What Will You Do After Purple?

Along with countless assorted friends, family and acquaintances, I am wearing purple today. We are showing our unity, striving to be a vibrant, visible sign to those out there who’re struggling to just get through high school, to get through life – at a time when so much of the world is confronting them with the worst it has to offer.

Thanks to the efforts by the folks at the It Gets Better Project, many people are sharing their stories – true stories that often start in pain, yet end in joy and beauty. Tomorrow, after you take off your purple and put it away, you still have a job to do: Share your stories. You may not be gay or ever have been bullied, but I know you have a story to tell that will help someone out there. It’s time for us to reach out.

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It didn’t take a genius to figure me out in high school. Let’s see, I was in Band, Orchestra, and Choir. I was Drum Major in the Marching Band. Not only was I in plays and musicals IN school, but I also performed with the local community players. Then there was Student Council, Scholastic Quiz Bowl, Forensics Team, and Computer Club. I was so uptight, I practically squeaked when I walked. (Oh, and a B- was nearly the end of the world…)

I knew I wasn’t like my friends, and I’d known that all my life. At 14, I finally found the words to say it to myself, and did what I considered a very brave act. I had a cassette tape recorder – some of you may have to Google that – and every now and then, I’d record the following …and then “pretend” to forget that it was on there.

“I am gay. What am I going to do about it? ...........Nothing…”

Of course, I never did forget to erase it; it was just a stupid game. Stupid, but somehow it got me through. Even if it wasn’t truly brave, it felt brave to me – and that’s all that mattered. This was the early 1980s in very rural Northern New York State; being gay was NOT something you talked about with anyone, except as crude locker room jokes at the expense of others.

Sure enough, I got called every imaginable name in high school, and sure enough, it hurt like hell. But somehow, I managed to hold onto hope and the knowledge that someday - not too far in the future – I’d be able to get on with life. (College isn’t perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot better than high school!)

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Thanks to the incredible outpouring from breathtakingly fabulous people, YouTube is now packed with hundreds of stories of survival, of anguish and support and love and friendship. Rather than dwelling on just how awful high school is, there are some essential things we need you to know.

It gets better. I know it must seem cliché now, but I have to tell you – looking back, I could never have hoped that life would turn out this well. There will be wonderful, deep abiding friendships that last longer than you’ve been alive so far. You’ll make mistakes, you’ll be terrified of admitting you need someone to lean on, and you’ll be wildly passionate about a hundred different causes. You’ll visit places where you’ll feel truly, madly, deeply at home in a way that you may never be able to articulate to anyone. Some of your friends will become the best family you could ever imagine – and some of your family will become your most ardent supporters. And you’ll find your own way of getting through.

Oh…and there will be love. You’ll fall in love – and you’ll get your heart broken. And you’ll fall in love again. And along the way, you’ll find out how remarkable it is to love and to be loved, just for being you.

So, hold on. Be here for the good stuff. Be truly you. Stick around and see how much better it gets. No one’s promising that it won’t suck along the way, and no one’s saying that life as an adult is a piece of cake; just remember that we’re out here – and we are LIVING proof that life gets so much better.

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So, to all of us: tomorrow, we might not be wearing purple, but we need to, must carry this feeling with us. There is no wrong time to reach out. There is no bad time to let others know you care. Share your struggles and triumphs. Be a good friend and a great example. Let your children catch you doing good things. Dream big and dare to love. Open your minds to a world that is better today than it was yesterday, but not as great as it will be tomorrow.

And be there, so these kids can be here to see that it gets so much better.

Let Them Eat Dirt

This may offend some of my friends who are parents.

However.

I believe that one of the (possible) reasons that the H1N1 virus is so much tougher on kids is that the cultural shift of the last generation toward what some might call "overprotection".

Those of us who grew up in the 60's and 70's were out running around all summer, biking without helmets, drinking from garden hoses, bathing infrequently (some of us, anyway) and in general...well, eating dirt (whether we realized it or not. Three-second rule, anyone?).

