On "Notes from 'Cole'"

I recently found a diamond engagement ring and wedding band I purchased three years ago for a young lady I intended to marry.  Needless to say, we didn't end up married.  Finding that ring (an realizing that I'd allowed myself to lose such a beautifully set, expensive stone in the first place) brought up many emotions I thought I'd left behind.

I've written a series of posts on finding that ring, and what it has represented at different points in my life for the past three years.  In the past, I've had heartburn over publishing posts describing my feelings and experiences as a gay Mormon.  Now, I'm not one who believes in justifying one's feelings (actions, however, should bear accountability), but I don't like to cause others discomfort.  I've debated about publishing these posts (and others on faith vs. nature, personal history, and shifting belief systems) on this particular blog: some posts are are composed as an I'm-writing-to-examine-and-understand-this-thing-in-my-life, and could be controversial or too "diary" driven.  I haven't wanted to make certain readers uncomfortable or uneasy about what they'll find when (and if) they read flowers.

So, while I do write about things I've learned while trying to balance a life in the Church and as a gay man, I don't believe flowers isn't the place for that.  I will be exploring those sorts of issues at another blog, Notes from "Cole".  Head on over there if y'all are interested.

The Bookend Brothers Bond Over Those Fabulous Beekman Boys

OR HOW ANIMAL HUSBANDRY GOT ITS GAY ON

Just a few days ago, Gavin and I were lounging on the sofas in front of the flat screen downstairs. Having wrestled the remote from him after suggesting he was in dire need of a hot shower (he smelled like the dairy farm where he works), I flipped through the channels, trying to find an episode of Dr. Who or something else of equal "interesting" or "intellectually expansive" factors. It was a Saturday afternoon and not much was garnering my attention. I passed over the SciFi and Spike channels and began the fascinating journey through The Discovery Channel, The Learning Channel and --that sometimes frightening place on the wavelength which reminds me why I'm glad I grew up human -- Animal Planet.

Nothing was catching my eye, and I was about ready to give the remote back to Gav; however, as we passed through more nature documentaries than Jane Goodall could dream of, I saw it as I almost skimmed over Planet Green -- one of those words that enraptures all gays -- that divine and flashy adjective: FABULOUS!!!

Gavin groaned, "Mom and I saw a commercial about this. It's some new show about gay farmers."

I grinned.  "Let's see what this about," I teased as I put the remote down and settled into a pile of embroidered pillows.

Gavin rolled his eyes, but then he got comfortable, too. I think he was, perhaps, intrigued by the premise of a couple of queers prancing about a gorgeous farm and, although he'll never admit this, I think (and I would have never imagined it) he's kind of started to like watching some of my shows with me.  What Not to Wear.  Chelsea Lately.  Glee.  He always, always, always pulls up an armchair when I'm watching those McKinley High kids overexert their ice-pack-me-right-after-this-take-is-finished vocal chords on Hulu.  I've even found Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson's Journey duet (among others) on iTunes.  I haven't bought any of the albums.

So.  Anyway.  We're watching and the gents are introducing themselves.  Brent's the former VP of Martha Stewart's something and Josh used to be a drag-queen.  This could get a little uncomfortable for Gav, I thought.  Maybe I really should find something else to watch.  And then, the moment for which no one would have been prepared:  we meet Farmer Jo, a bald, hefty, rural upstate New Yorker.  He has been hired on as the gentlemen farmers' goatkeeper.  He's talking about how if it weren't for Brent and Josh and the Beekman farm, he'd have lost the goats and how much he loves his animals and he starts crying!!!  I looked over at Gavin.  He looked at me.  We burst out laughing and watched the next three episodes of The Fabulous Beekman Boys, giggling together for another 90 minutes.   



The New York Times may not agree, but I kind of know that shows are brilliant when Gavin and I -- from two completely different molds -- can bond over watching them.  The fact that Gavin, in his muck boots and manure suit, and I, in my skinny jeans and hair paste, can sit and see facets of ourselves and each other in this stupid reality television show; the fact that we can giggle about how we do or don't fit into the stereotypes of cowboy or farmer or sensitive or gay man; or the fact that we can discuss our experience with having used or being the target of derogations like redneck and fag after watching this particular TV show is really incredible.

