Mowing the Lawn…

Mowing the Lawn…

I mow my own lawn and that of my parent’s on a weekly basis.

I used to hate it; I mean, actually curse the universe as I wrestled the mower, which seemed to weigh a billion tons, in an out and around gardens, plants, trees, and lawn ornaments.  Every week it was the nightmare I dreaded most.  How I resented all the time it took and made me wistful for all the other activities it was keeping me from.

But something’s changed.

This year, I don’t seem to mind it all.  In fact, I look forward to it and am actually a bit disappointed when it’s all over.

You see, it’s become my pondering time; a little slice of time when all the other voices get drowned out by the rumble of the mower and I have the opportunity to listen to my own, singular voice.  In that way, it feels like a quiet time, a time when, instead of wrestling with the mower, I get to wrestle with my thoughts regarding my past, the present, and my future. 

The subject matter always varies greatly.  Last week it was all about revisiting the many pitfalls of a rather bloated production of Pam Gem’s ‘Piaf’ that I produced and directed.  The woman who played the title character was brilliant, but I surrounded her with a pathetic, disastrous circus.

This week?  I thought about the power of belief and how important it is to allow others to believe what they want, even when reality doesn’t support that belief.

Atula, the 14 year old, deaf, Boston Terrier that came to live with me two years ago has been diagnosed with an inoperable cancerous tumor.  He’s not in any pain, still loves going outside, still has a voracious appetite.  He’s facing a host of other health issues as well: his immune system is shot, he has a long-term staph infection, his legs sometimes fail him, and he is going blind.   Everyone tells me that my ex and I should have him put down.  And at the first sign of discomfort, I will be joining that chorus.

But my ex doesn’t want to hear it.  And there are a number of reasons for that.

It could be that he identifies on some level with the frailty of the aging dog.  He’s now near retirement age and dealing with a number of health issues that occur when dealing with an aging body.

It could be that it marks one less thing that will bind the two of us together.

But most likely, he simply can’t bear to lose another dog.  And there, we are in agreement. 

Atula has been special.  He has a goony pug face with big bulging eyes, a bloated body, and skinny, long legs.  Because he’s deaf, he doesn’t bark, he screams.  He’s hungry all the time and screams for treats constantly.  My ex gives into him more than I.  

When we first got him two years ago, Atula was not used to being touched at all.  He spent twelve years of his life being crated for eight to twelve hours at a time.  With a lot of careful nurturing, we are now able to rub his belly and he tolerates our affection. 

The first time we let him run around in the back yard he was terrified and wasn’t sure what to do.  Now he loves it.  Last night my ex was supposed to join my family for dinner, but he declined, because Atula had wandered outside and fallen asleep in the shade on the newly mown lawn.  He didn’t have the heart to wake him. 

My ex has seen to it that Atula has gotten the very best veterinarian care available.  But even he knows that there are limits.  So, I’ve instructed my family to not pressure him to put the dog down.  When they do, he gets very upset, and, at this time, I don’t see any reason for that.  My ex wants to believe that Atula will, somehow, be all right - which is really not that different than my Mom’s belief that my Dad will, somehow, be all right, too. 

My Mom is finally accepting the fact that my Dad will be bedridden for the remainder of his time on this earth, though she still fights with herself, believing that if she keeps him awake and moves his limbs and makes him try to stand on his own, that she can stem the ravages of Alzheimer’s.  When she seeks my opinion on this matter, I only caution her that moving him on her own, or attempting to make him stand puts both of them at great risk of physical injury – injuries that could be game changers. 

I understand that she needs to believe that she has a hand in delaying the inevitable.  And I let her.  She needs to cling to that belief, just as she relies upon her belief in God; it gives her life purpose and focus. 

In both matters; my Mom in relation to my Dad, and my ex regarding our dog, my true feelings matter very little.  At this time, I need to support their beliefs.  And as long as neither Atula nor my Dad is in pain or at risk of pain or injury, then I need to keep my opinions to myself - at least until such time when they are ready to deal with the reality of the situations.

I keep reminding myself that reality will make itself apparent, and that, like all things, this, too, will end.  So, I keep my own consul.  I keep retreating into my head.  And other than momentary lapses – the other day, when my Mom was out of the room, I took the opportunity to grab my sister’s hand and tearfully confess that I was “tired” – that is where these thoughts remain. 

In the meantime, I take comfort that…

…the grass will grow.

And the lawns will need mowing once more.

Some Truths are Not Subjective: Being Gay is NOT a Choice!

