Thanks to Daniel for pointing me to this excellent blog entry discussing Initiative 1 by a gay couple in Florida Ohio who has adopted four children. You should give it a read.

Arkansas. Where to start?

Having lived in Arkansas since 1991, I have sadly come to understand how “mentally backward” most of the population is here. To start with: there are HUGE Pentecostal, Southern Baptist and Church of Christ populations here. Many—if not most—towns have more churches than their population can even support. So, we know the “sheeple” don’t think for themselves and take their cues from the people leading their congregation (and obviously not from what is in the Bible).

Add to this religious “fervor” all the rednecks, hillbillies and other “white trash” that one thinks of when one thinks of the South and you have a good idea about the ideals of the population in general. Did you know there are still “sundown towns” here, many of which “host” various white supremacist groups. Even though the Husbear and I “blend in” with our tattoos and mean-ish looks, many of these towns are places even we won’t stop in if it can be avoided.

Obviously not all of Arkansas is like this. There are some small pockets where people are “normal”. Most of these pockets are the result of an influx of people from big cities in large states. More than likely, these small pockets here are also the cities that have what few gay bars and clubs there are in Arkansas.

I haven’t talked about many “political” topics on my blog, mostly because I am not very political by nature. I just tend to go with the flow of things. However, the hate formerly directed at people of other color is now being directed at people who are gay. (I say “formerly” but in reality it still exists—as was very evident by the verbal comments many people have expressed in the open with the results of this last presidential election.) While it may be a slight exaggeration that everyone is this way, it holds true for many.

The Husbear and I have three children, all from his previous marriage. While the kids are now technically adults, thanks to Initiative 1, I would never be able to adopt them if something happened to their mother and/or him to make them part of “our” family. Although technically we cannot be a “family” either since the Husbear and I cannot marry here due to legislation enacted during the 2004 election cycle that defined marriage in Arkansas.

I’m not sure where I was going with all of this other than to give readers an understanding of what life is like in Arkansas, and maybe why I expect this from from those living in this state. I am not saying it’s right. But it is the middle of the country, where all change is slow to happen.

It is hard to imagine that in the 21st century laws forbidding “rights” to a group of people would even be thought of—let alone passed—by the general population. But as the Husbear says: “it’s a matter of time.” For example, his grandfather didn’t believe in interracial marriage. That generation died off. The next generation, his father, “tolerated” interracial marriage. That generation is dying off. And like most of his generation, the Husbear doesn’t care who of one color marries who of another color because they know it doesn’t matter.

Change takes time. You can “force” change, but hate will be built up on the inside until it festers and a tragic backlash occurs. Time, and leading by example, are the counters to this build-up. It’s the only thing that has ever worked for me. Granted, I don’t know what those people I’m “friends” with actually say about me when I’m not around or how they truly feel about gay people. But they are at least civil when I am in their presence. Sometimes that’s all I can ask for.

Reading Alexander’s posts a few months back about his coming out started me thinking about my own journey. [You can read his story here in parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6.]

I’ve been piecing this post together since then. “The Way Things Work” seemed like an appropriate title as that is what I was attempting to figure out. Actually, I still am.

There is no manual for figuring out your sexuality…

People around me who get to know me, or are just curious, tend to ask me—as probably a lot of us get asked—how I could be gay?

I have attempted many times to write my version of events as seen through my eyes. I’ve yet to be able to do that in any coherent manner. So I’m going with what I have.

The recollections of my past are just murky pieces—faint flickers, really—that I cannot seem to piece together in any logical (to me) order. I remember…

…having feelings that I knew were “wrong” according to everything I had been taught my entire life by my family unit and their chosen religion—the Church of Christ. These teachings were reinforced by 8 years in Church-run schools, then 5 years in a Church-run college.

…secretly watching porn when I was a teenager (thanks to the adult channels on the huge-ass satellite dish—this was before the Internet was a consumer-grade appliance after all) and always wishing they would show more cock. Instead they always showed boobs and twat. Rarely would I catch a glimpse of a cock. But when I did I knew that was what I wanted even though it was “wrong”.

