White Gifts

It might not be too surprising to learn that I'm not a very religious person. It's great if you are, more power to you. But as a friend of  mine once quoted to me, "Organized religion is like organized crime and I try to stay away from both". Take that as you will, but I was  raised in a religious tradition. The tradition of the Methodists, which from what I remember was less about the condemnation and more about  the singing and the doughnuts in the basement afterwards. I was even confirmed as a Methodist, but that is a story and a revelation for  another time. My family has many stories around our misadventures with church, and this is but one of them. Perhaps the most famous of them.

It was Christmas, one of my all time favorite times of year. For the small price of being mostly good, one gets phat lootz. From a magic man with flying reindeer. Which is just about the greatest thing to ever happen to a kid and an adult. I love the concept of Santa, and I pretty much love just about everything that has to do with Christmas. Especially the music, of which I have a lot. One of the best things about  Christmas is watching people stress out about how perfect everything has to be. Christmas perfection is a completely un-achievable goal, as something will always go wrong. I've long since accepted this aspect of the Christmas season and have made peace with it. And I think I have the church to thank for that, in just a small way.

Christmas is the season for giving, as they say. and one should always give to the poor and needy. This was a mantra that was sold to us over the many years of church going and advertisements, one that is rung by annoying bell ringers throughout the land and in front of malls. Christmas is a time to remember that not everyone is as fortunate as you - you in this case was myself and my family living in the suburb of Wayzata - and that we as a community should do what we can for the poor children who would not get anything for Christmas.

One thing that I always found strange about our church was how the various parishioners were divided up during the whole event. I remember as a kid we would start church up in the main room with everyone else and our families. Then after a few songs and the minister had spoken to the kids in a slightly condescending fashion, we were sent off to Sunday school. I hated Sunday school. It was boring and I was often with kids who weren't my friends and with whom I didn't want to form a friendship with anyway. I remember on more than one occasion heading off to the bathroom after being excused and just wandering the halls and spying on the other classes, especially the older classes to see if anything would get better or more lively. It never looked like it would, nor did it ever. Honestly, this is probably as close to hell as I would get. Aimlessly wandering plan halls covered in religious themes, looking for anything interesting happening - and interesting things will never happen.

It was in these Sunday school sessions around Christmas time that the lovely teachers spoke to us all about Jesus and his birth and the gifts and such. I never understood why Santa wasn't in these stories, as it seemed to be a glaring oversight on everyone's part. We all listened to what the teachers had to say, and then they presented us with the idea. We were to think of all the poor children who wouldn't have much on Christmas morning from their families and we should take care of them. Now, this also struck me as odd. Every story and show about Santa Claus clearly stated that he brought gifts for ALL children - even if they were crappy wood carved arks - so why did they need my help? This seems like stepping all over Santa's toes. But we were told that even with Santa, who could only do so much, these children might not get any toys because Santa liked to make sure their basic needs were met by bringing them socks.

Reluctantly, I bought the line as being good and no disruptive as a major part of the Santa gift getting rules. We were then told as a class, as was every kid in Sunday school, that next Sunday we were to bring in a "White Gift". Each child would find a toy for a poor and needy child and bring it into church so that it could be passed along to them before Christmas. They were called White Gifts because we would lovingly wrap each gift in pure white tissue paper, and then we would place that beautiful White Gift under the tree. It would look like glorious piles of snow under the tree, piles of warm and caring snow. "Be sure to tell your parents!" we were told. We all nodded in agreement. And 10 minutes after being told, I promptly forgot. TO MY CREDIT, my brother forgot as well.

Morning were usually chaotic in our house, as they are in many people's houses who have kids. And let it be known that I like to sleep. I like sleep a lot, and waking up in the morning was just about the worst thing to happen in my day. Waking up for church only compounded my hatred and evil mood. Despite having a week to tell our parents of the wonderful idea of White Gifts, as I was sure every other family had done, we didn't tell them. In fact, it wasn't until we got into the car and were driving the 15 minutes to Church, already pressed for time as we were often running behind schedule, that we remembered White Gifts at all. "Mom! We were supposed to get White Gifts!"

After quickly explaining the whole idea, my parents said the most natural thing of all, "Why are you just telling us now?"

"We forgot!" we cried, trying to sound somewhat pitiful.

After a quick argument over being late to church or arriving without any White Gifts for the poor and needy children, a decision was made to stop at the local drugstore and make our White Gifts purchases. The Rexal Drug store was a wonderland to me. They had rows of candy, a toy section, magazines and comic books. Upon entering the store, my father quickly found the tissue paper and scotch tape, while my brother and I started to head toward the toy section, which was much farther into the store. "There's no time," my mother hissed at us, "Get something from up here. We have to go!"

The selection of options near the front of the store was completely limited to everything you would never want to get for a gift. All the impulse items that might cause a person to say, "Oh.. I need that" and not "Oh, I want that". There is a big difference between want and need, and I've always felt Christmas is a want holiday; not a need holiday. While my brother and I pondered over the least offensive options, time ticked away and so did my mother's patience. In the end, we chose two sets of unbreakable combs as our White Gift. Oh I could only imagine the joy that recipients of our choice would get upon opening their White Gifts. Did you get a toy? No.. better. Unbreakable combs. It would be a true a Christmas miracle, these gifts of combs.

