The Hippie Redneck

I brought my rusted ’84 Toyota pickup to a stop outside of the house—mansion, really—where Eric had told me to meet him.  It seemed rather out-of-place, especially when Eric walked out of the house wearing a full suit and tie.  This wasn’t unusual, though: I’ve only ever seen him wearing something other than a suit on five occasions.  Ever since I’d moved out to Utah, he was the closest friend I’d had, so I couldn’t think of anybody better for this.  “Hey, Phil,” he said, flashing his million-dollar smile at me, “How are you?”

A shrug was all I could give in reply, and it was the main reason I was there.  Ever since I’d talked to my dad two weeks before and he’d given me his flooring confession—that he was leaving our church–I had felt emotionally dead.  It didn’t change my opinion of my religion at all, but it still disturbed me.  I knew something was profoundly wrong with me, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.  This was as good a place as any to get it resolved, I thought.

Eric guided me through the halls on a complicated route that took me to the room he was renting in the basement, next door to his sister.  He was the perfect person for this; after my dad’s phone call, I texted Eric and asked him if he’d be willing to talk to me.  As soon as he got off work, he came straight to my house and watched Scott Pilgrim vs. The World with me, after which I gave him a lengthy run-down of what had happened.  “How did hearing that make you feel?” he finally asked when I was done.

“That’s the worst part,” I said, “I don’t feel anything at all, good or bad.  It’s even worse than I felt back when I was on the pills.”

Eric patted me on the shoulder.  “If you ever need me to give you a blessing, man, just say so.  You’re a great guy, and you don’t deserve pain like this.”

I looked over at him.  “I’m not in pain, but I kinda wish I were.  At least I’d be feeling something then.”

“How about Saturday at Eight?” he suggested.  I thought about it briefly, then nodded.  What harm could it do?

As per the usual custom, Eric had invited Paul, a guy from our Elder’s Quorum, to help in the blessing.  I shook hands with him half-heartedly and took my seat in the plush chair they’d put out for me, and gave them my full name.  He put his hands on my head and spoke it, then went into the blessing.  He told me what I was going through, and that I had the strength to endure it.  He told me that although I would not be seeing my earthly father in the Kingdom of God, I had a Heavenly Father waiting to welcome me back into His arms when the time was right.

Whatever it was that he told me, it re-awoke something within me—“the Spirit”, my fellow Mormons call it—and it broke a dam that had built inside me ever since my dad’s phone call.  I suspected my subconscious had erected the dam as a way of keeping my feelings inside, so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that I would have to spend my afterlife without seeing the man who had comforted me during my teenage years, every time some girl had broken my awkward heart by accident or design; the man who took photos of my injuries and took me out for refuge and a slice of cheesecake at his office right after my mother had relentlessly slapped me for wanting to turn in my own schoolwork instead of hers; the man who, with a simple sentence, could make me feel like I had either won the Nobel Peace Prize or committed a crime against humanity.

As with every dam breaking, a flood ensued.  It came from my eyes and my nose.  Out of respect for Eric, I didn’t let out a wail until he said “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen”.  The moment it escaped my lungs, Eric left the room and returned with a box of tissues.  When I’d finished wailing and blowing my nose, I stood, my legs shaking.  Eric wrapped his arms around me.  “You’re a great guy, Phil,” he whispered in my ear, “And I can’t think of anybody less deserving of this than you.”  It was in that moment that I knew I’d fallen in love with him.

It didn’t take me by shock.  Eric was tall, dark, and handsome, and he really cared for me.  One day, completely out of the blue, he sent me a text saying “Hey Phil, just wanted to let you know, you’re the man!”  We’d hung out a good few times, which let me really get a good look at his personality.  I caught him checking a number of girls out, but never working up the courage to talk to them despite my constant encouragement.  His nervousness was quite cute, actually.  Add that to the fact that he was the sweetest guy I’ve ever known, and this turn of events was inevitable.

I first realized my bisexuality when I was starting school at a community college back in Michigan.  It was in Ann Arbor, where having gay, bi, or lesbian friends was simply a fact of life, no matter your background.  Of course, I went to the campus club meetings and everything, even whipping up some of my famous meals for them.  Despite this, however, I never felt completely welcome there.  For one thing, I’d made clear from the get-go that giving up my faith wasn’t on the table.  Though I never asked directly, I suspected that the other reason for this was that I wasn’t gay enough.  Not only was I attracted to both sexes, I hated acting like a stereotype, I didn’t consider Republicans to be the Root of All Evil, and I didn’t cry “homophobia!” whenever something went wrong for me.  I didn’t fit into their cookie-cutter expectations of what being “queer” should be like, so they treated me like a second-class citizen.