…stealing my father’s porno mags (go Hustler!) and cutting out the occasional pictures of men in them. Scrapbooking, anyone? My parents later found these when they searched my room while I was in high school.

[Note the mental conflict these last two caused even at a non-gay level—my father, the "devout" Christian who had his porn stashed under the seat of his VW bus and all the porn channels on the satellite. "Do as I say and not as I do..." is apparently the example he tried to live by?]

…having “feelings” for some of the male authority figures in my life. I do not remember ever having “feelings” for anyone my own age or of the opposite sex… always older men. And always authority figures: a teacher, a coach, a friend’s dad, etc.

…knowing what I was feeling on the inside contrasted against what I saw going on around me on the outside: dating, girlfriends, sex. None of which I had while in high school or college. All so easy to “explain” away.

Some memories are less flickers and more like explosions. Brilliant points of light in an otherwise dark sky. I remember…

…my mom asking me if I was gay while I was in high school and me telling her “No”.

…the first time someone told me they were gay. While driving home from Arkansas to Florida for a holiday break in college, I was carpooling another student to his home and somewhere along the way he outed himself to me. I fucking freaked out. I don’t think he and I spoke the rest of the way (short of directions) to his house.

…downloading gay porn while at [a Christian!] college, feeling guilty about it, and deleting it. Over and over again.

…at 23 years old, getting the nerve to actually meet someone “to see how this all worked”. I was scared as hell through dinner. We went back to his house. He put his hand on my knee, then started kissing me. IMMEDIATELY the switch was thrown and I knew exactly where I was supposed to be.

Even though at that moment I knew how I was, there were (and are) still many things I had to work through to know who I was.

As always there is more to this story, but that is going to be another post…. And probably in another three months I’ll have it written.

Dilemma?

Wednesday night while working on a client at the tattoo shop, I received a telephone call from a family member. I only took the call because I thought it was an emergency due to the recent events with my father. This family member harshly accused me of something. Precisely—they accused me of stealing a large sum of money. This family member—being the wonderful “Christian” they are—apparently is of the “guilty until proven innocent” mentality. Is it any wonder I moved all the way from Florida to Arkansas?

I did not take this money, not that the family member seems to believe this. I would never steal (at least not intentionally) and more so I would never steal from my own family. However, I have no way to prove that I didn’t do this stealing of which I am being accused. I had opportunity—to which I was unaware—and as for motive? I have no “moral” character since I am both gay and have tattoos. Two strikes against me?

I see people being suspicious and thinking less of people who have ink that is visible to the public. I deal with it every day as both a tattoo artist and as a person with ink. I don’t really understand it at all. I know the history of tattooing. I know how different cultures see tattoos. I know where the American stereotypes come from. I think it is a stereotype that will take at least another generation to dissipate. I have tattooed what I consider the full spectrum of people: from people barely scraping by, to those who make more in a day than I will in my lifetime; individuals fresh out of jail having served their mandated time, to doctors and attorneys who probably should be in jail for doing things that would keep me up at night.

We are all human. Why do we lose sight of that?

Then there’s the whole being gay “issue”. It’s a little different of a “stereotype” to me because I believe people today have a choice to be tattooed. (Yes, there are probably people who choose to be gay, but I don’t think that is the norm at all. Just as there are people who have not chosen to get tattooed but where done so by force.) People fear and shun what they don’t understand or what they see in themselves that they don’t want to publicly admit to the world. Enough people have discoursed on that over time I will leave it alone for now.

Why as humans do we have to “isolate” what’s different: people of a different color; people of a different weight; people who have decided to decorate the outside of the “temples” they reside in. Why don’t we stereotype people who’s earlobes are attached to their face versus people have dangling earlobes?

As for my “two strikes” that my family sees—I don’t think that will ever change. Their brains are now trained and hard-wired to think the way they do. I went down to Florida to see my father when he had his heart attack for what could have been the last time. It now might just be.