Saturday, December 19, 2015

Papaw

Le mal reste avec l'on.
L'on ne peut pas s'evader d'eux, même si l'on veut.

So much is happening so fast, and it's hard to keep up with telling you all about everything. And maybe some things I've been putting off. Like how my grandfather passed away last month. I had decided that I needed to write about this almost two weeks ago, and I kept putting it off and putting it off because well, I didn't know what I could say exactly. And once I had figured out what to say I put it off some more because it was painful. When my sister told me that Papaw was being taken home on hospice care, it came as such a shock in one respect and in another, not at all. I've learned from my Aunt Andrea's and my step-father Walt's passing that being on hospice care doesn't mean they're going anytime soon. They can hang on for quite a while, though I think I knew in the back of my head that this meant he would likely pass before I got home in May, if I was even going home in May. (For reasons we'll discuss later, I'd like to stay here longer. I already had that in mind before I came, but now I have... extra motivation.)

Trop est arrivé très vite et il est difficile de vous mettre au jour sur tout. Et peut-être il y a des nouvelles que je remisais à plus tard. Par exemple, la mort de mon grand-père. J’ai décidé que je devais écrire sur cela il y a deux semaines, mais je l’ai reporté à de plus en plus tard, car bon, je ne savais exactement que dire. Une fois que j'ai compris que dire, je l’ai encore décalé, car c’était douloureux. Quand ma sœur m’a dit que mon grand-père était emmené chez soi pour des soins palliatifs, d’une façon, il m'a choqué, mais d’une autre, pas de tout. J’ai appris à cause du décès de ma tante Andrea et mon beau-père Walt que le soin palliatif ne signifie pas une mort soudaine. Ils peuvent continuer à vivre pendant quelque temps, bien que j'aie su dans un coin de mon esprit qu’il signifiait qu’il mourrait avant que j’arrive aux États-Unis en mai, si je rentre aux États-Unis. (Grâce à des raisons dont nous parlerons plus tard, j’aimerais rester en France pour plus de temps. Je l’avais en tête avant de partir en France, mais maintenant… J’ai plus de motivation.)  

I remember when I saw him last. It was at my sister's wedding. He showed up using a cane and had lost some hair due to the chemo so he covered his head with a cap. He was in as good of spirits as always, but it was strange to see him using a cane. My grandparents are old, as grandparents generally are. I know this in the way most people know intellectual facts. Water is made of two hydrogen atoms and an oxygen atom. Plants perform photosynthesis to make their food. Sound is the vibration of waves through a medium. But if I were to go on how I experience these things, water is just a thing to drink, plants grow without effort, sound is when things go bang, and my grandparents have been frozen at the same age for my entire lifetime. They seemed to never age, always lively and active, always happy and positive, and have always been the clearest source of unconditional love in my life. So to see my Papaw using a cane was strange, but he said he was coming off chemo and I chalked it up to that more than anything. I didn't ask if this meant he had given up fighting the cancer, choosing quality of life over quantity. I also didn't ask how long he was expected to have. In a certain way, I didn't feel it was my business. In another way, I didn't really want to know. Doctors are never really right about those sorts of things.

Je me souviens de la dernière fois où je l’ai vu, le mariage de ma sœur. Il est entré en utilisant une canne et a couvert ses cheveux perdus à cause de la chimio avec un casque. Il était de bonne humeur, comme d’habitude, mais c’était bizarre de le voir avec une canne. Mes grands-parents sont vieux, ce qui est la tendance des grands-parents. Je le sais comme on sait des faits intellectuels : L’eau est composée par deux atomes d’hydrogène et l'un d’oxygène. Les plantes font la photosynthèse. Le son est des ondes à travers un médium. Mais selon ce que je ressens : l’eau est un liquide clair, les plants poussent tout seuls, le son est quand mes oreilles écoutent un bruit est mes grands-parents sont congelés au même âge pour toute ma vie. Il semblait qu’ils ne vieillissaient jamais: ils étaient toujours vivants et actifs, toujours contents et positifs. Ils sont la source plus évidente de l’amour inconditionnel dans ma vie. Alors, voir mon grand-père utiliser une canne, c’était étrange, mais il a dit qu’il allait arrêter la chimio et je l’ai remporté à cela. Je n’ai pas demandé s’il signifiait qu’il a abandonné de lutter contre le cancer, qu’il a choisi la qualité de vie sur la quantité. Je n’ai pas demandé combien de temps on croyait qu’il aurait. Dans un sens, je croyais que ce n’était pas mon affaire. Par contre, je ne voulais pas savoir franchement. Les médecins ne sont jamais corrects avec leurs estimations.