Who knew the gays and the rural backwater boys could enjoy the same thing so much?

We were getting ready to cut the dog's hair and Sammy, my parents' Yorkshire terrier, went into hiding amidst piles of sorted laundry as I looked in the mudroom cupboard for the clippers my mother uses to trim his coat.

Mom was standing near the kitchen table, her five-month-old iPhone in her hand. "Your brother taught me how to use the iTunes last night," she said. "I have to show you the first song I bought." She was excited to show me the song she had purchased, Bucky Covington's song, "A Father's Love." I'd never heard of the singer, let alone the song, as I'm not much interested in listening to a wide array of country music. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to coax the dog into out of the laundry pile when the son started playing; I was in tears, dog in hand, by the second stanza.

He checked the air in my tires,
The belts and all the spark plug wires;
Said "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?"
And as I pulled out the drive he said, "Be sure and call your mom sometime."
And I didn't hear it then, but I hear it now:
He was saying "I love you" the only way he knew how.

I was hit by these lyrics because they describe exactly what my dad does for me every time I come home. He checks the air in my tires, opens the hood and putters around, and--word for word--asks, "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?" The song finished playing, I held Sammy in my lap, and Mom proceeded to share with me how she'd played the song for Dad the night before( which inspired about the same reaction in him as it did me); he asked afterward if he'd said "I love you" to his sons frequently enough when we were growing up.

I looked at a hangnail on my finger and smiled, as this brought to mind a rigorous and flaying conversation I'd had with an acquaintance concerned about my life choices about a month earlier. I said, "Well, I made sure to tell Sister So-and-So that Dad has always been very conscious about letting us know he loves us, that we've heard those words from him many times."

"What are you talking about?"

I wrestled with the anxious dog in my lap. "Oh, about a month ago she waited for me after an afternoon performance the trio gave. Said I was 'just the young man she wanted to visit with.' Corralled me into an unoccupied, 'more private' room for a discussion she wanted to have. Where she told me why being gay is the same as being 'sexually broken.' And said she could offer me help with selecting a Church-affiliated counselor and a reformative program. So I could be healed."

I wasn't sure if my mom would try to change the subject of if she'd agree with the other woman's opinion; I wasn't really certain of anything, as any mention of the word "gay" draws up tension for my mom and for me. The clippers buzzed on and Sammy whimpered. "You're kidding! I can say stuff like that to you, but no one else can! Who in the world does she--?" I was comforted by my mother's defending, angry response. "What else did she say?"

I maneuvered the dog so Mom could shear those hard-to-reach places and explained how Sister So-and-So informed me that same-gender attraction is not caused by genetics or biological functions, but that it is the result for boys who grow up without an involved father; who lack positive masculine role-models in their early lives; who seek out positive male-to-male touch in adult relationships because they don't feel completely male because their daddies didn't hug them enough when they were little boys.

I explained how I let Sister So-and-So know that my dad had never been shy about giving my brothers and me hugs; that he'd never been slack in saying, "I love you;" that both he and my mom have always been supportive of the activities in which their children participate. "Mom, I was very clear in telling her how great a father Dad was--how great a father he is. That I don't think it's Dad's fault--or your fault--that I'm gay." I laughed, "It really blew the wind out of her sails."

"That just makes me so mad," Mom spat. "What nerve!"

"I know, Mom. I was really upset about it, too," I agreed. Sammy kicked, "Be careful -- don't nick your dog!"

"Sorry, Sammy."

We kept talking as she finished up Sammy's haircut. It felt good for both of us. It had been a long time since that had happened.

I learned some things:

My parents are processing this. They may not like it, but they love me and they will defend me as they always have.

Sister So-and-So was acting out of love, even if she was sneaky and horribly misguided in the way she offered her opinions; however, Sister So-and-So was also ashamed that we were having the conversation. She waited around for everyone to leave before she said she wanted to speak with me. She looked for a quiet room, out of the way, where no one could find or interrupt us. She cowered and looked over her shoulder at every sound. "Did someone just walk by? Did anybody see us in here?"