With everything purchased, we flew back to the car in an desperate attempt to make it to Church on time. Combs, tissue paper, scotch tape and a notorious temper accompanied my mother to the front seat as she set about trying to wrap these crap combs into the perfect White Gift for under the church tree. Doing any sort of detail work in a moving vehicle is a crap shoot at best, and already at her end, these White Gifts were proving to be a step to far for my mom. I could hear my mother's patience shredding as quickly as the flimsy tissue paper shred as the slightest touch of the hard cardboard of the comb packaging. After a few attempts, and many exclamations of "Shit!", my brother and I were surprised by two sets of unbreakable combs that had been hurled at us from the front, followed by fluttering pages of white tissue paper and a role of tape. "Wrap your own god damned White Gifts!" was our only comment and command. Indignation welled up in my brother and I, as we wrapped these crappy combs with all the angst two children who had brought this upon themselves could muster. Driving in silence, with only the rip of scotch tape to break it, we arrived at church with two oval bundles of White Mess that would need to pass as a perfect White Gift.

Much like all the other Sundays, the children joined the rest of the congregation in the main room, before being banished off to the depths of Sunday school. Each of us holding our White Gifts, we children lined up in a procession, to place our wonderful gift for the poor and needy under the tree. As we moved toward the tree at the front of the hall, the minister spoke of all the love and kindness that happens in this glorious season of Christmas and how these white gifts, so carefully wrapped with love, were true symbols of the spirit of Christmas. As I held the white ball of tissue with an unbreakable comb core, I just turned to look at my parents and glared.

The Deadliest Game

I don't have children. I once had the thought about having children but I quickly realized that it was more from the expectation that I was to have children and not that I really wanted them. I've been told by a few people that I would be a really great dad, and that might be true. But I think part of being a parent is wanting to care for that child. I didn't want that. Having children went to the wayside like the other expectations about my future life that didn't fit. I think people who want to be parents are amazing people, because I swear that 50% of their time is making sure that the child doesn't kill itself by doing something stupid.

This is a time when I did something very stupid.

To understand how this all came about, you need to know more about my family, on my mother's side. My mom was the middle child of five. She has two sisters and two brothers. The oldest is Janice, then Jim, Then Joyce, my mom, and because they ran out of J names my grandparents had Gary and Gayle. From there, they all had their own kids and we spent a lot of time together as one big family. I saw my cousins a great deal, and we would often spend time at each other's houses even thought some of us lived across state lines. I loved being with my cousins, and this is something that is still part of our lives to this day. We are also a crazy bunch that doesn't always make good choices.

On this occasion, we were traveling with my Aunt Janice and her five kids, Paul, Beth, Barb, Becky and Chris. The we part was my mom, my brother and myself. Now, I don't remember why we did this, but we were all traveling to Michigan - Midland to be exact - where my Aunt lived. Normally, we would drive around the big lake that is between Wisconsin and Michigan, commonly referred to as Lake Michigan, often heading south around the bend and up to Midland. For this trip, it is was decided that we would take the ferry across the lake instead.

I love being on boats and the water. I grew up on lakes, water and boats. I can't think of a time in my childhood where we weren't at a lake cabin or on a boat in the summer, it was that much a part of our lives. I had my boating driving license before I had my car driving license, which is to be expected because I think you can drive a boat when you are 14.

It was exciting to be on this ferry with all the cars, crossing one of the great lakes. But the weather wasn't that great and the ferry was rocking quite a bit. But that didn't really bother us at all, since we were used to being on choppy waters. And there was a storm, so it was raining outside and we were informed that instead of being able to go up top on the decks of the ferry, everyone was going to stay inside and out of the water and bad weather. My mother and my aunt started talking and within minutes were deep in conversation, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. So, naturally, we kids decided to wander the ship and have fun.

After maybe half an hour, we ran out of things to do inside the ship. There were cars to look at, and a few people to bother, but really it wasn't all that interesting being below decks on a ferry. I'm not sure who had the original idea that we should just go up on deck anyway, but one of us did. Perhaps I'm not remembering to protect the innocent, but we all agreed that being down below was boring and on the upper deck of the ferry had to be more interesting than this. So, we went.

The upper deck was had the main building and stairwell in the center of the deck, and then a wide expanse of wood on all sides that led to the outer railing of the ferry and beyond that railing was the cold waters of Lake Michigan. The weather had been terrible, but the rain had lessen enough that we could see while up there. But a few reminders of the bad weather remained in the form of really strong winds and a completely wet and slick deck.

Once we were all up and out of the stairwell leading to the deck, we shut the door and clung to the railing of the inner building. The wind was strong and was violently pushing against us. It was very difficult to keep your footing at all on the slick, watery wood and that's when the idea of the deadly game started. And of course, we thought what we were about to do was the most fun idea we as a group had thought up yet.

I want to say Paul went first, but this is what the game was to give you an idea of how stupid we were being. We would use the inner hand rail to pull ourselves to the front of the inner building of the ferry. Once at the top, you would step away from the building, let go of the railing and hold out your arms. From there, the wind would do it's job which was to blow you and your slick feet backwards across the deck, where at the last minute, you would grab the inner railing and save yourself from flying over the edge of the outer railing and out into the waters of the lake. I'll let you read that again to take in the scope of JUST HOW STUPID THIS WAS.

I won't deny that it was fun. The sensation of being somewhat powerless in the face of nature and you are blown backwards was thrilling. There was rightly a strong sense of danger in this action, and we all took our turns on this made up death ride. It became clear as we 'played' our game that the older kids had a much easier time with the wind that Chris and I. We were much smaller, maybe 9 or 10 at the time, and the wind tossed us like dried leaves. We flew down that deck, sliding faster than the rest and we lacked a lot of the strength to grab that wet slick railing at the end. But that didn't stop us from doing this completely insane action over and over again.