For the most part, I’ve really tried not to make a big point of expressing my sexuality, because I don’t want it to become a huge part of my identity; the LGBT community back in Ann Arbor had done that, and their lives, to me, seemed sadly empty.  My policy with coming out is that I tell it to people who I think have a need to know, and people who ask.  I’ve told most of my family, and the people I’ve dated.  So, since I was so close to Eric, I decided to include him in the list of people who “had the right to know”.

From what I can gather, my experiences being a queer Mormon are the exception, not the rule.  Nobody in my church that I’ve told has ever made me feel unwelcome, or told me that I’m a filthy pervert.  It’s the non-Mormon girls that I’ve dated who express disgust at my attraction to men in addition to them.  It’s my Mormon friends who seem capable of accepting the idea that I can be attracted to men without losing my interest in women, and who don’t spend every minute asking me which guys I find hot.  No, they’ve also never even suggested that I take part in Evergreen International.

Naturally, I was sure Eric would take it well.  Part of me wondered if maybe he was the same way, and was interested in me.  Even if he were, I’d decided to politely decline his potential advances since I had no interest in pursuing a romance born out of desperation; Eric was also far more devout than me, and I knew that if I “led him astray” somehow, he’d never forgive me.  So, at church one day, I told him that I needed to talk privately with him.  He agreed and we went into one of the kitchens.  My heart was throbbing and my hands were shaking, far more so than they had the first time I’d asked a girl out.  I was worried that he’d freak out, and I’d lose his friendship.

When the door closed behind us, I cleared my throat and looked at him.  I was unable to maintain constant eye contact, so I kept looking at the counter, which had a large platter covered with lemon bars.  “Eric,” I said at long last, “I’m bisexual, and I think you need to know…I’ve had a bit of a crush on you.  If it makes you uncomfortable, I understand, and we won’t ever need to discuss it again.  I just thought I should get that off my chest.”

Eric stared at the floor for what seemed like an eternity.  He opened one of the cupboards, retrieved a glass, and filled it with water.  After he’d finished it, he finally spoke.  “Well, Phil, sexual attraction to men is something I’ve never struggled with.  It’s not a sin to have those feelings as long as you don’t act on them.  And no, I’m not comfortable ever discussing this again, but if you ever feel a need to talk to the Bishop about it, I can get an appointment set up for you.”

I looked back into his eyes.  “It’s not something I struggle with.  I’ve come to terms with it, and I’ve accepted that it’s part of who I am.  But if you want to end this line of discussion here, I can do that.”  Eric nodded and opened the kitchen door, gesturing for me to go out.  I complied, and we took separate routes to our cars.  The rest of the week, he never texted me or called me.

The Saturday after that, I went to a church-sponsored dance.  Eric was there and I approached him casually.  “Hey,” I said, “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said simply.  I looked carefully at him, and noticed him staring off into the distance at a blond girl filling a cup at the punch bowl.

I walked up to the girl, and noted the lack of a ring on her finger.  “Hey there, gorgeous,” I said, “What’s your name?”

She blushed.  “Sandra.”

“Hey Sandra, I’m Phil,” I offered her my hand and she shook it.  “I hope I’m not being too forward, but do you have a boyfriend?”  She shook her head.  “There’s this amazing guy I’d like you to meet,” I said, leading her over to the corner of the room.  “Sandra, this is Eric.  Eric, this is Sandra.  Why don’t you two go have a dance?”  They linked arms and walked out to the floor.  I watched them from afar, talking quite enthusiastically as Eric tried not to step on her feet.

This, I knew, was all I could really hope for.  If he was happy, that was enough for me.  Eric was having his turn, and I’d just have to wait for mine.

I never cared too much for Sesame Street as a kid.  I felt it was dumbing me down, and overloading my senses.  While other kids were getting their brains fried by all the colors and crazy music, I was playing it cool and growing my mind with the smooth musings of Mr. Rogers.  So, of course I was delighted beyond belief when I found this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFzXaFbxDcM

Sadly, kids today have the gardens of their minds drying up.  I want DVDs for this show to give my kids.

(NSFW warning: Language and sexual references)

So, just to get a few laughs, I wrote down a few of the things my Drill Sergeants at Fort Jackson said.  I swear, I’m not making any of these up.  I swear, half of my Drill Sergeants could’ve made a decent living as stand-up comedians.  I wonder if any of them will see this.  Normally, I’d censor stuff like this, but if I did so here, it’d really kill the impact and the hilarity.

