songs and artists that he says shaped his sound. Many of these were the records, then eventually tapes and CDs, that were my childhood. While reading song titles and artist’s names, I was taken right back to Harlan County. Some of them literally took my breath away.

Just the recollection of a few bars of “Don’t Close Your Eyes” had me back in the floor with my record player, watching the Epic Records logo spin and trying to drown out the sounds of fighting in the other room. “Digging Up Bones” had me driving to Martin’s Fork Lake and remembering the first time I heard Randy Travis. Garth’s version of “Shameless” reminded me of having bought the Billy Joel “Storm Front” tape at the flea market and surprising my mom when I already knew every word when Garth’s version came on WFSR. It went on to become her favorite Garth song.

So, I’m spending today thinking about Wynonna and Naomi, Tanya Tucker and Sawyer Brown, Charley Pride and maybe even George Jones. It’s bringing back a ton of really happy and occasionally painful memories, loads of which I’d completely forgotten. But, just a quick scroll through my memory bank of that ice cream bucket of 45s and as Trisha sang, “even if the whole world has forgotten, the song remembers when”.

In Defense of Fashion

You ever see something that gets under your skin for no reason?  Something that really has no relation or bearing to your actual life, something that just has nothing to do with anything you have any control over and really isn’t in the scope of your everyday life, but for some reason, this irritating thing causes you to have a little mental meltdown? Ever had that?

It probably happens to me with more regularity than it should. Last night, a friend posted a link to a Buzzfeed story that displayed photos from various shows from Men’s Fashion Week in Milan. The article boils down to a series of carefully curated photos with snarky commentary from what was certainly the most out of the ordinary looks sent down the runways. The general premise being, “aren’t these ridiculous??!!...What are these fashion people thinking??!! No one would ever wear this!! Does Donatella think the next “Big Thing” is going to be gladiator costumes??!!”

And this, this is what set me off. Yeah, I’m not in the fashion world. I don’t design. I only own a couple of pieces of true Designer clothes. But, the lack of understanding about what a fashion show is, what purpose it serves, and the disrespect and ignorance (usually followed by disdain) that people often give Fashion got/gets/will continue to annoy me.

I’ve spent more time than I should have in my life defending not only my love for fashion, but also why it isn’t something to be discounted. Let’s start with a few quick premises:

1)      Fashion is Art. And no, I’m not necessarily talking about what you’re going to find at H&M, J. Crew or even the mass produced Calvin Klein you find in Macy’s in the mall. I’m talking from real design houses that actually spend time completing an honest to Gaga collection. Those collections have themes, intents, and actually work to say something that the specific designer wants to say. Sometimes it’s social commentary, sometimes it’s challenging the idea of masculinity and femininity, and sometimes it’s even commenting on Fashion itself. However, a true runway collection is no different than any other type of art exhibition. It’s an artist attempting to present an idea via the artistic medium he or she has chosen. Fashion just happens to be worn as opposed to an object d’art hanging on the wall or sitting in a gallery.

2)      Fashion shows are not for you. Or me. Or most of us really. They are either for the buyers at the major retailers who will pick what clothes will be sold in their stores, or for fashion magazine editors who will try to capture what the designer was saying and maybe comment on it in an editorial.

3)      That brings me to some of the looks that often make it onto things like the Buzzfeed article. Every season designers show pieces that are “weird” or “out there” or even “unwearable” in an everyday context. THESE ARE NOT INTENDED TO BE WORN WHILE YOU CLEAN THE HOUSE/GO TO WORK AT YOUR CUBICLE/OR EVEN OUT TO DINNER. These are often conceptual looks that fit into the collection by displaying a new technique or use the extreme to hammer home the larger message of the collection. Just because it goes down the runway on a model doesn’t at all mean the designer intended for that look to be worn by the masses as it was shown. If it shocked you, that was probably the designer’s intent.

4)      To that end, let’s talk about the exclusivity argument. Fashion is often seen as something for the pretentious elite, something that the shallow folks with gobs of money waste their trust funds on. And sure, most Fashion is above most of our budgets. Just as most of the art hanging in the Met or Guggenheim is out of our budgets. So, what’s the difference? Why is it ok for someone to spend thousands or even millions for a painting with precious little outrage, but it’s a crime for Prada to charge $5000 for a dress? Sure, you can buy a $100 suit at H&M. But, you also pay for what you get in terms of fabric quality, construction, attention to detail and the wages of those who made the garment. The garments may even appear similar. It’s sort of the same principle as buying the original Van Gogh or buying a print of it in the gift shop on your way out. Most of us don’t buy the original. Instead, we buy a mass produced, cheaply made version of it.

5)      While we’re on the topic of wages, take a moment to consider that awesome $5 t shirt you bought at a discount store. Sure, it was a great bargain for you, but at what cost on the back end? If you’re truly interested in the high cost of low priced, disposable clothes have a look and listen here and here. Maybe also watch an episode of Project Runway and see the art, talent and time it takes to construct one garment. Then, think about how it can be that anything sells for $5.

6)      And finally, let’s talk about the nature of what Fashion is for most of us. Even those who shun the world of Fashion have to engage it in some way to know what to rail against. And yes, just as it was succinctly described by Miranda Priestly in “The Devil Wears Prada”, what shows on the runways will eventually trickle down (with increasing speed due to that cheap manufacturing) to us masses. See all those printed shirts? They’ll likely show up in stores in toned down, more widely appealing patterns. See those color pairings and silhouettes? They might just show up too, in a way that hints back at the original’s general concept, but in a way that is relatable to most people.