Pull yourself to the front of the building - release! Fly! Grab! Repeat! It was great fun. On my forth ride, I noticed that I was having a much harder time grabbing the railing. It was cold on that lake and in the wind and my body was getting very tired. But I still grabbed hold. Paul went, next, flew and grabbed the rail and was safe. Chris was next to go and when he let go, the wind kicked in hard and he darted backward at such a speed he didn't have time to react. Before he knew it, he was past the last chance to catch that back rail and was sliding farther away from us toward the outer edge of the ferry and who knows what. In my mind, I remember time seeming to slow down as most of us watched helplessly as Chris slid away from safety and toward the unknown. He was too far away, but suddenly, there was a long arm that grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the rail. Paul had let go with one hand and managed to snag him and pull him in.

With that scare, we knew on a deep level that this game was not only supremely stupid, but that it was now over. We hurried back to the stairwell and ducked back inside, out of the wind and back into safety. I can't say that we spoke openly about not telling our parents about what we did or what just happened, but we all knew that this was not a good topic of conversation. So we wasted time elsewhere until we were mostly dry and the trip was almost over before we joined back with my mom and my aunt. They never asked what we were doing, nor did we tell them.

It wasn't until my 20s that we finally told them the story of what we did on that ferry. My mother turned white and said the thing that only makes sense, "MY GOD! You could have been killed!" We just nodded, "That's why we didn't tell you," we replied.

A Galaxy Far, Far Away

There are many events worth mentioning in my life, and I'll probably talk about most them at some point. But it's hard to look at any event in my life without understanding how one movie colored everything that came after. In 1977, I was 7 years old. During these first 7 years of my life, I had gone to school, met people, slept, and pooped. All the things you really remember from your childhood years. It was normal and good.

Being a young child of 7, I never really paid that much attention to the popular culture. I was too young to take part in most of it and there was no internet to corrupt me. Which is to say that I was unaware that on May 25th, just 6 days after I had turned 7, the most amazing thing had entered the movie theaters and nothing would be the same.

"Star Wars" had opened.

I remember being at a party with my family, and my mom's cousin had asked my dad if we had seen Star Wars yet. My father told him that we had not, but that he had been thinking about taking us to go see it. "You HAVE to go see it," he said to my father, "It's like nothing I've seen." My father took that information in and made a promise to take us to see this film soon.

I don't remember my brother and I being terrible to deal with at movies, and given the fact that in my family no mistake is forgotten, I think I would have heard about our behavior by now. So, taking his two boys to a movie was pretty common. We loved movies and my dad loved taking us to movies. It was a great escape for a few hours and there is nothing like seeing something on the big screen, since TVs back them were kinda crappy. I don't remember which theater we went too. Chances are good that it was Shelard Park, because we saw a lot of movies there but I don't remember exactly. My memories have the Shelard Park Theater as a somewhat underground, shapeless concrete building with 3 theaters inside. There was a covered parking ramp that always made me think it was in a cave. I do remember that it was pretty crowded when we got there and that seemed odd to me. We tended to avoid crowded times at the movies.

My father got us tickets and all three of us entered the theater to see what this was all about. I will say for certain that my little 7 year old mind was not ready for what was about to happen. I think it was the same for my brother, who was 10. I remember that first blast of music after the drum roll of the 20th Century Fox logo, and how I jumped a bit in my seat. I rushed to read what I could of the scrolling words as the moved through space on the screen. HOLY GOD! THERE WERE GIANT WORDS MOVING IN SPACE! Then the action started. There were lasers and spaceships. OMG, what are those? Stormtroopers? What is that? WHO is that guy? Why are those droids so awesome? There's another planet? Did Darth Vader just kill that guy by lifting him off the ground? Who is she? Look.. desert! WHAT ARE THOSE?! JAWAS?! OMG I want one! Who is that? Luke is awesome. I want a lightsaber!

I could go on. Seriously, I could. Every moment of that fist viewing was poured into my body and slowly took over. I sat there in awe of what was happening before me. Every pleasure center in my brain was on fire and I was hooked deeply. I couldn't get enough. And when it was over, it was as if I was coming out of a trace. And nothing was the same. Whatever I cared about before Star Wars didn't matter. If we ever played cops and robbers or any other make believe game, those were gone. Obliterated and now dust in my mind. The only games now were Star Wars themed. The only thing I wanted to be was a Jedi. The only character I wanted to play was Luke. The only toys I wanted were Star Wars toys. And I knew that I needed to see this movie again.

At the time, many people were keeping count of how many times they had seen Star Wars. It was a weird badge of honor, something that you proclaimed to others to impress them at parties. My brother and I used to keep score. Over these many years, I've lost count. I would only count the times I actually saw the movie in an actual theater, and I lost count when I went over 130 times. We went to go see Star Wars every chance we could get. Any time we could talk our dad into going, we would go. As the years went on, Star Wars would hit the theaters again, and we would go. My brother and I would bike to the theater and see it. We would play with the toys, and carry them with us. Complete scripts would be created by my brother, and we would act them out with the action figures throughout the house. I wanted the sheets, I wanted the posters, I wanted it all.

Our love of Star Wars would drive us to seek out other space related movies to see when we couldn't see Star Wars. In 1979, we learned that people can make really shitty movies when we saw Disney's "The Black Hole". The movie was horrible. I was 9 and even I knew it was a complete turd of a movie and that turd was only on screen because it was to be Star Wars-esque and rip people off. Had I known you could walk out of a theater, I would have done so. Not that I could have gone anywhere, but I would have left on principle alone.

