not to sound immature, but

i'm growing up. really.

what the protagonist learns

we wait so long for our lives to begin; we plan to attribute every worthwhile memory to that vacation, that job, that transition, that new beginning.

but it all happened a long time ago. almost 22 years for me. and it has been an adventure. and i remember way more about fireflies, s'mores, evening walks, and naps than i remember about exotic travels and new beginnings.

and i am living my life. and i am happy.

how to see people

his name was scott. the nerve.

heartbreaking time after heartbreaking time, i'd turned my head from scores of beggars, theatrically wiping my eyes as though i had mascara to hide.

indian women who were heroin-chic thin. corpses with babies. 5-year-olds with gap teeth and lisps. old men with limps. i'd trained myself to ignore them all, and i'm sure they all had more interesting names than "scott." tribal names. Xhosa names. names like Mgati and Kanyisa.

The guy who tried to mug me at knife point at least had the courtesy to look like a "Clayton."

The punk who stole my empty Coke can and tried to take my cell phone was speaking Zulu; I bet his name was way more badass than "scott."

but there Scott was. 30 something and handsome. Hardly tragic looking, save for being a little slim to pass as masculine in these parts and having a strange, lizardy patch of gray on his left cheek.

"Please look at me." He smiled optimistically. He'd noticed that I'd developed the strut of a local, plowing across the street to my destination without looking at the hopeful who were sleeping in the doorways. Somehow,he knew he only need to ask.

Yeah,I lookd at him. We talked for nearly an hour, mostly about me. He was genuinely interested in my schooling, my internship, my interests, my family- he grinned eager and gracious throughout.

And then he told me his story. How he had worked as a carpenter a few months ago and had lost his job and wife within a few days of each other. He had been staying at the park down the hill, but his makeshift home was flooded out when all of the rain gathered at the bottom. Now, he was looking for a place to stay for a few nights until the storms stopped and he could piece his life back together.

He and I strolled on to the local shelter, the conversation shifting to our favorite books. (he was a salinger man. *melt*)

I had a couple hundred rand left over (about 20 bucks). It was transportation money Dr. McDuff had given me that I never used as I pretty much walked everywhere. I handed it to the manager at the shelter and we arranged a place for scott to stay for the next couple of weeks.

and scott. 30-something and untragic-looking scott. he kissed my cheek, gave a misty-eyed thanks, and walked out of my life and hopefully into one he'd find manageable.

as i walked home, i thought about the gray patch. and his ex-wife. and how this was my best day in cape town. and how i remembered dignity, how to look everyone in the face, even if you're going to say no.

the same difference

human rights are for everybody.
really.
more on that later.
------------------------------------------
EDIT/UPDATE

As soon as I got back to Boonville, I sat my mother deskside and had her take the survey at "findyourspot.com" to evaluate her ideal living location. She and I laughed through most of the questions, commenting on embarassing memories and our inability to mountainbike.
Then, we get to the question that made my mother needlessly sweat. The jist of it was this- "is advocacy for gay and lesbian people important to you?" There was a long pause...my mother knew her answer her "mattered"... it was her first opportunity to show whether she just accepted that I was a homosexual or she accepted that homosexuals were worthy of equal rights (at least as i read the question).

Her response was as follows "well...um... i guess it would be nice, you know, for when you visited."

yeah. nice. because equal rights and treatment are about "convenience" and are just fine as a "some times" thing for "some people." sweet.

perhaps this wouldn't have phased me at all if not for a related interaction with my father earlier that morning. while he was helping me move out of my apartment, a friend proceeded to tell him about the nightmarish haircut experience i'd had two days prior.

On Thursday, charlie on jefferson street was snipping away at my hair, talking to two elderly local men about gay marriage. they were blanketly against it and seemed to take iowa's decision to legalize same-sex marriage particularly personally. i kept my mouth shut as i really didn't care to get in an argument with three large homophobic men, especially when one of them was holding a sharp objet to my head. but, charlie asked me, and i timidly shared my opinion.

"um...well... i don't see how two people in love getting married really hurts anybody."

charlie looked at me shocked, then angry, then laughed. he then proceeded to explain to me how homosexuality is "just child molestation, only the victims are a little older" and that "all homosexuals are rapists" in his book.

i responded. how, i'll likely never remember. i wasn't particularly angry; i was just completely taken off guard by such damaging ignorance. i stumbled and backpedaled and stuttered and apparently in the process i outed myself, likely to add validity to my defense.

and so, charlie's parting words to me after i handed him 10 dollars were this "well, i'm sorry, but if you're one of them homosexuals, then you're a child molester and a rapist."

upon hearing this story my father nervously laughed, shrugged his shoulders and said "well, that's what you get for talking about gay marriage in a kirksville barber shop."

hmph. really? your son, who is involved in several programs to end sexual violence, is cruelly and ironically called a molester and rapist, and you blame him? you're not pissed off? you don't want to jump to protect him or comfort him?

yes, the first place my thoughts jumped were to myself, to my selfishness. mom! dad! don't you care about MY right to love who I want, to live where I want, to work where I want.

and then i remembered that this was hardly only about me. all gay people deserve equal rights and equal treatment. scratch that- ALL PEOPLE deserve to be treated with humanity and decency, and only those guilty of harming others need receive any chastizing or punishment. this is not a "fun" or "convenient" thing for when i visit. this is not about putting up with harassment to avoid making others uncomfortable. this is about you and me and all of us living the lives, being the people, and receiving the rights we deserve.

and, with that in mind, i'm so ready to go across the world to learn, grow, and kick hatred in the ass.

a rvier runs through us

it occured to me this morning that
,if asked,
i could explain the difference
between sex and
"making love"

you see,
the first time i had sex,
i remembered breaking a beaker in chem.
distilled chemicals across the floor
and the sounds of shards and fear
(also
my mother-scared-crying)

but
the first time i had sex
with a man i loved
i thought about ee cummings

"i like my body when it is with your
body"

------

this is the abyss that separates love
and games

a sad child

You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you're trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside you head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.

---- Margaret Atwood

Nothing goes right here; I just want to go the fuck away until I can find a place where I'm strong enough to make myself happy.

thank god the holocaust is over

I was trapped the entire presentation
behind your fat, bald head.
It obscured the nervous voices
with its shiny, awkward bulbousness.
I considered writing an ode
to phrenology
to shoe polish
to new marbles
to hypoallergenic dogs
but i ultimately concluded that this would be
a waste of time.