Breaking the silence

The blog’s been fallow for a little while. The every day dramas that keep us from doing the things we set out to do when we aren’t working or living have kept me busier than usual.

Last night, North Carolina voters decided to approve measure that would make same-sex marriage verboten by that state’s constitution. For the weeks leading up to the vote, I’d seen arguments on both sides of the issue. Friends of mine took to Facebook to help support people in North Carolina fight for equality. My job typically keeps me quiet on these type of issues, and I tend to keep my politics out of the way.

But last night, as I read comments in my social media feeds after North Carolina voters approved the constitutional ban on same-sex marriage, I became angry, depressed and unsure what to make of the day’s events.

It continued as my partner and I got into bed last night, a nagging feeling that this might be the big setback to us being treated as equals. In the past few years, there had been so many moves to treat LGBT individuals and couples the same as our straight friends and relatives. This vote, far away from my home in Texas, bothered me more than I expected. My brain wouldn’t shut down.

Sure, there’s the thousands of “freedoms” that marriage grants couples that gay couples cannot enjoy without a lawyer or a ton of extra paperwork.

But it kept coming back to the idea that someone out there hated my love for my partner so much that a constitutional ban on that love needed to be enacted. That someone’s hatred for me would prevent me from seeing my partner in a hospital at his time of need. That someone’s hatred for me would cause no end of suffering in our lives in ways that that person had no concept of.

I thought about friends of mine whose spouses serve in the military openly now, but still can’t be given the same rights as their heterosexual counterparts when it comes to benefits if they are killed in the line of duty.

I thought about friends of mine who have adopted children who have had to go through all sorts of hoops to start a family despite laws the make it difficult or prohibit them from doing so.

This morning that vote still bothered me. For me, it’s not about marriage, it’s about being treated with the same respect as straight couples.

Sure, I’ve been fortunate. My partner’s family has welcomed me wholeheartedly. I work for a company that is progressive enough to extend us domestic partner benefits. My friends are supportive of us, to the point that one of my dear friends explained to her kids that using “gay” as a negative isn’t cool and used my partner and I as an example of how gay people are.

But the thing is, my relationship with my partner, now heading toward its eighth year, is not seen as the same as my married friends. At any point, a hospital in my state can keep me from seeing my partner. Depending on where we travel in the country, our relationship is considered illegal and punishable.

When I woke up this morning, I cuddled closer to my sleeping partner. I’d honestly do anything for him. We’ve settled into our routines as all couples do. We found our boundaries. We laugh. We squabble. We cook dinner. We travel on vacation.

There’s nothing that makes us any different than our married friends.

Except our relationship is unwelcome in a lot of places just because we are both men.

Thankful

Despite my own uncertainty about the future, today is one of those days where I’m reminded how thankful I am for all those in my life. The good ones. The great ones. Even the ones who weren’t all that good. It’s the holiday season, and it’s that time of year where we are expected to remember those things and people we are blessed to have in our lives.

Today, an email went out to the newsroom seeking Santas for an elementary school we have a partnership with during the year. Every Christmas, volunteers in the newsroom take wish lists that the students create for Santa. The children, many of whom English is their second language, live in situations that are not the best. This year, I decided to add my name to the list of Santas in addition to the other acts of giving I try to do every year.

It was gut-wrenching. With pencil, the students fill out a worksheet. It begins with the name of their teacher. There’s a salutation — “Hi Santa!” — and the the children takes a Number 2 pencil and fills in their name with their best second-grade penmanship. They write their gender and age. They explain why they like Christmas. Those are cute comments ranging from “liking to build a snowman in the ice” (hey, it is Central Texas afterall and snow is a rarity) to being able to give something to a sibling or parent. In some cases, I realize my Spanish is not up to a second-grade level.

Then the children write three things that they wish Santa would give them.

Shoes, or zapatos, or high on the list. A few go all out with the concept of Santa and ask for high-end items. Many though are writing for shoes. Or a coat. Or something that is obviously for a family member.

I remember filling out that form. There were times, even though my mother was working two jobs and my father was working two jobs, that a visit from Santa was going to be a shaky proposition. Never mind how well-behaved we had been, Santa’s sleigh was going to miss our house by a few weeks.

It wasn’t often, but it happened. We weren’t poor by any stretch. At least we never saw ourselves that way. Sure, we were on reduced or free lunches during the school year, but poor was someone who didn’t have a house. We had our mobile home. My parents worked. We went to school. We couldn’t be poor.

But looking back, we sure as hell weren’t wealthy. It didn’t matter to us.

But still, to our young minds, Santa existed. And even though Santa might not have a big of gifts for us, there was always going to be something under the tree the next morning. There was a stocking with candy and small trinkets. Santa somehow managed to come to our home.

As I read through the lists, preparing to select my second-grader, I looked through the ones who wanted shoes. I defused my thoughts with comments about how their Spanish was so much better than mine. However, I wanted to grab all of the forms. I wanted to buy them all shoes. I wanted them to not think Santa had skipped them.

This Christmas, I’m dressing up as Santa. I volunteered to be Santa at a holiday party my mother-in-law is putting on for the family. I leaped at the opportunity. I wasn’t sure at the time, but I know deep down it is because I want children to smile. It is the holidays after all.

There’s a part of me that wants to keep wearing that Santa outfit. I want a big bag of gifts. I want to be able to give something to every kid. Shoes, toys, coats.