My response to that kind of sneaky, secretive, shadow-filled "assistance" is this: I'm Mormon. I'm gay. I'm unashamed. If you want to talk about those dualities, let's have the discussion out in the open. No secrets. No shame. No judgment from you. No judgment from me.

And lastly, my parents' parenting of me did not direct or lead me to be attracted to other men. There is nothing we can blame "the gay" on. It just is. It's something I've felt since I can remember feeling, and it's something I'll feel for the rest of my life. No one should ever have to justify their feelings, or try to blame what they feel on anyone else.

I've become a man, confident and content as any, but I forget to change the oil in my car. I don't often press a gauge against the valve to see how much air is in the tire. Dad reminds me to do those things. It's just another way he keeps saying, "I love you." I'm happy he still does.

Response to a Sunday School Discussion, on Genesis 18 and 19

I sat in Sunday School for the first time in many months. We were reading about Abraham and Lot. I sat with my mother. I tensed when Sodom and Gomorrah were mentioned. The biblical account states that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed because of their wickedness. The teacher asked (what I deem a stupid question), "What are some examples of their wickedness?" Of course, homosexuality was brought up; it was spoken of with intense disgust, almost as if it were a plague, implying that those who are LGBT are sick and in need of pity, a cure, or fiery annihilation. All I could think of were these lines from Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice", my own way of affirming "I AM NOT A PLAGUE! I am the same as you"--

He hath disgraced me, and
hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,
mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine
enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath
not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with
the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?
if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison
us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not
revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will
resemble you in that.

Let's not use ancient, stolid Bible stories to demonize those who we feel are different from us and then justify our actions against them.

The Sunday School lesson we should remember most? Look and you will see that we are the same: all are christened children of God, made of the same materials, housing the same biological patterns, and full of the power with which God has gifted us.

Eve's Real Curse, or Why Yes! Every Girl Should Have a Gay Boy, Part I

Julyn has been my best girlfriend since the summer of ninth grade.  We have quite a bit of history, as best friends should.  She crushed on me in high school, and I also felt a deeply mutual affinity and affection for her (secret: I still do).  She's been the singular young woman to drop my jaw (with a shocking authenticity) by just entering a room (picture: Nic standing in the kitchen before a prom, corsage in hand, stopped mid-sentence by this gorgeous girl in pink, capped-sleeve and beaded-bodice wonder).  We've held each other in times of deep loss and effervescing joy.  She's been a constant woman in my life.  And I've been her best gay boy all along, even if neither of us were honest about it until about eighteen months ago.

The week I came out to Julyn was not a good one for her.  Another good friend of ours and her sister also had similar discussions with her.  She had just started a new job and it seems like midterms were coming up.  Three gays in two days is a lot to take in: Jules lost the job and failed a few tests.  I felt awful, but being the miracle she is, Jules got over the news, and things have been great ever since.

Except for this one time, when Corey and I did a (maybe) bad thing.  Corey, Jules and I drove to Provo to visit another of our best friends, Jessame, who was attending BYU's law school at the time.  We met Jessame at her apartment and then headed out for what Corey call's "a twenty-something's idea of a fancy dinner" at PF Chang's.  After we'd been seated, conversation took a turn to what Julyn thought would be the difficulty of finding other gay men to date in UT.  I spotted a cute waiter--tall, with dark hair and features--and flirted a little bit, getting a prompt, yet furtive glance back.

"How did you do that?!" Jules exclaimed, waving her arms, almost pushing Jessame out of the booth.

Corey and I proceeded to give Julyn the lesson in "How to Spot a Gay." I will now defer to a post of Corey's, listing a few of the things we shared with Julyn that night.

1. "Is the facial hair nicely trimmed?
2. "Does the hair stick up in any way (ie. a faux hawk)?
3. "Are the shoes pointy or at least Italian-looking?
4. "Does he have cologne in his car? Hair products?
5. "Is his butt tucked as he walks?
6. "Are his clothes exceptionally well coordinated? (ie. Does his underwear match the rest of his outfit?)
7. "V-necks?
8. 
   