Papaw, my sister, my niece, me, and Mamaw
Mon grand-père, ma soeur, ma nièce, moi et ma grand-mère
At the end of October, it's "All Saint's Vacation" here, and I was off of work when my sister sent me a Facebook message to tell me he had passed. It was unexpected, but then, when is death ever expected. It's never marked down in your agenda for tomorrow. It happens on its own schedule.

À la fin d’octobre, c’est la vacation de Toussaints en France, et c’était cette période quand ma sœur m’a envoyé un message sur Facebook pour me dire qu’il était mort. C’est inattendu, mais quand est-il la mort attendue ?

There was shock and there was sadness, but it was cut short by the business of trying to figure out a plane ticket. My mom offered to help, so I needed to find the cheapest possible. And then I just had things I needed to get done. I was still in the middle of doing a lot of administrative stuff for immigration. When I had finally found time, the grief had hid itself. I lost it somewhere along the way. Maybe it was because I didn't see the real decline, but it might have been good that I wasn't there. My sister said he was very out of it in his last days, and I think my presence could have been upsetting for him. The death of my father had always weighed very hard on Papaw. I don't think he ever really got over it, which is natural. Parents aren't built to handle their children's death; evolution didn't provide the skill. I look a lot like my father, and sometimes Papaw would accidentally call me David, my father's name. In fact, at the wedding, he told my Mamaw, "Didn't David do so well up there?" referring to the service I wrote for my sister and her husband. So if he has Freudian slips of the tongue while he is fine, I can't imagine what would happen if he were fading. I think my presence would have just caused him pain.

Il m’a choqué et il m’a attristé, mais tout cela était écourté en essayant de trouver un billet d’avion. Ma mère m’a offert d’aider, donc j’avais besoin de trouver le voyage le moins cher. Et aussi j’avais beaucoup à faire. J’étais en train d’arranger des affaires administratives avec le bureau d’immigration. Enfin, quand j’ai trouvé du temps, le chagrin a disparu. Je l’ai perdu au long du chemin. Peut-être, c’était parce que je n’ai pas vu son déclin, mais il a pu être bien que je n’aie pas été là. Ma sœur m’a raconté qu’il était désorienté pendant ses derniers jours, et je pense que ma présence a pu être perturbante pour lui. La mort de mon père pesait beaucoup sur mon grand-père. Je crois qu’il ne se l’est jamais remis, ce qui est naturel. Les parents ne sont pas faits pour se remettre la mort de leurs enfants; l’évolution ne leur a pas donné la capacité. Je ressemble beaucoup à mon père et parfois, par accident, mon grand-père m’appelait David, le nom de mon père. En fait, au mariage, il a dit à ma grand-mère, “David l’a bien fait, n’est-ce pas ?” en faisant allusion à la cérémonie que j’ai écrite et réalisée pour ma sœur et son mari. Donc, s’il avait des lapsus quand il était bien, je ne peux pas imaginer ce qui arriverait s’il était plus malade. Je pense que ma présence le ferait souffrir.

In the end, I didn't go back to the United States. It was one of his wishes to not have a big service, and I felt guilty asking my mom for so much money to go back. Mamaw did end up having a small gathering where the family spread his ashes in the woods surrounding their home in the woods. It's times like these that being abroad feels the most selfish, but at the same time, I know that Papaw would want me to be here. He was always curious about things, especially science, but really, he just loved learning. When I talked to Mamaw to ask her how she was doing, she told me that he was always proud that I had grown up to be so curious too, to be out exploring the world, always wanting to learn more. And hearing that made me sad and happy all at once because he understood me. And I made him proud.