On May 21, 1980 - just a few days after my 10th birthday, "Empire Strikes Back" came out. And we went and see it. I know so many people who considered Empire as their favorite of the Star Wars movies. But at the time, it made me SO MAD. I hated that Luke lost his hand, that Han was encased in carbonite, and that
the rebels had their butts kicked. It made me angry. And I refused, completely refused to believe this lie about Darth Vader being Luke's father. It wasn't true! IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE! My little 10 year old self was outraged by what I saw and that the good guys were not winning. It wasn't fair and that sentiment still colors my view of Empire to this day. There is that complete sense of betrayal that I deal with every time time I watch Empire. I know it is a great film, and I get why so many people love it. But it still sits in the place in my heart, where a 10 year old kid saw that sometimes good guys lose. And sometimes things don't work out as planned and that life isn't really all that fair. But I wanted the toys anyways.

On May 25, 1983 - again 6 days after my 13th birthday, "Return of the Jedi" was coming out. By this time, my brother and I were well in the know. We had issue upon issue of Starlog magazine that told us all about the films, and all about the release date. We were counting down the days as to when we could go see Return of the Jedi. That is when my mother surprised us both. On opening day, we could not only see Return of the Jedi when it opened, we could also miss school to see one of the first showings. This would be my first
"stand in line to see a movie" experience. I remember it was maybe 8 am when my mom dropped my brother and I off at the Southtown Theater and there was already a line. But it wan't that long of a line yet and we found our spot and waited. We marveled at the costumes people were wearing, with one guy in a full Darth Vader outfit that wandered up and down the line. We sat and read Starlog and chatted with people around us. It was fun and exhausting. At noon, the line finally moved and we got to see Return of the Jedi for the first time. And I loved it. Any betrayal that I felt at Empire was replaced by the joy and conclusion of Jedi. And then it was done. The trilogy was over and complete.

There had always been rumors about making more Star Wars movies at the time, but we didn't really believe them. We had a complete story and I was happy with it. I had all my action figures, and toys. I was happy. Star Wars ruled my imagination, and it still does in many ways. It showed me that people can work together to make a wonderful thing that thousands and millions of people enjoy. I dreamt of new worlds and new places. I thought about the light and dark side and what that might actually mean. It was part of my core, it was how I often related to people and things. It was part of my language, part of how I met people. It was a common love that I could find in others and we could share that experience and our love for this thing.

It also became a bonding thing in my family. It was a special moment that I shared with my dad and my brother. These were our movies, these were movies that brought us close together and bonded us. We would see these movies together and share these happy memories for as long as we are on this earth together. Whenever these movies were re-releases, we three would be there to see them, as a family.

When the special editions started coming out, we were there to see them. My dad waited in line with my brother and I to get tickets, just like we did when we saw Jedi. We stood, this time in the Mall of America, and talked and bonded again. Star Wars always brought us back together, even if we left for college or moved elsewhere. It would bring us back.

It was in line to buy tickets for Star Wars: The Phantom Menace that I bought a simple game for my game boy that I had read about. It was Pokemon Red and I was very curious what it was. I had no idea what I was in for with that game. And I've been playing Pokemon ever since.

And for once, Star War was OPENING ON MY BIRTHDAY! May 19, 1999. I would turn 29. A bunch of us got together to see a 7 am show, and I celebrated my birthday in the seats of a theater in Mall of America. I opened presents and laughed and waited. Waited for a new story in the universe that I love.

Now, most people hate the prequels. I don't. I love them. When I sat in that theater and watched a new Star Wars blaze against the screen, I cried in happiness. I was 7 years old again, and I was getting to return to this universe that means so much to me, that is such a huge part of my life. I can understand those that felt so let down by it, because I can imagine how much Star Wars was a part of their worlds and it just wasn't what they wanted. I just wanted Star Wars, any Star Wars.

I can analyse and pick apart many things, movies especially. But I don't with Star Wars. I just watch it like I'm seven and dream of these grand places and characters. I relish in the new characters, the new planets and the new fantasies. Each new movie added to my own imagination and wonder. And I'm grateful for that. I find it impossible for me to separate out all of the joy that these movies have brought into my life, all of the wonderful family bonds that I have through this series. When I watch Star Wars, I think of my dad and brother, I think of the great times we have had and continue to have through these movies. I think about my brother slowly introducing Star Wars to his kids and watching them find new things that they love and take with them. Our family bonds are coated with Star Wars and we share that together. My first dog was named Leia because of Star Wars; and many years later, I named my crazy dog Winter - Princess Leia's best friend from the extended universe - as a tie back to my childhood.

Because of all this, I have a blind spot for these movie. I love the old ones, I love the prequels, and I will love the new ones that are coming. There are problems with the films, all the of changes that have been made to the movies and all of the questionable content that people love to hate. But I don't see it. I just see joy and warmth and a universe that I want to be in with my family forever.

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Princess Snowflake

All of this looking back of late brings to mind how fuzzy many of my early childhood memories actually are. I never took detailed notes of my day to day life and, as much as I love my memory, I often have a hard time knowing if what I’m remembering was a picture I saw, an actual memory of an event, or some weird thing that my brain threw together for fun. High School is easier to remember, since I have yearbooks and other people who were there at the time to guide my memories back to the correct path. Yearbooks are the must have guide to memories in this age of Facebook.  Don’t know who just friend requested you, to the yearbooks! But before High School, things get a bit hazy and weird.