DS McManaway: “If you want to go to Sunday services, if that’s your thing, then by all means, go.  I can’t stop you, and I can’t force you to go.  Personally, I prefer to spend my Sundays at St. Lawngreen’s Episcopal Golf Course.”
Me: “You’re hardly dressed for that, Drill Sergeant.”
DS McManaway: “That’s because I’m stuck here babysitting you fuckers.”

DS DeGiorgio: “Get your arm off that table, or it’s going up your ass.”

DS McManaway: (to a white girl with cornrows) “I don’t know if anyone’s told you this yet, so I’ll just say it: you look like you got in a fight with a weed whacker.”

DS Lopez: (to me) “Whaddaya want, turd, since you and I are friends?”

DS Hawkins: (an attractive female, to a group of males enamored with her) “Wipe those shit-eating grins off your faces.”

DS Crosland: (to a recruit who just let out a loud fart) “Private, you’re nasty.  Go kill that fucking frog.”

DS McManaway: “Don’t go sitting around in the laundry room like a bunch of old ladies with your gray hair bundled up.”
PV2 Eldridge: “You’d know all about gray hair, Drill Sergeant.”
DS McManaway: (points to his own) “Help yourself, Private.  Maybe it’ll help with your receding hairline.”

DS Hawkins: “There aren’t any ‘girls’ or ‘guys’ here.  There are only ‘skanks’ and ‘douchebags’.”

DS DeGiorgio: “If I find a lone sock in a male barracks, I am NOT fucking touching it.”

DS McManaway: (a former Marine Drill Instructor) “Do you know who refers to it as a ‘cover’ and why?  I’ll give you a hint: in the Army, we call it ‘headgear’ because every jar needs a cover.”

DS Kremer: (the Meet and Greet Drill Sergeant, upon seeing a bus full of new recruits pulling up) “Oh, crap.”
Me: “My thoughts exactly, Drill Sergeant.”
DS Kremer: “It ain’t that; I just need my Union Break.”

DS McManaway: “Damn, the Captain’s handing out Article 15s like VD.”

DS Hawkins: “What the fuck, Private?  I asked you to think of something soft, and you looked me up and down.”

DS Cruz: “You write like a pedophile.”

DS McManaway: “Drill Sergeants stay on their assignments for two years.  I applied for an extension.  You fuckers are stuck with me for three years so I can retire in this shithole.”

DS Roach: (Hawkins’ husband) “That’s the biggest fucking box of Junior Mints I’ve ever seen in my life.”
DS Hawkins: “Shut your whore mouth!  I need these!”

DS Fuhrman: “Those of you who are being rejected because you blabbed about something like a personality disorder, if you’re planning on re-enlisting, then next time, pick a job where you’re supposed to be crazy, like Infantry.”

DS Hawkins: (to a group of males) “Look at the females here.  They are fucking ugly right now, aren’t they?  But I guarantee you, when you’ve been in Basic for seven weeks, these skanks will start to look like Beyonce.  So, keep it in your pants.”

DS Fuhrman: “Your first name is Jamesia?”
PFC Drew: “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
DS Fuhrman: “Congratulations.  I never thought I’d see anybody make ‘James’ into a girl’s name.”

A lot of emphasis is put on labels when we Americans talk politics.  What are you?  A Democrat?  A Republican?  A Conservative?  A Liberal?  A Libertarian?  A CommIslamiFasciHippie Socialist?

While the more astute people out there are quick to show that the Two Major Parties are different sides of the same rotten coin, they also forget that labels can change over time, sometimes to the point of losing their meaning.  I’ll get back to this later.

In Chinese mythology, their cosmos was a large bureaucracy headed by the Jade Emperor.  He gave a different office to each deity, and promoted Buddha, Lao Tzu, and Confucius to positions of power.  This conglomeration of different schools of thought grew into something uniquely Chinese, a rich cultural identity that endured until the People’s Republic (as much an oxymoron as the Holy Roman Empire, but I digress).

Similarly, in America, our cultural identity sprouted from a group of learned men, gathering together to establish a system of leadership.  However, unlike in Chinese mythos and much to the contrary of what pundits on both the Left and Right will tell you, the men who founded our country were not gods, and they did not agree on everything.  We continually hear (usually from the Right, but the Left has their own share of guilt in this) that some measure or another passed in Congress would somehow upset the Founding Fathers or goes against what they intended.