Enfin, je ne suis pas retourné aux États-Unis. C’était un de ses souhaits de ne pas avoir une grande cérémonie et je me sentais trop coupable pour demander à ma mère trop d’argent pour y retourner. Ma grand-mère a fini par avoir une petite réunion où la famille a saupoudré des cendres dans le bois autour de leur maison. Les fois comme celle-ci sont quand on dirait qu'être à l’étranger est égoïste, mais à la fois, je sais que mon grand-père voudrait que je sois là. Il était toujours curieux, spécialement concernant la science, mais vraiment, il aimait apprendre de nouvelles choses. Quand j’ai parlé avec ma grand-mère pour lui demander comment elle allait, elle m’a dit qu’il était toujours fier que j’aie grandi en devenant aussi curieux, que j’explore le monde, que je veux toujours savoir plus. En l’écoutant, j’étais triste et content à la fois, car il m’a compris. Et il était fier.

Ceux qu'on aime ne sont jamais absents.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

We interrupt this story for.... a fucking poem.


This week, I really wanted to continue along with the story. Yet motivation was at a low all last week (hence the lack of entry) and right now, I'm just not feeling it. I've also been reexamining the creative side in my life and it's varied endeavors to see how to make it a bit higher quality, for both you all in the capacity of enjoying it and for me in the capacity of generating it. Part of that is taking to heart what Elizabeth Gilbert's said in her TED talk and listening to my daemon. So today, I do what the little genius in the corner wants and not what I'm trying to force out of myself. So good or bad, this entry is all his fault.

Cette semaine, je voulais vraiment continuer avec mon histoire. Cependant, ma motivation était basse pendant toute la semaine (d’où le manque d’entrée de l’autre semaine) et maintenant, j’ai pas trop envie. Aussi, je réexamine le côté créatif de ma vie et tous les efforts qu’il comprend afin de voir comment les rendre plus amusants à la fois pour vous, comme ceux qui les consomment, et pour moi, comme celui qui le fait. Une mesure est de prendre à cœur ce que Elizabeth Gilbert a dit pendant son TED Talk et écouter mon daemon. Alors, aujourd’hui, je fais ce que le petit génie dans le coin veut et pas ce que j’essaie de forcer à sortir de moi même. Bon ou mauvais, cette entrée est entièrement de sa faute. 

This entry is also a bit of an experiment. I want to start writing in both English and French because:
1) I wish I were Samuel Beckett. (We all wish we were Samuel Beckett.)
2) I need the practice writing French
3) I need the practice translating French
and lastly, 4) It seems like another way to further embarrass myself in a foreign language.

Cette entrée est également une expérience pour moi. Je veux commencer à écrire en anglais et en français parce que :
1) J'aimerais être Samuel Beckett. (Nous tous aimerons être Samuel Beckett, n'est-ce pas ?)
2) J'ai besoin de pratiquer l'écriture française
3) J'ai besoin de pratiquer la traduction du français
et finalement, 4) Il me semble encore une autre façon de m'embarrasser en une langue étrangère.

If you're wondering why I didn't do Spanish while I was in Colombia, a brief glance at those entries will suffice to inform you as to a few reasons: I basically had no Colombian friends when I was living there, something you'll see is quite different here in France... when I get around to telling you about it. If you're asking yourself why I don't do it now, well, it's a bit of work to put together these entries in one language. It's a lot more work to write it over again in another language. And doing it in three.... Well, I have to draw the line somewhere.