A smile.

I realize now that there were Santas who did the same for me. I’m thankful for them amongst all the other people who have shaped my life.

 

Stuck in neutral

I’m not one to get political. I have a tendency to silently give to charities. I observe and work behind the scenes.

That’s part of a job of a journalist. It’s something I believe in. Journalists are those who witness, who comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

For the past couple of decades that’s my role and I have beyond accepted it.

That doesn’t mean Scott, the average Gen X citizen with a wealth of experiences and years of observations, doesn’t have opinions. But as a journalist, we are told to keep those to ourselves. We don’t endorse causes. We don’t endorse candidates. We don’t endorse movements.

In Marvel Comics, there’s a race of beings like that. They are called the Watchers (and yes, they predate the ones you might have seen on Fringe). They swear an oath of non-interference. They merely record what happens. Solemn witnesses to history as it unfolds.

In the real world, we are called journalists.

In the past decade, that institution has withered away as readership and advertising have declined. Every week, you can’t help but hear of another group of journalists — sometimes your friends — either being cut from their careers, their passions or choosing it is time to move on.

In the coming week, while I’m involved in project at the Paragraph Factory, two of the people I’ve come to respect a lot will be the latest to move on. I will not be at their going away parties. I will not be present for the standing ovation as they leave the office for the last time. I was fortunate that one of them asked me to read her final column (which by the way weaves her departure, her raising of two beautiful daughters and the promise of a different future so well it brought tears to my eyes).

This is going to be my future for the foreseeable time. Saying farewell to friends. Wishing them well in their new endeavors. Trying to maintain contact with them via Facebook and hopefully having drinks with them from time to time.

All the while, it is imperative that I stay the course. It is my job to keep the ship moving forward. To try to find those things I can change along the way to make things better. That’s part of who I am. To do leave something better than when I got it.

And that’s why there’s a growing level of frustration as I look around and read things like this. When I realize that not everyone has been playing by the same rules I’ve been playing with.

But yet, I remain a journalist. Observing.

But a growing part of me wonders if that is enough.

Temporary delay

Due to some technical glitches, the serialized story appearing in the 1130 Project will resume next week.

 

New adventures

It wasn’t that long ago that time seemed to drag at certain points of the year. In Paragraph Factory parlance, those are the slow news days. For example, June and August always seem to drag out where it seems like each day is pulling teeth.

Here it is November and I can’t help feel that the year is speeding by. I’m sure that has something to do with age and going from eager anticipation of birthdays and holidays and other benchmarks of our youth. As we get older, it seems our days get more full. Every day is an adventure of some sort. Work dramas, larger pools of friends, larger commitments. Being in a relationship, that time becomes exponentially more committed. You have your events and your significant other’s events. I can’t imagine how quickly time rolls for my friends who also have kids. Each person that enters your life, there are more things to keep track of.

I feel greedy. I’ve started taking time for myself. With the significant other now working from an office, my mornings before heading into the Paragraph Factory are mine alone to do what I will with. Whether it’s to stand out in the yard in the cool autumn mornings where the light plays off the remaining leaves, to listen to the reissue of U2′s Achtung Baby and the latest Florence + The Machine at full blast in the home office, to write again (which feels a lot like an old friend mixed with working muscles that had fallen dormant), my mornings are mine. There’s also something about this time of year that encourages me to wake up just a little earlier and be productive. That’s a good thing, especially when it comes to writing.

I used to do all my writing late at night, usually after a Bass or two following a night at the Paragraph Factory. Now it’s a glass of orange juice, part of a bagel and the morning sunlight wrapping around the house. It’s different, yet familiar. It’s also fun rediscovering the people I write about. It’s their stories that I’m telling.

You can find the beginning of the latest clumsy attempt at that over at Zero Point and the 1130 Project.

This weekend, I’ll be giving myself a little more time. I’ll be somewhat disconnected while attending a campout with some of my closest friends — the Bear Jamboree a friend of my calls it. Still not sure if the significant other will make it or not, but the time away from the Paragraph Factory and the trappings of everyday life will have an effect on me. Last year, I came back re-energized.

While I’m away, I’ll probably fire up the iPad and doing some writing. The 1130 Project will have a few entries auto posting while I’m away. But ultimately, it is about drinking some beer, sharing some laughs and getting away from it all.

When I come back, my daily schedule will shift. I’m playing around with a schedule that puts me on a Monday through Friday rotation. It will mean more weekends to spend with the Significant Other and friends. It will feel normal, although it will be the first time I haven’t worked weekends in nearly 20 years. I’ll still be a night guy, but the ability to hang out with other Monday-Friday folks might be refreshing.

Also when I come back, I’ll have sold more of my Danger Room graphic novel stock on eBay. It’s an end of an era with each of those boxes of books shipping out. But at the same time, it’s been a new adventure for me. I’ve long been an eBay buyer, never a seller. Being a seller is a lot more interesting. I’m still getting used to it. The idea of packing up boxes to ship still makes me a bit nervous. And then there’s the whole “new seller” thing that is freaking PayPal out. That site still likes to hold funds because I’m an untried seller. Hopefully the next round of auctions removes that limitation. Hell, I’ve had stellar feedback so far.

November and autumn is usually a time of winding down and endings. I’m sure there will be a few of those. However, I’m enjoying the new things and new adventures I’m having.

I guess that’s part of being an adult — finding the time to take new adventures.