I remember a few things clearly. I remember some of my preschool and kindergarten days in Plymouth and the day that Santa came to school on a snowmobile. It was a typical Minnesota winter day sometime before Christmas, and I remember there being about a foot of snow already on the ground. We were doing some sort of story time, or sharing time, or "You kids just sit on your hands and be quiet before I go mad" time; when we heard the buzzing of a snowmobile off in the distance. The whole class looked out the big sliding glass windows at a red and white shape blazing across the white snow and most of us were confused until the figure was close enough to be identified as Santa. SANTA WAS COMING TO CLASS!

Once Santa had parked his snow hog and stepped inside, the excitement began! However, I had been fooled before by false Santas like those fakers at the mall ringing bells. How I hated those fake Santas.  So I naturally asked Santa, "Why didn't you come with your reindeer?'

"Because they are getting ready for Christmas," he replied to me, "And we don’t want to tire them out before Christmas. Otherwise, they wouldn't be able to make it and deliver your presents."  I had seen the great television documentary "The Year Without A Santa Clause" and knew that such things could happen, Heat Miser or no Heat Miser. So I decided not to press the issue.

The next clear memory that I have is of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Goldstein. To say that it is a clear memory is pretty much not true. I have very vague notions about her. When I remember her, she was a tall and nicely roundish woman who is somehow always wearing orange and yellow clothing. I do remember her as kind, funny, pleasant, and interested in us as students. I also remember her as being psychic. All of her students thought of her as psychic because no matter how well you hid the fact from her, she KNEW when you had a loose tooth. She would call you up to the front of the room for some other reason, some reason that you would trust. Then once next to her, she would ask, "Is your tooth loose?" and by then it was too late. You could only nod. 

"Can I see it?" she would ask so sweetly and you would have no choice but to open your mouth. And then it happened. Before you knew, her thumb had grasped that loose tooth and popped it out into her hand.

"How does she know?!" was a common refrain among us kids. How indeed? Of course, the how became much clearer when my brother had kids. For as secret as you think you are being as a child, watching my nieces and nephews play with a loose tooth in their mouth proved that no child is that clever at hiding when their tooth is loose. I can only imagine all the years of watching a sea of children pushing on loose teeth with their tongues and fingers that she had to endure. Her skill at removing teeth had to be a sanity saving measure that she perfected over her teaching career.

In the second grade, my teacher was Mrs. Mooney. My memories have her at being around 100 years old, which in reality means she was maybe 60. But she was the exact opposite of Mrs. Goldstein. Mrs. Mooney was thin and all sharp angles. Instead of soft brown hair, she had this cloud of white permed and thinning hair that somehow always looked as mean as she looked. She was cold and efficient, and I would guess that she was really sick of our shit. When I think of her, I think of ice blue clothing and ice cold eyes. Mrs. Mooney was the first teacher to make me aware of the problem with my name. My parents named me Greg and it isn't short for anything. It's not a nickname and it's spelled correctly. However, Mrs. Mooney felt that I should really have been named Gregory, which was only right and proper. A point she liked to make to me when she said my name wrong.

There was some discussion among us neighborhood kids about whether she was a witch or not . Also a topic of hot debate was if she was working with the Rippy Ladies. Now, the Rippy Ladies were the three evil sisters that lived in our neighborhood, and existed in that same realm of imagined horror that every scary house or person exists in for neighborhoods everywhere. Our scary family lived in a white house on a heavily wooded lot. In the summer, you couldn't see their house, but in the fall and winter, when the trees were just skeletons, you could see their small house and imagine all the people who had't returned from that place. The Rippy Ladies had sharp knife like fingers that would rip your flesh if they caught you. They were known to take small children away, especially around Halloween if you were dumb enough to approach their house. At night, they would roam the streets and you could hear them clacking their knife fingers together, hoping to catch you unaware to drag you back to their home to feast upon your flesh. Despite the many dares, I never went to the Rippy Ladies house.

It was very likely that Mrs. Mooney was working with them, picking out children from her class that she hated and letting the Rippy Ladies hunt that child. We were all convinced of this fact. Mrs. Mooney also taught me that while being teacher's pet was just about the worst thing a person could be, being the smart kid wasn't much better. When she would have to leave class for something, she would often pick someone to be in charge. Those of us chosen this way were known as the smart kids and weren't to be trusted.  When I was chosen, it was at first a badge of honor. She thought I was smart! But when the hissing resentment issued forth from my classmates, I learned the truth. Ah, she taught me so much that old hag.

 

As I remember it

In the third grade, we moved and I started attending Wayzata schools, and Widsten Elementary. My third grade teacher was Miss Cecilia Frick. Unlike the other two, she was young, very eager and sweet. I remember thinking that she seemed too young and that she couldn't be a teacher. All teachers were old. She had to be in her early 20s, and she was a good teacher. She also taught me a little about marriage. Half way through the school year, she announced that she was going away to get married, and would be gone for a couple of weeks; and that when she came back, she would be named Mrs. Cecilia Carr. I remember thinking that it was really weird that a person would get a whole new name when they got married.

After that, the memories get less clear. I do'’t remember many of my teachers until High School. I do remember weird events. I remember that I worked in the elementary school library, helping the librarians put books away. I really wanted that job, and I could leave class to go hang out in the library and put books away. 