   "Is there a gym membership on his key chain? Or a rewards card to any of the following: a high-end clothing store, a shoe store, a book store?"

 Jessame thought our limp-wristed demonstrations were, simply put, absolutely fabulous.  Jules, on the other hand, was less than excited.  She was shocked.  Mortified. A little panicked.


Trying to make light of a somewhat serious realization, Jules half-joke, "You mean I'm gonna end up marrying some ugly, fat, gut-laden, fart-spewing hick?!"  The pain and shock and almost-humour on Julyn's face sent a little guilt my way.  Trying to backpedal as quickly as I could, I said, "Oh, Jules, darling! Just marry a man with sisters.  That way, he'll have all the benefits of style and gentility, and you can still be his type!"


That mollified her for a while, but only until she started to count up the (possibly) gay boys she kept close.

The Guilty Question: A Response to "You're Beyond Feeling" (II)

I didn't know how to answer the man sitting across from me.  I felt attacked.  I hurt.  And then I fumed.

I sat in my hardbacked chair for what was probably only 30 seconds, calling on any god who would give me some fortitude and patience, along with the affirmation that I wasn't spiritually dead or numb.  I found myself looking down at my hands -- they were resting open-faced on my lap, and the words "the kingdom of heaven is now close at hand" came to mind.  And then, I remembered this time when I was a little kid, romping in the lawn at my grandma's house because she had asked my cousins and me to go out and snap the heads off the dandelions.  It was such a glee, bending down and ripping the yellow flowers, smearing their heads down our arms and on our cheeks, pretending the jocund streaks were war-painted stripes; but my favorite part of that afternoon was picking up the dead, dry-tufted heads of seed, and blowing the white petals at each other.  I turned and turned in those dandelion seeds, relishing the soft, kissing heaven of them as they landed on my lips and lids and legs and fingertips.  I knew when I recognized the feelings from that vivid memory that I was still capable of feelings immense things, even if (for now) they were only recorded in a memory.

I also knew I had every right to be angry.  And I was exceptionally upset.  I may have dammed certain of my emotions for my own defensive purposes, but I was still a feeling person.  Goddammit, I thought, I'm a musician!  I create beauty!  How dare you tell me I'm beyond feeling, even in a religious context?  You deny my ability to feel and create, and you deny me, bishop!  And I will not have it!  He read a scripture, drawing a comparison between the pure and humble and obedient character of Nephi and the proud, obstinate and doubting portrayals we have of Laman and Lemuel. He then begged the question, "Which do you want to be, Nic?"  I didn't offer him any answers.  I was too angry, and I knew I would say ultimately divisive things.  He said a prayer, and I left, sharing little more than a cold goodbye.

I drove up the gravel road to my parents' house, but didn't pull into the driveway.  I kept driving up the hill until I reached the gate my dad and I had spray-painted with the words, "No Trespassing."  I turned my car off, stepped outside, climbed over the gate and walked westward.  I have always gone to the mountains when I've been profoundly furied or sad or grateful or happy.  My mountains seem to have the only places large enough to root soul, and I needed a place to plant down before I lost myself on the wind of my anger.

"Where the hell are you, God?" I yelled.  "What do I do?  How do I live and find happiness?"  I didn't hear any instant answers, but as I kept walking and ranting, the clouds darkened like a scar across the face of the summer sky and I could feel myself becoming a sort of sieve.  I reflected on how I had decided to come out; on why I had told my family and a few friends, but had elected to keep "those in the know" a small group; on silent lies I had created in an attempted relationship with a certain young woman who would have been my wife.  Grief filtered out of those thoughts and other memories, and I keened and moaned and cried.