I just cannot get over the number of straight people who believe that being gay is a choice.  Really?  And what is that belief based on?  Personal experience?  We need to start challenging these misguided souls.  Because unless they are a gay person who chose to be straight  - and if they are, I would love to hear their story – then their belief is baseless.  Unless they are a gay person who chose to be straight their belief is based on… what?  An innate knowledge of all universal truths as provided by faith?  Where I come from, we call that bigotry.  

Bigotry happens when you start making assumptions about people you know nothing about.  You know that old saying… walk a mile in my shoes?  Well, I wish every straight person could.  Because, you see, I, like many gay folk, did my level best to be straight.  It was made very clear to me from the get-go that it was in my best interest (if I planned to thrive and survive) to be straight.  So I tried.  For 28 years I did my level best.  I had girlfriends, contemplated getting married, planned on bringing children into the world… and I could have done just that, except for one thing… I was gay.  And I knew I was gay.  And ultimately I had to come to accept the fact that being gay was not something I could wish away or pray away.  It was something that was not going away.  It was who I was.

You see, the truth has a way of winning out – of coming out, if you will.  No matter how much you try to hide it, no matter how good you become at pretending otherwise, the truth will eventually make itself evident.  And the more you try to deny it, the more it festers and pokes at you.  It will not rest until you acknowledge its innate right to be (you know, kind of like those pushy gay folk). 

As a straight person?  I was miserable.  Have you ever tried tap dancing in a pair of tap shoes that are a size and a half too small?  I have.  It hurts like hell.  It messes up your timing and precision.  It messes with your head.  That’s what it feels like to be a gay person trying to pass as a straight man.   Have you ever worn clothing that still had that stuff that new clothing has in it called sizing?  Icky feeling, huh?  And maybe that clothing isn’t quite the right size, so you start to sweat, and you feel like crap wearing what you are wearing.  Yeah, that’s what choosing to be straight feels like for a gay person.  It’s awful, that feeling.  I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.  It makes you despise the skin you’re in.  It makes you feel like you are dirty and that you stink and that other people can smell you.  It stinks to feel like you stink. 

It makes you wish you were dead.

I only tried to kill myself once. 

During my first year in college.  I was a theatre major at a small college – and the message I received loud and clear from everyone – other actors, directors, teachers, parents, even the guidance counselor at the college – was don’t be gay.  I kept thinking all throughout high school that once I went to college things would be different… that I would be different, that other people would be different, that the world would be different, but that wasn’t the case.  So I struggled.  And then I met an actor from New York.  I fell in love.  And then I spent six months living a double existence until I just couldn’t anymore.  I decided I would rather be dead.  So, I tried to kill myself, and, like so many things that I have attempted in my lifetime, it turned out I wasn’t very good at it, because (surprise) I lived.  You see, I forgot that I had an 8:00 am call for a 10:00 am children’s show I was in (I played a court jester with a full face of paint).  When I didn’t show up at the theatre, the stage manager came, broke in and found me.  I threw up all the pills, she dragged my ass to the theatre, and threw me on-stage.   Everyone was mad at me for being late.  They had to hold the curtain because of me.  I was a mess.  No one understood, because no one knew the whole truth, because I could not tell them.  I remember standing on the edge of the stage at curtain call yelling inappropriate things at the audience.  They were applauding so they couldn’t hear me… but my fellow actors sure could.  It was surreal.   And so it would remain for the next ten years.

So, having done that, having tried, however ineptly, to off myself, you would think I would have come out of it realizing that I could not escape from who I was.  But, no.  Instead, I went further into denial – further into the surreal.  I ended my affair with the actor in New York and cancelled my plans to move to New York to be with him – plans I had made secretively. .. only the actor and I knew.  I broke his heart.  I broke my heart, too.  It would take ten more years of self-hatred, bitterness, inner-conflict, denial, bad self-image, poor self-esteem, being marginalized, criticized, and ostracized, living in fear and isolation before I would finally come to realize that I was what I was… I was gay.

And I was not a great gay - still am not a great gay – for like most people, I am horribly flawed.  But I have come a long way… I never hide who I am these days.  Everybody knows.  And what they think?  Well, it’s not always my business.  I can’t change who they are – but I will also not allow them to treat me badly or differently because of what I am. 

I now like the skin I’m in.  My clothes fit better, too.  And I now know better than to try to tap dance in shoes a size and a half too small.  In fact, I don’t tap dance around anyone anymore.  I just tell people my truth.  That this is who I am.  I am a gay man.   And not by choice.  Like greatness for some, this – being gay - has been thrust upon me.  And I now wear it like a crown.

Because it looks good up there on my head. 

And the fit is to die for!