And with all that being said, I’ll close with my final defense. Perhaps it’s the ultimate reason I’m bothering to post this. It’s the defense of myself. I’ve been accused of being shallow, pretentious, vain and any number of things due to my love of Fashion. It’s always been frustrating to attempt to explain why I don’t see Fashion as others seem ready to understand it. However, it is nothing more than an appreciation for what seems to me to be the art form we all most interact with, whether we like it or not.

Nope, I'm Not Going To Make A Reference To a David Bowie Song

So, hi there. Been awhile, hasn't it? 

My last post was over half a year ago. I'll stop myself from waxing too philosophic about getting older and time moving faster, but suffice it to say I'm shocked by that. This is actually something I really enjoy doing. So, I'm finally taking a moment to lay the devices and the day down and get to some explaining. 

I'm presently sitting in my hotel room in Cleveland, a place that I don't so much as unpack but move into. My stay is 19 nights. The Hilton points are glorious. 

The first change worth mentioning is that I'm writing my first post that's completely done on my iPad. Thank you Bluetooth technology. I really do require an actual keyboard. This leads to another change. My beloved (and I'm not really being facetious) BlackBerry has died. Thus, my devotion to the BlackBerry has died as well. I've kept my iDevices for lo these many years, but held on to my Tyrone (his name from Curve to Bold). We've taken walks on the beach, snuggled during sofa naps. He was always responsive and ready with his efficient and confident bounce/click on the keyboard (even after several of his letters had worn away). 

Yet, his successors forwent the keyboard, leaving me no choice but to complete the iFamily. I dare not speak its name in the same post. My fingertips will be forever longing for that reassuring click of a word/text/email/post without the intrusion of Siri, auto-correct or push alert. Adieu, Tyrone. 

But back to the reason I'm in Cleveland: the new job. I have taken a new job with the same company, but a bit of a different gig. The impetus for the change being the ever constant threat of layoffs and my desire to just get the hell out. So, I'm now no longer occasionally loaned to the Catastrophe Team; I'm part of it. This means that my new work schedule is 20 days "on" and 8 days "off". 

During the 20 days, I'll usually be in Cleveland, the site of our Response Center. While here, I'll do a little bit of everything. I'll organize people "on the ground" in various locations where Catastrophe has happened, and I'll work directly with folks who are presenting claims as a result of said catastrophes. I should also mention that "catastrophe" can include a large, populated area being hit by fairly innocuous hail to tornadoes tearing apart a town. A laugh about baseball sized hail pelting you as you try to cover the car in pillows and then tears with someone as they talk about losing everything can easily happen on any day. 

We work long hours. 7:45am to 7pm. Everyday. One day off over the 20. I come home spent and to people who love me and take care of me .I'm grateful and spoiled. 

I'm also a bit disconnected. I try not to be. The iDevices help. But, while here my mom has lost her job, and a few other actual tragedies have happened in the lives of people I love. I try not to let distance equate distance and send the love/hurt/empathy as much as the pixels let me. It always feels trite and not enough. I'm working on being sure I try anyway, because my initial reaction is to not do anything, because it doesn't feel as authentic as what I might do or say were I there in person. 

I'm midway though a rotation now and very much looking forward to the time I'm about to get home, complete with a mini-vacation to Atlanta where I'll get to boo the Braves in person and bask in the not quite full drag glow of the Beyonce. I also hope I'll get the chance to get and give the hugs and words that I need to. Until then, I'm pulling Carole King's "So Far Away" out of the cloud and placing it on repeat. 

Dec 15

It is very much on purpose that I haven’t seen the pictures or video. I’ve kept it to text on the BlackBerry screen. At age 32, it seems I can still become a teenager feeling Columbine too easily from two time zones over. It seems trite or not fair to feel what isn’t immediately my problem. As I sit here with everyone I know accounted for and safe, to grieve people I’ll never know doesn’t seem right. It wasn’t me and mine. Very likely if you’re reading this it wasn’t your and yours. To be sad, to cry, to rage, to pray when I’m not in the immediate seems wrong. I don’t, can’t, won’t feel the sting of what those in Connecticut feel as I move on with my day. To pretend I do is offensive. 

But yet, I’ve become an adult where this is reality. It happens in malls now, workplaces and sidewalks. It can be kindergartners or Congresswomen. We’ve somehow came to accept a world where school funding goes for metal detectors and security guards instead of computers and textbooks. We’re alright with a world where health care for all sorts of illness is not a protected right, but gun ownership is. We’ll even give lip service to anti-bullying measures, but still legislate against equal rights with a straight face. 

And that’s why I sat down to write this morning. Not because I can burst into tears, not because I’m a person who feels things that aren’t immediately related to me, but as a man who has seen too much. 

I find myself feeling less depressed and more angry that this keeps happening. Where were the people in charge when this kind of thing started? Why didn’t they do something? Why are we still not doing anything? 

I suppose it would be nice to be able to close out this little post with a call to action or some grandiose idea of how to move forward, but I’ve tried typing that and it just doesn’t  work. Maybe it’s too soon for that. 

Extrapolate and pontificate all you’d like about the reasons why, societal ills and legislative gridlock that prevents meaningful change from happening, but we have to admit that it’s getting worse instead of better. I’m not going to pretend I’m wise enough to know the answer. But what I do know is that many of us who grew up with school becoming a place of violence now have the power and responsibility to do what wasn’t done for us. 

To borrow a phrase from the President, I wonder if we can get and sustain an anger that’s enough to shout down the “carnival barkers” on TV, radio, Facebook feeds and even some of our pulpits? Or will we go back to our lives after this weekend and wait for it to happen again? 

I hope not.