Si vous vous demandez pourquoi je n'écrivais pas en espagnol pendant être en Colombie, un coup d’œil à ces entrées suffit à vous informer de quelques raisons : en résumé, j'avais pas d'amis colombiens pendant mon séjour là-bas, une différence entre Colombie et France que vous verrez…. Quand je retrouverai l'envie de vous dire. Et si vous vous demandez pourquoi je ne le fais pas maintenant, bon, c'est pas un petit travail créer ces entrées en une langue. C'est encore plus en deux. Et en trois… Il faut poser des limites.

Anyway, today the genie demands a poem. So it's a poem you all get. Enjoy. Or don't. I didn't write it. That genius over there did.

Quoi qu'il soit, aujourd'hui, le génie exige un poème. Alors, vous allez recevoir un poème. J'espère que vous l'aimez. Ou pas. C'était pas moi qui l'a écrit. Ce génie-là, c'est lui qui l'a fait.


Jambi made me do it.
Litany of Lost Things
Lost my keys
Lost my wallet
Lost my cell phone
Lost my patience

Lost my hat
Lost my gloves
Lost my scarf
Lost my temper

Lost my chapstick
Lost my nailclippers
Lost my toothbrush
Lost my mind

Lost my cat
Lost my dog
Lost my gerbil
Lost my marbles

Lost my heart
Lost my spirit
Lost my soul
But you found them.


(Litanie des Trucs Perdus)
Perdues les clés
Perdu le portefeuille
Perdu le portable
Perdue la patience

Perdu le chapeau
Perdues les gantes
Perdu l'écharpe
Perdu le courage

Perdu le baume
Perdu le couple-ongles
Perdue la brosse
Perdue la boule

Perdu le chat
Perdu le chien
Perdu le cobaye
Perdus les moyens

Perdu le cœur
Perdu le moral
Perdue l'essence
Mais tu les retrouves toujours.


Wednesday, November 11, 2015

In Russia, You Don't Ride Plane. Plane Ride You.

I left you last at my journey from my home that wasn't feeling homey to France, but first: A stop in Russia. I'm not sure why I needed to stop in Russia. If you look at a map, it's pretty out of the way, but it was the cheapest ticket, and I wasn't going to argue with that. Unfortunately, you do get what you pay for. As I walked down the little bridge connecting the airport to the plane, I heard a sound that I hadn't heard since I worked at Bright Horizons Family Solutions: The sound of a Slavic kid going apeshit.

"Slavic kids going apeshit."
The last time i had the distinct pleasure of watching a kid of from Eastern Europe completely lose it was back when I was working at the daycare. I normally worked with the older kids there, and while they can freak out, the normally cling on to some level of rationality. But this fateful day, I was working in the preschool room, and there was a relatively new kid. I don't remember his name, so we'll call him Boris. Boris had come somewhere from Eastern Europe because his parents had gotten some job in New York. He was still technically in the process of learning English, but he seemed to communicate pretty well with the other kids. I remember watching him for a while, more as a social experiment than anything. I was interested in seeing what happened with this kid who supposedly didn't speak a lot of English had to engage with a bunch of people who didn't speak a lick of his language. Anyway, when no interesting situations presented themselves in the first fifteen minutes, I got bored and played Legos with some of the kids.

Cut to about six minutes later when this kid is suddenly hulking the fuck out on the other side of the room. He's like knocking over chairs and stuff, screaming "I DON'T WANT TO SPEAK ENGLISH ANYMORE!" (in English) and occasionally biting himself. And sometimes the furniture. When that started up, I had to get on the phone and call for backup. I mean, I wasn't trained for that situation. Eventually, his parents came and picked him up, and that was the last I saw of him.

"(in English:) YOU CAN'T MAKE ME SPEAK ENGLISH!"
Now, before my very eyes, this kid was freaking out. He wasn't biting anything but he was fighting tooth and nail to not get on that airplane. He was probably about eight years old and pretty big. But his dad was wrestling him, carrying him upside down, over his shoulder, just about any which way he could move a few steps with him. Really, after the initial shock, I felt bad for him and his parents. I asked the flight attendant, "Is he scared or something?" (assuming she could speak whatever that kid spoke), and she said, "Yes, and so are we." I chucked and sat down.