I remember in the fourth grade, we were supposed to get in groups and put together a magazine of our own design. For whatever reason, I ended up working alone and I made my own magazine titled "Better Shacks and Weeds". I wrote all the stories for my magazine and I remember that was cause for my parents to be called in to meet with the teacher. I was playing in the classroom while the teacher and my parents talked about that magazine; and at one point, I clearly remember them all turning to look at me at once. It was a really strange and disconcerting event and I knew that even if I hadn't done something wrong, I had done something wrong. I think they were worried that I hadn't made a bunch of friends. It was never sure of what was actually being discussed.

The truth is that I was also worried about not making friends. Before the move to Wayzata, I remember being so upset at night because I didn't have the recipe to make friends. In my heart, I knew that there was a secret to making friends, and it had to be just like the secret to making food. There was a recipe to it, and I didn't have it. I was beside myself with worry because I had no idea what I was going to do without that recipe!

In the end, I did make some friends. Dave and Steve lived in our neighborhood, on our street, and I played with them a lot. Dave and his brother Jeff taught me about computers and hacking in the old days before the internet. Steve and I nearly set his garage on fire while mimicking the hairspray flamethrower effect I'd seen in a James Bond movie. 

However, Bunny Pepmiller was my best friend at school.  Well, she told me that her real name was Bunny, but I would later learn that her real name was Ann and they called her Bunny because she was born on Easter. Bunny was a powerful force of nature, and it turns out the leader of a 'gang' on the playground. She led a group of all girls who called themselves 'The Spiders' and I became the first boy of their all girl gang. We were awesome and that is also what we call foreshadowing.

Another pre-high school teacher that I remember was my 7^th grade English teacher. I don't remember her real name at all. What I do remember is that she was a cement block of a woman – short, square and immovable. She was unpleasant to talk to and harsh in her judgments. She didn't settle for nonsense or half assed answers or reports. She had pale skin and her hair consisted of tight, dark grey curls that looked a lot like steel wool. No one really liked her, and so the rumors started about her. It was said among those in the know that she had lost her hair many years ago and now wore a wig! The scandal!

But that story quickly changed. The fact that she was bald and wore a wig was never in dispute, but the WHY became the new focus. And this it was quickly decided that it was because she was a female

professional wrestler and having long hair would be a disadvantage in the ring as it was too easily pulled. So she shaved her head bald to be the ultimate lady wrestler! And her wrestling name was Princess Snowflake. To this day, I only know remember her as Princess Snowflake.

I don’t know that she ever heard us call her Princess Snowflake, but she had to have heard it at some point. To her credit, she never acknowledged it or disavowed it.  She just kept teaching us and we created stories about her grand days as a professional wrestler.

In the 8^th grade, I moved to Minnetonka and I don't remember much about that year. I do remember Mr. Alexander, our art teacher. He was bald and wore a bandanna on his head most of the time. He also had a mustache like Salvador Dali, all curled at the end.  At the time, I was pretty clueless about the fabulous Mr. Alexander and looking at it now, I'm fairly certain he was my first gay teacher. But any guidance he might have been able to give is long since gone in the past, as hazy and fading as my memories.

(Full disclosure: My mother claims that she met the Rippy Ladies and they were just sweet old sisters that lived together. However, I have no idea what spells they used upon my mom and therefore such stories are not to be trusted.)

The F Word

I used this word in my last post, the dreaded F word that almost all gay men know and know the power it holds. Faggot. Many have heard it shouted at them, whispered to them, angrily said to them, and jokingly passed off to them as something to bond over. It is easiest to tell people that fag and faggot are always bad and should never be used. But that doesn't completely fill in all the blanks, nor does it touch on the more complex relationship I have with the word that has followed me for as long as I can remember.

I always knew it was a bad word, even if I didn't always know what it meant. Faggot was never said in a cheerful way, and I knew even as a child that it was a really not nice thing to call people. There was always some form of venom behind that word; it always had an agenda to it. It was a word meant to hurt, meant to belittle, and scold. It was an unkindness laid upon another person, a judgment placed upon their life and self worth. I didn't like it.

I remember fag first being applied to me in Junior High School. Or rather it was first directed at me. I wasn't willing to acknowledge that they were talking about me, but it was hard to ignore it when the more popular kids would go out of their way to make sure you heard them. It was embarrassing and I remember no one really caring to stop it. "Boys will be boys" and "It's part of toughening up" were often common phrases used to brush the incident under the rug and then out the door.

I started Junior High in Wayzata, but had the chance to change schools to Minnetonka when my family moved. It was a chanced that I took because it offered me a way out of my brother’s shadow and a way into my actual life. My relationship with my brother can be complex, so I will save that for later. But a chance to not be his little brother in the eyes of the teachers was appealing. So in the 8^th grade, I found myself at Minnetonka. And I had no friends.

The first two years were not great. I could never find my footing, I couldn't find my place. I just didn't seem to fit in anywhere and I was too scared to really get out there and make an effort. Minnetonka was more different than I expected and my mind was already plagued with growing demons. And then the 9^th grade taught me about strange forms of harassment. Minnetonka's high school was grades 9 to 12, and I wasn't prepared to be at the very bottom of the totem pole one year after moving. And then the locker break-ins started. All in all, I think strangers broke into my school locker 3 times that year, taking anything I had of value. As a result, my locker was moved from place to place to find a home where that wouldn't happen and my parents thankfully went on the rampage because the school wasn't great at dealing with this. And they forced me to find places to make friends; which is how I ended up joining the choir (since I liked singing and playing the piano) and eventually found my way to the theater department.