What, exactly, were their views?  Allow me to offer a few quotes:

“It cannot be emphasized enough that this great nation was founded, not by religionists, but by Christians, not on religions, but on the Gospel of Jesus Christ!”

–Patrick Henry

“The United States was in no sense founded upon the Christian religion.“

–John Adams, in the Treaty of Tripoli

“The purpose of separation of Church and State is to keep forever from these shores the ceaseless strife that has soaked the soil of Europe with blood for centuries.”

–James Madison

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, among which are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.“

–Thomas Jefferson, in the Declaration of Independence

So, who is right here?  There’s no denial that nowadays America is a far more religious nation than Europe as a whole.  We’re home not only to generous, kind Christians, but also to extremists such as Warren Jeffs and Fred Phelps–one of the unfortunate side effects of religious liberty.  We’ve also got plenty of Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and Pagans.

I think the real essence of what the Founding Fathers wanted can be found in our Constitution; more specifically in Article V, which states “The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it necessary, shall propose Amendments to this Constitution, or, on the Application of the Legislatures of two thirds of the several States, shall call a Convention for proposing Amendments, which, in either Case, shall be valid to all Intents and Purposes, as Part of this Constitution, when ratified by the Legislatures of three fourths of the several States, or by Conventions in three fourths thereof, as the one or the other Mode of Ratification may be proposed by the Congress; Provided that no Amendment which may be made prior to the Year One thousand eight hundred and eight shall in any Manner affect the first and fourth Clauses in the Ninth Section of the first Article; and that no State, without its Consent, shall be deprived of its equal Suffrage in the Senate.”

Our Constitution is the oldest still-used one in the world, but it hardly has the same effect today as it would have back when it was written.  It has been amended 27 times.  The Founding Fathers were brilliant men, make no mistake, but they were not by any means perfect, and they knew it.  They knew that laws would have to change to fit the times we live in.

Like any reliable father, they wanted to let go of our bicycle as soon as we were pedaling hard enough to go on our own.  Let’s make our dads proud and make our own decisions, shall we?

One of the great things about living so close to your extended family is that you have cousins in the next town over with whom you can set off fireworks on the night of July 4th.  One of the downsides of this is that you forget to add a blog post on the proper day, and diminish its effect.  So, if the few of you who read this wouldn’t mind, just imagine that I posted it yesterday, mmkay?

America is a unique country in many ways, but the one that sets it apart is how it was founded.  It’s not the world’s oldest still-existing republic (that honor goes to Switzerland), nor is it the first country to be composed of people from diverse backgrounds (that would be Rome).

What sets America apart from all other countries is that, while it has its own lore about its founding, like many others, that lore is all centered around the philosophy that formed its government.  I’ve found it riveting and compelling, and that’s why I’ve decided to start a series here devoted to exploring that philosophy–its origin, its evolution, the key players, and its influence on American culture and politics.

Of course, I’m not going to pretend that America is perfect, or that the philosophy behind it is perfect–no philosophy is, and any concept is ridiculous when taken to its greatest extreme.  I’m merely going to show what America is doing right, why I love my country, and how it could be improved.  That’s what love, ultimately, is all about.

When I was little and learning about Greek mythology in school, I was confused for the longest time about why my teachers kept mentioning the rainforest in South America.  After I finally worked up the courage to ask what they were talking about, I was fascinated.  I’d never before heard tales of a nation of battle-hardened women who caused headaches for Greek men everywhere, even the famously militaristic Spartans.

The Amazons elicited in me a mixture of fear and arousal.  My first female crush was Lara Croft, and I’ve always had a weakness for women in fatigues.  At the same time, though, it was rumored that the Amazons rejected all males born to them when they began to grow facial hair (and before that, treated them as tenth-class citizens).  Fortunately for those boys and unfortunately for radical feminist separatists, there is absolutely no archaeological evidence that the Amazons ever existed.  Despite this, they are held up as an example for “empowered” women to live up to.  I put “empowered” in quotation marks because the very women who promote Amazons are, more often than not, the worst at living up to this ideal.

First, let us examine exactly who the Amazons were.  According to the legend from which they sprung, they were an order of elite hunters who worshiped Artemis.  They followed Hippolyte, the strongest among them, and their basketball games were boring as hell because they focused far more on fundamentals than dunking.