But guess who decides to plump his chunky ass down next to me? I'll give you a hint: It's the same person screaming bloody murder. Yep, it was that kid. And it was hours before he stopped. But he did stop. And I kept reminding myself that for the four or five hours till we finally touched the ground, and I was finally in Europe. Back after five years.


Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Oh Jesus Christ, Where To Begin?

Well, after a month-long break, the blog is back! And so much has happened in that month that it feels like it's been so much longer. My hopes of catching you up in a single entry are probably a bit foolish, so for the next couple weeks, these entries might be all over the place in space and time. Like a Doctor Who episode. But let's start start where we left off:

Before arriving in France, I stopped in Chicago before I headed off to New York. The MegaBus from Chicago to New York is ten dollars if you schedule it well enough in advance, so I couldn't really pass up the opportunity to visit a few old friends before I crossed the ocean. In Chicago, I met up with Marko and Paul. But after two days in Chicago, it was off to New York.

The ride to New York took a long time. A really long time. It was eighteen hours of molasses-class purgatory. I got on the bus at midnight, and I arrived in New York at seven pm. Eighteen hours on a bus wasn't as bad as you'd think though. They had plugs for your computer and phone, and there was rudimentary wifi service. But my sense of reality had started to warp a little bit, and soon I began to believe that there was only the bus, there could only ever be the bus, that there was never anything before the bus and there's nothing after the bus. The bus was the end and the beginning, the alpha and the omega, all that there is. So when I saw Frank's familiar face waiting for me when I got off in my once beloved home, it was surreal.

There is only the bus.
The bus is all there is.
The bus is everything.
After I had gotten rid of the suitcase of what was to become my only belongings henceforth, I cleaned myself back up into something resembling a sane human, and Frank and I feasted on the delicious vegetarian meatballs of Meatball Shop and headed to The Eagle for Jockstrap Night, because there really just aren't cultural activities like that in Indianapolis. Or Colombia. Or really anywhere else. At the end of the night, I came back to Frank's feeling like I had started the visit out right and that I was getting to see the arts of New York I loved without that pesky rent issue.

That feeling started to change the next day. I had no real plans lined up, so I decided to just go out into the city and see all the places I missed. Then I realized that there were no specific places (that still existed) that I actually missed. Try as I did, there was just nothing I could come up with that I felt like I needed to see, besides Central Park, which was closed because of the president or the pope or both. And then it started to set in again: The feeling that my time there had ended, that the city that once welcomed me with open arms as the bizarre, vagrant creature I was had changed and I woke up one day to realize it was no longer the same place at all. But now there was something new, an emotion with which I have little acquaintance: jealousy. I was jealous of all the people walking up and down the streets, hurrying to get to this place or that place. That's when I realized that the only thing I missed about New York was living there, feeling like I was, in at least some small way, part of the machinery that moved the world. I didn't miss any specific place or thing, just living there, just the rhythm of the city and the interesting people everywhere. Everyone had a story and a motivation. Few people there are just moving through life without trying to leave their mark or achieve some goal. And I do miss some people I know there, yet slowly but surely, my friends are also fleeing, branching out to other parts of the country with lower rent and less stress. That visit was sad but necessary, perhaps particularly then, right before another adventure. So it was with a heavy heart and with the perpetual forward motion that having no home brings you, that I got on an airplane that took me from New York to Russia and then from Russia to France.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Being Gay in Indianapolis, Indiana

Well, I said I'd do it, and here it is: a follow up to my second most popular entry to date. When I was in Colombia, I lamented how Colombian gay culture lacked the welcoming vibe I found in Spanish and US gay culture and how it had been Stockholm syndromed by straight culture. And here you definitely do find both of those things here, though their manifestations are different. Some places are more welcoming than others, of course. Greg's being the first to come to mind and Tini's being the last, because that place is bougey as hell... But coming into gay culture in New York City has left me eternally spoiled by what I expect from gay and queer culture, and Indianapolis is no exception. While the welcoming vibe almost certainly has to do with it being a smaller city, that also presents problems as well.