It turns out that much of my people were in choir, and a majority of my new circle of friends was in the theater department. Granted, I didn't fit in with all of them as some people crossed boundaries with cheer-leading and football, but we had enough in common that I started to make friends. Many of them had been subjected to the word faggot and they could relate to me and my experiences since they had them too. And instead of being completely ashamed and hiding from the word, they were determined to not let it get to them and went so far as to take it as a badge themselves. Literally.

 At the local small shopping center, there was a machine where you could make a badge where you could type in any word or words simply by spinning the dial to the right letter and impressing it upon the badge design you chose. Many of my new friends had one, and they all said one thing in common, "Dramafag". Well, not all of them. It was easy for the dial to land on the wrong letter, so I know one friend’s badge that said, "Dramafaf". But we all knew what it was supposed to be. It was our own way of declaring our family, and taking the power of the word away from those who would use it against us. Since no one talked about which of us were gay or not, at least not to me (more on that later), we would all take the word and all be outsiders together.  There was a safety in numbers after all.

 

A mock up!

Now, I could never fully take the word to heart; as it was harder for me to deal with being called a fag than others for whatever reason. I couldn't own it like one of my friends did. When he was called a faggot at the Burger King, if I remember correctly, he simply walked up to that person and hissed, "That’s Mr. Faggot to you" and turned and walked away from the stunned fellow who had no response. When I was called faggot, I just simply didn't respond and hoped that my ears weren't burning to red.

My father, on the other hand, didn't understand why I had something like that attached to my keys. "Dramafag? I don’t like it. Why do you have that?" he asked me in the car one day.

"It’s just a thing, Dad," I muttered exasperated that I had to have the conversation at all, "We all have one. It’s just a way for us to be a group!" I didn't want to go into the full ordeal and admit things I wasn't ready to admit. That was a conversation best avoided and saved for later. I couldn't really explain why it was so important to have that stupid badge on my keys and the strength it gave me. Had I been a stronger person, I would have told him the whole story; I would have admitted an emotional honesty with my father and explained that I used the word because I was the word. I needed to own what it was and who I was so it could stop having so much power over me. Instead, I went into angry and indifferent teenager mode and shut down.

"Well I don’t think it’s right and you shouldn't call yourself that," he stated and I just sighed my best sigh and stared out the window. "Parents never understand,"I thought to myself in that smug superior way that only teenagers can manage. And why would he understand something I never bothered to explain. With my badge in hand, I drifted through high school.

In the dark places of mind, my high school life was terrible. But in reality, it really wasn't that bad at all. I made a bunch of friends; I found some of my callings in life. I grew, I discarded parts of me that weren't worth keeping and I grew stronger. While it was a lonely time, it wasn't at the same time. I had a lot of friends, in the end and if I’m completely honest, over all I enjoyed it.

It was in college that I started coming out to people. When I turned 19 or so, I stopped being bisexual and just was gay. By then I was more used to who I was and more confident in who I was, which still wasn't a lot but it was a start. I heard the term faggot less and less as I was in the theater department and that word wasn't a part of our daily life there. I would occasionally hear faggot on other parts of the campus, but almost never in my home on the West Bank.

It was at this point that faggot stopped being a weapon against me, and started being a weapon I used to get into arguments. Like many newly minted gays, I was angry over my lost time of living honestly, angry with the unfairness of the world, and just begging to be called a fag so I could scream and yell out all the pent up frustration. There was an unfairness in what I was doing and I was gently chided by a good friend about my behavior, and rightly so.

After college and overtime, I lost my strong defense to the word because I didn't need it. The few times I heard faggot after that, it always came as a shock. "Who still uses that word?" I would think, repulsed by the thought of some troll trying to get my anger or shame going. Sometimes it worked, but usually because I was surprised by it. Faggot would hit me like an unexpected slap in the face. I would be at a restaurant, and some stranger would walk up and hit me with "Faggot" and then wander off.  It was rude, annoying and stung a bit, but never cause to ruin a perfectly good evening. And it gave me a reason to flip them off.

These days, I only really see it online in horrible comments sections or through Xbox Live. Used by children who know the power of the word and wield it like madman with a gun, shooting at anyone who angers their sense of justice or fairness or masculinity, or just to try to gain some sense of power over others.

The most awkward use of recent was with my co-worker when we met for the first time after being on the same work team for a number of months.  I was out at work, it wasn’t a secret and he and I have a very bantering and fun relationship. We tend to goof on each other and give each other shit. He and I went out to dinner while on a business trip with a few other co-workers and for whatever reason he decided to jokingly use faggot upon me. I want to say that I let it roll off my back, but it seemed like a betrayal. My first reaction was to be angry and unleash that anger, but I thought better of the action. I needed to let it cool down a bit before I could explain how that was not ok. But before I could get there, another co-worker took him to task. He was duly ashamed and appropriately apologetic. And best of all, it gave me some extra ammunition to tease him with, which honestly was the best outcome.

Yet when I think on the word faggot, I’m often brought back to the time when I realized how much more comfortable I am in my skin and how little power, other than shock value, faggot had over me.  Brent and I were walking our dogs through our neighborhood together, as we often do. We have two Italian Greyhounds, which are prim and rather uptight looking dogs. They are also crazy. And they sort of carry this stigma of not being the manliest dogs out there. Nor are Brent and I the stereotypical example of manliness either, so we are aware of who we are and how we appear in the wild. As we were walking our dogs, this car stopped on the street ahead of us and the four passengers inside took a good look at Brent and I.  We ignored them until the driver shouted, "Hey... You got points!"

Brent and I looked at each other, clearly confused. The 'nice' man decided to state it again. "Yo, you got points. Do you know what that means?"