And as hackneyed as this image is, rain honestly began falling.  Walk back to your car, a thought directed.  Feel the rain falling.  Go home.  Clean up.  And then the big moment, I am in you and you are in me.   I hadn't heard those words since I had been in Sunday School, but they rang with such power.  I quit crying.  I walked back to my car, and I felt how the rain fell, landed on my head and followed the course of its falling down my face.  I walked in the door to my parents' house, and I felt the first breath of "I'm Home" I'd felt in way too long.   I knew I had been created by Love, and that, should I look after it, I'd always be in Love.

I called Corey, my best bud, later that night and we had a long talk about the events of the day.  "I'm not going to visit with him again," I affirmed.  Corey agreed, "No.  No one should ever have to 'visit' like that.  You don't need to be broken down."

Emily Dickinson wrote,

Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.

I haven't been in the bishop's office since that day, but I have been on the search for times when "the Spirit" moves me, opening "every door," I guess to prove to myself that I am not, nor will I ever be, beyond feeling.  And so many feelings and memories followed in these past few months, landing like soft dandelion tufts in the places where my soul is hungry and aching.  I let them come.  I gather them in.  They break their heavens upon me, filling my open hands and guiding my healing heart.  I post some of those experiences here, on my blog, just to remind myself, and any readers I may or may not have, that the Spirit always speaks to those who want to listen.

The Guilty Question: A Response to "You're Beyond Feeling"

My bishop called me the day before my birthday in 2009 and made a pressing invitation for me to go to his office for a little visit.  I had just moved back into my parents' house from a couple of prodigal years on my own, I wasn't "actively engaged" in the good cause of The Church, and I was angry at what I felt was the shit life had thrown at me.  I didn't know exactly what he wanted to discuss with me, but I suspected the bishop wanted to explore the reasons I chose not to maintain a high level of activity in the ward.

So, I took a deep breath, rolled up my white-shirt-sleeves, buttoned my black slacks and, wearing a fabulous pink tie, I met him one evening at the church meeting house.  He welcomed me into his office, where he had conspicuously placed two chairs in front of his desk, one for him and one for me.  We sat across from each other, and (after the obligatory, everyday salutations) he suggested I offer a prayer.  I hadn't prayed aloud for quite some time, and the words "Dear Heavenly Father..." felt like an old, forgotten language in my mouth, while at the same time, I found a starchy, hard kind of comfort in talking to God again.  We said our amens and then the bishop gave me a tender, pained looked and quietly asked, "What's wrong, Nic?"

I didn't want to be there.  I remember asking myself why I was there in the first place.  Because he called you in and you don't know how to graciously say no to authority figures, I thought. I don't feel like I've done anything which would merit the help of a bishop in repenting.  I don't want to repent.  He thinks I need to change something.  I shouldn't ever have agreed to come here.  But he looked so sincerely concerned and -- with the pictures of Jesus were staring me down -- I decided I'd just be as honest with him as I felt I could trust him.

Over a series of visits, we discussed what, for years, I had called my "guilty question" : I told him I was gay.  I told him I didn't know how to make that work in The Only True and Living Church on the Face of the Earth Today.  I told him how I had tried to ignore it away, to pray it away, how I had tried to serve it away (as an LDS missionary), how I had tried to date and engage and marry it away.  I told him how it had never gone away.  I told him I was tired of hearing I was fighting a "tendency," a "weakness," that I needed to be fixed.  I don't need to be fixed, I gritted my teeth many times. I silently testified, Homosexuality is not an illness.  There isn't a cure, and we won't find one here.  Jesus loves me as I AM.

He was as empathetic as any married, Melchezidek Priesthood bearing, rural, straight man could be about it.  He cried over my heartaches when I wouldn't.  He offered me hugs and blessings I didn't accept.  I prickled every time he said he just wanted me to talk with him about what I felt.  I didn't believe him when he said he wouldn't judge me.  My emotions were becoming raw when all I wanted to be was callous.  I admit, I looked for reasons to quit meeting with him. 

I found that reason in our last meeting before I left for a midsummer music festival taking place in WI.  We had been making progress in understanding why I had felt the need to ignore all emotions except anger, and he blurted out, "Nic, I think you're beyond feeling.  When was the last time you really felt a prompting of the Spirit?"

I was so shocked I couldn't think or hear or speak.