I know, I know. Keep it in mind as you read.
The first and most striking difference I notice is how a lot of people are obsessed, to a greater or lesser extent, with looking like a whore or not looking like one or they can't decide which they want to be. So many sexual stories I'm told, especially by people who I may not know well, start with a disclaimer: "I'm not a whore, but..." I don't care if you're a whore. Sleep with everyone. Sleep with no one. Whatever. Why is this even an issue? Why are we making this a thing? We're humans. We fuck. We're gay men. We fuck double because we don't have to worry about pregnancy and until recently marriage wasn't really in the cards. In New York, by and large, this is something we pay little attention to. Everyone kind of manages their sexual life in whatever way they want to without much of a hang up one way or another. Much like how you can throw into a casual conversation you smoke marijuana and take for granted the listener either smokes too or doesn't really care what you do with your own lungs. Here, however, the judgement level is high. Pun intended. Better not mention you manage your health responsibly and take PrEP, regardless of how many sexual partners you plan to have, or it's the scarlet letter for you.

As in I am awesome at not letting my Puritanical upbringing shame me
into making bad health choices.
This is a product of two things: a smaller gay community (to where, unlike New York or Madrid, you can actually call it a community) and mainstreaming. The latter is something that gay culture has been verging toward ever since marriage equality became the major political push. I think in a public sense, mainstreaming is good. It's unrealistic to expect straight people to really get us, despite the opposite being possible. They surround us. You either get it or you just get the world. It is not, however, reciprocal. Mainstreaming in shared and public spaces allows us to find common ground, but the problem is when it infiltrates gay spaces and becomes an end rather than a means to an end. There are things about gay culture that deserve and need to be preserved. It pushes the envelope; it shows that gender binaries and roles in relationships are arbitrary; it shows us alternatives to marrying your high school sweetheart and reproducing copiously: You can get married and have an open relationship. You can not get married and have a closed relationship your whole life. You can have a relationship between three people. You can do whatever works for you, which has been the amazing thing about gay, and especially queer, culture. But what's happening isn't this wonderful melange, but rather, assimilation. Gay life, for many, is becoming extremely suburban, and if that's what you really want, I'm not going to stop you. Part of this whole post-modern queer utopia I'm dreaming up is trying to let everyone do their own thing, but I think that a lot of those people are just looking at their straight counterparts and painting by numbers rather than forging their own identities and exploring who they are with the freedom they've been given. Being gay is no cakewalk just about anywhere in the world, but if that's the cards you've been dealt, play them the best way you can, which is not going to be the same way as your straight neighbor with their full house. See I made another pun. (That one was about babies.)

Stephanie Tanner!
What did I just say about shame and sexuality?
Last but not least, misogyny takes a whole new form here. I'm not going to pretend that misogyny isn't a problem in gay male culture everywhere (also, sometimes, a result of mainstreaming), but there's something that makes it a bit different here. I've noticed big, loud reactions of disgust from a lot of guys whenever anything female and sexual is mentioned: vaginas, periods, sex with women, whatever. Women, while not my preferred gender, are still beautiful; their bodies are beautiful; and there is nothing inherently displeasing about them. I'm willing to admit that maybe if you're a full-tilt six on the Kinsey scale that you don't really find a naked woman's body appetizing, but I think you can save the deliberately loud and deliberately public declarations of your disgust especially when you're in the company of women. One of the reasons I'll admit that the New York gay scene is more misogynistic toward women is that you don't see nearly as women (whether they be gay or not) in male gay bars (despite, I am told, their not having many of their own). Here, it's not completely uncommon to see women in a gay bar. So, can we all make a little agreement? If a woman is in a gay bar and she's totally acting chill and being cool, could you not go on a rant about how you find her body or parts of it disgusting? I talked last entry about straight people being good guests in gay spaces, but that goes both ways. We need to be good hosts.

That's about the long and the short of it, my friends. Oh, and stop reading gayguys.com. That site is the worst.