It was rumored that Hippolyte, an unmarried woman, would pledge herself to one man only: whatever man could best her with a sword.  Hercules did so, according to some versions, and took her girdle (as one of his labors) instead of her hand in marriage.  According to William Shakespeare, the latter honor went to Theseus, the Duke of Athens.  In Act V of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, she openly disagrees with her husband, something which (presumably) was a big no-no in bronze-age Athens.  Though the law of Athens gives him the right, he does not beat her for her disagreement.  He doesn’t even rebuke her; by holding her own against him so well on the battlefield, she has earned his respect, so he merely offers his own reasoning to her, letting her choose whether or not to accept it.

It is this scene, in my mind, that offers the ideal that Amazons should be seen for; an ideal that, more than anything else, should shape relations between men and women.

Back in the Nineties, fueled by feminism’s rising Third Wave, the sort of man who was shown in the media as being the most desirable choice for women was the Sensitive New Age Guy.  The SNAG was soft-spoken, attuned to a woman’s needs, always looking for some new piece of Sixties nostalgia to add to his repertoire, and above all, he never, ever, EVER spoke back to a woman.  After all, that’s what women want, isn’t it?

No, not really. Putting aside the obvious implication that a man’s being kind to a woman always carries ulterior motives, no self-respecting woman wants a bootlicker. She’ll grow tired of him fast. True, a Nice Guy will never talk back to or insult a woman, but he’ll also never tell her when she’s going overboard or doing something stupid, and he’ll certainly never throw her onto the bed and tear her clothes off. If Hippolyta met a soldier on the battlefield who threw down his weapon when facing her simply because she was a woman, she’d cut him down without a second thought.

Amazons were warriors, and warriors are people who persevere, no matter what the situation.  Warriors make their own way through life, and overcome whatever obstacles are laid in their path.

An Amazon doesn’t spend her day moaning about how horrible the Patriarchy is; she proves that she can’t be held down by it.

An Amazon doesn’t go around demanding the passage of laws giving her preferential treatment, because such laws would imply that she’s weaker than men.

An Amazon does not lose her temper because of a man making catcalls at her; doing so would mean that man has the ability to manipulate her.  She just finds a way to make him look like an idiot.

An Amazon does not demand that her husband or boyfriend leave the toilet seat down for her because she has eyes and hands.

An Amazon does not pretend to be weak in order to get a man to do a favor for her; do I even need to explain this one?

So, if we want to have meaningful, equal relationships, men need to stop seeing women as helpless weaklings incapable of opening their own doors, and women need to stop encouraging this image.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

It’s a question that every kid hears in school, and is forced to answer in some way.  Usually, they give an answer like “doctor,” “teacher”, or “fireman”.  Kids have big dreams, right?  They need role models to help them achieve those dreams, don’t they?

Actually, I would argue that they don’t.  Yes, kids do need somebody to look up to.  They are frightened, inquisitive creatures trying to make sense of the world.  But what, necessarily, do those role models need to be?

I hear liberals arguing all the time that the biggest problem with our society (among pretty much everything else they talk about) is that girls and children of color are lacking in role models in the right professions to inspire them to rise up in said professions.  This, of course, is touted as a defense of affirmative action.  To this theory, I say…baloney.

Okay, maybe as a white male, I do have an ax to grind when it comes to affirmative action.  But when you think about it logically, just how necessary is affirmative action?  Also, is it the best solution?  I’d argue that we should make college admissions, job applications, etc. an anonymous process in which only one’s credentials are visible to whoever’s making the decision, but that’s beside the point.

I know of a man, and I’m sure you’ve all heard of him.  Though I don’t talk about him often (which I’ll admit I ought to remedy), he is one of my heroes.  He was a famous jazz musician who did vocals and the trumpet.  Throughout his life, he was treated constantly like a second-class citizen.  While most people would become bitter in the face of such hardship, he just kept on going, pursuing his dream of becoming a renowned musician.  He made the big time, and where most people would let their riches go to their heads, he didn’t.  He was generous, and he never used his wealth or power to hurt anybody.  While I personally have no interest in pursuing a career in the music industry, I hope to be more like Louis Armstrong.  Yes, one of my biggest heroes is a black man.  Crazy, huh?

When it comes down to it, if you want to look up to somebody, they don’t need to be somebody exactly like you.  In fact they won’t be, because there IS nobody exactly like you.  Kids don’t need to have people of their own sex in their dream profession in order to excel.  Marie Curie didn’t exactly have renowned female scientists preceding her.

Should we really refuse to emulate somebody’s behavior pattern just because they’re a different sex or race then us?  No, that would be sexist…and racist.