(End  Part I)

The Beauty Is: Love is for Everyone

*My goal in writing this blog is to record the discoveries, the beautiful and transcendent events, transformations and tender mercies I find in life which lead me to greater good.  I do not wish to turn "flowers" into a "Gay Mormon"  or "Moho" blog, although those types of blogs have their place.  This post is a reflection on an experience which has fueled a lot of thought for me, and I'm sure posts on similar subjects will follow.  I'm not afraid, nor am I ashamed, but I do ask any Reader to read with love and empathy.


My university's musical theater department is putting on a production of Adam Guettel's The Light in the Piazza.  It's a beautiful story in which the main character (Margaret, a middled-aged mother from North Carolina) begins to see how love can make a person blossom as she witnesses the way her daughter (Clara, an innocent and beautiful young woman) grows when she falls in love with a young Italian man (synopsis here).

I've been brought on as the production's pianist.  Auditions and call backs were held about two weeks ago.  I was impressed with the exceptional level of talent and preparation that many fresh-faced and bright-eyed students brought to their auditions; I was also a bit unsure of how these young actors would be able to pull off characters who are 20+ years older than they.  I knew that when my friend, Kathy, entered the audition, she'd be sure to impress.  Kathy is a 40-something, conservative LDS woman, thoughtful and empathetic, and she has a fantastic soprano voice.  The only thing standing against her playing the role of Margaret was the fact that she's a voice major (read: not a musical theater major).  She gave a great audition and made both call backs, but didn't get the part.

We were talking in a hallway at school, just after auditions.  I was tired from having just sight-read what seemed like the entire American Musical Theatre Songbook for the past three hours, and I was hungry.  Kathy began a conversation I wouldn't quite realize I didn't want to have until it was too late.

"I learned a new phrase today," she said.

"Oh?" I queried.

"Yeah.  We were sitting outside auditions, talking about the characters.  The fact that Fabrizio is a tenor role came up and one of the girls said that whoever plays Fabrizio has to be able to 'keep his fruit in the fridge.'" Kathy giggled.  "I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I thought about it for a minute.  And then, I got it!"

"Ah, that age-old stereotype that every tenor is a gay man, and Fabrizio is a straight role" I rolled my eyes and smiled.

"Yes, that." Kathy said.  She paused for a moment, and then went on.  "You know, they don't have to be gay."

Oh, shit, I grumbled inside myself.  I don't want to have this conversation with you right now.  Deflect Nic!  Deflect!

"Oh, I think that depends on who you're talking to, Kathy," I shrugged.

"No," she posed.  "It's a choice they can make.  We all have to make tough choices.  Why do they think they have to be gay?"

Now let me tell you, I love Kathy.  She is a dear, dear friend, but I was incredibly stunned and hurt by what she was saying.  I wanted to tell her that -- having discussed the very topic of whether or not anyone "chooses" to be gay with self-identified gay men and lesbian women, and also being a gay man myself -- I know that sexual identity is not a choice.  True, identifying one's self as gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered is a choice of recognition and reconciliation with one's self, but the attractions which lead any human being to identify as GLBT is not.  Coming out is a very delicate, difficult process (that action deserves a series of posts in and of itself), and I commend anybody who finds the courage to do it.

For my own reasons, I decided to withhold the disclosing of my sexual preference from Kathy.  It wasn't imperative.  We work regularly together in a variety of musical settings, but I don't believe I'll have much need of sharing any information about possible significant others with her.  I said something about needing to heat up some food and get my blood sugar back in balance and I left, agitated and upset.

Perhaps playing Maragaret would have lead Kathy to make discoveries about why it is we love, and why we must give everyone the room and space to love whoever it is they love.  Perhaps I should have used the conversation in the hall to give Kathy a larger vision of what is "right" and what is "wrong."  Maybe, like Margaret's character, Kathy would have have the epiphany that LOVE IS FOR EVERYONE.  I'm sorry she didn't get the role, and feel a little regret that I didn't say anything more.

"Love if you can, oh my Clara!
Love if you can, and be loved--"

May we all come to that kind of understanding.