We clearly didn't and I shook my head.  He continued, "It means you’re faggots!" and with that proclamation he hit the gas and floored it to get away from us. At the time, he seemed more afraid of us with the way he sped off in his car with his friends than we were of being screamed at by four grown men in a car. Brent and I just shrugged and I said, "That’s accurate" and we walked home. Once at home, Brent said, "I think they might have been trying to insult us." I nodded, the whole scene making much more sense. "Yeah, I think you’re right", I commented and we went about the rest of our evening.

When I knew

Not that many years ago, there was a brief idea on the web of sharing our "When I knew.." stories, which was to say, when did I know that I was gay. This seemed to be born out of the desire to prove that gay folk are indeed born with it and it isn't Maybelline. As I've been thinking back on when I knew, I can’t help to think about those that knew before I knew myself, or at least were more willing to know that I was gay before I was. Apparently, my gayness wafts off me like the thick perfume on a woman who’s grown too accustom to its scent, and people could smell me coming. I know this because people have told me this over the years.


 Those that are friendly toward me shared with me years after I came out to them that they 'guessed' or 'weren't that surprised' by my sudden revelation, but I take comfort in the fact that they at least acted surprised in the moment so that my big news still felt big. I would learn later that even my Grandmother had begun to ask around. Those unfriendly to me, who I will call assholes, would shout ‘faggot’ at me on the street or across the food court at the mall. I wasn't always sure that they were talking to me, but it seemed like the shoe fit and I was ashamed all the same.

However, it was those people who had a vested interest in me and my life that were willing to go to the land of denial; mainly consisting of my family, a few really close friends and myself. If I look back and think about life, I guess I would have to say that I always felt out of place, but that isn't really much of anything out of the ordinary. Many of people feel on the outside for many of reasons and I can’t really say that my reason was completely tied to being gay, but I don’t think it helped matters. It wasn't until the lovely hormones hit that I began to think that something was up. I often remember sneaking down to my brother’s porn stash under his bed and looking not at the women, but all the men. That was my first clue.

And with that clue began the terror. There were no gay people that I knew, nor was I really aware of any. The only one that I can think of was Billy Crystal on "Soap" and his character Jodi wasn't even a great representation. I also was keenly aware of the jokes that were told about the 'homosexuals' because I had heard them many times at the parties my parents threw. I’d heard these jokes for as long as I could remember, but it wasn't until my teen years that I stopped and understood that they were talking about and laughing at me. These horrible people in these jokes and stories weren't strangers, they were me. And so my trek to Denial Island began.

I tried to pretend that I wasn't gay, and that I just really liked Shaun Cassidy's music and hair and dream eyes. I also ignored that weird feeling that I had around Harry Hamlin's arms and chest while watching "Clash of the Titans". But my body would tell me differently and it became clear that I couldn't really just ignore who I was. I was gay. I was one of THOSE people that I had been warned about, the ones that hung around Loring Park and were less than.

This crushing understanding came to the front of my consciousness just as the AIDS crisis was starting. Where there wasn't a gay person on TV before, now there were talks about dead gay people. At first no one knew how AIDS or HIV was spread but we were told the disease was airborne, or it was waterborne, and you could totally get AIDS from a toilet seat. Any great panic buttons that existed in the population’s minds meant that’s how you got AIDS. And I was convinced that if I honestly came out as gay, within minutes I would get the AIDs and I would die.

When I look back at the 80's, it was such a weird time. Thoughts of death seem to plague our house. For my brother, I can remember him greatly upset over the fact that we were going to die in a nuclear war. In 1983, "The Day After" movie hit and it seemed to hit my brother like a ton of bricks. We were all going to die by nuclear war, according to him, and at the time it seemed very likely. So much of our media was telling us that Russia was going to kill us and we were going to destroy Russia. Hell, even Sting got into the picture and sang a song about all of us children dying. Watching my brother take the burden of being freaked out by nuclear holocaust seemed to let me off the hook for a while. I felt that since he had it all locked up, I didn't have to worry about it really. That was his death scare and I had mine.

I got to worry about AIDS.

But worse than AIDS was the crippling loneliness I remember in my life from that time period. It’s an odd feeling to be a part of a world that you are convinced hates you, or would hate you if you ever told them the truth. The message of hatred was re-enforced just about every where I turned, and I knew that if I told anyone – my world would be over. Growing old, love… these were concepts not meant for me. I was that other thing, that dying thing. The pressure was very heavy on my young shoulders and one day, it was really just too much. I remember thinking that it needed to end. I didn't have a future anyway, so why not just end it early and be done with the whole mess.

I want to say that in that dark time, I found this wellspring of strength. That even though I knew that there was a gun in the house (my father had used it many times to kill squirrels and other unwanted rodents that plagued us from time to time), my own will to live stopped me from committing the act. But I can't. I just remember, as I was searching the house while I was alone, thinking "Man, I bet it's going to hurt". And that thought ran over and over in my head, until I was more afraid of the physical pain than the emotional one, and so I stopped looking and decided to just get on with living already. It wasn't much of a change, but it was enough of a change in my mental state that I decided to move forward. And I was 15.

Over then next few years, I would meet some people that would give me hope for my future, and still others that made things so much worse. I settled on the idea that I would tell people that I was bisexual, because being half attracted to women was better than not being attracted to them at all, right? And wasn't Elton John bisexual? My mother still loved his music, so maybe there was hope for me. While that phase wouldn't last and would be finally killed by my time in college, it got me through.