These days, from the outside looking in, it seems that some parents go to extreme lengths to make sure that everyone and everything around their kids is sanitized, sterilized and free of any potential harmful agents.

As with many other things in life (disappointment, failure, loss, etc.), isn't it possible that exposing a child to the real world will actually prepare said child for...well, the real world?

Or am I just crazy from eating all that dirt?

Song of Unquenchable Desire

New Orleans (and the rest of southeast Louisiana) has always tolerated life with a sense of an acceptable level of tragedy, knowing that each year, some hamlet would flood or a shrimp boat would sink or 500 more residents would be murdered or several more politicians would be indicted but seldom convicted or that someone's favorite restaurant would close or that the school board would find new ways to deny our students the education they deserve or another legendary musician would pass on to the next Big Gig.

All of those, individually and sometimes collectively, were always all bearable...and often were the very things that allowed us to see all the other extraordinarily beautiful treasures around us, even if it was the simple, earnest hello from another local as you passed them on the street. It took me far too long to get over my initial reaction to that--you would never greet someone so idly, so carelessly - especially a stranger - in my former life in New England, without first counting the cost or benefit. For the longest time, I was sure that people were "smiling in my face, but peeing in my cocktail."

I could not have been more wrong.

It is exactly that predisposition of locals (and those who eventually become locals) to engage the rest of the world, to invite y'all to nothing more than a passing pleasantry and make the day the slightest bit better for it.

It is qualities like this, and the desire to take care of each other and every single person who ever sets foot in our fair city, that reassure me that there will always be a kind of Mardi Gras every year, even though it will almost but not quite entirely seem like something I remember...and that the word "debris" will take on other layers of meaning, but will eventually once again become associated with blissfully messy, gut-churning po'boys...that I will marvel at how azure blue the sky is over all the rooftops and think how very lucky I am that the city picked me to live there.

To be sure, for now there is great disquiet in New Orleans, but there is also great desire...is it really any coincidence that the word "Desire" can mean so many different things to so many people on one day, and the all the same thing the next?

One day, the desire will give over to pride - that we did it ourselves. We were here, putting it all back together, rebuilding homes and lives, making new ways, shoring up old ones, making festivals happen, loving our friends...and living.

Truly living.

Singular Saturday - Valentine's Day Edition 2009

HEART.

OK, so now that I have your attention,
it's time to groove out to
Blue Man Group and Venus Hum
with their rendition of "I Feel Love"!"

Look Away - No, REALLY...Look Away NOW!

Shiny things to distract the masses.

Fuzzy words, repeated ad nasuem.

Hypocritical cries of sexism.

Wimper, wimper..."Deference"...Wimper, wimper.

Blatant cronyism.

Are you kidding me?

This woman is nothing more than a diversion from the ISSUES.

Pay her no mind - It kills me that MSM is dedicating time to analyzing her wardrobe, dress size, eyewear model, et al.

Are you freaking kidding me? Is she suddenly Paris Hilton's BFF?

The last time I checked, John McCain - the lying sack of shit bastard - was running for President. NOT the the ill-informed, dangerous harpy at his side.

Sorry.

Focus, people. It's his proposed policies and his historical voting that are under review here, not what designer she's wearing. Yes, she too is a hateful, lying sharlatan - a purveyor of patent medicines, a quack - but this is NOT her campaign for President.

Look at what McCain has done and NOT done. Get informed about his lies and misrepresentations.

Get Angry.

There is so little time left. Get Angry. Stay Angry.

Like the saying goes, "If you aren't angry, you aren't paying attention."

Please, folks. Pay Attention.

Our future depends on it.

Come Hell or High Water...

In 1971, Follies opened on Broadway - a hugely ambitious show, revolving around the reunion of a follies cast (akin to Ziegfeld) for one last concert before their old theatre is leveled and turned into a parking lot.

One of the best numbers in the whole show - the big showstopper, if ever - is "I'm Still Here." Over the years, this song has been sung by the likes of Yvonne DeCarlo, Nancy Walker, Carol Burnett, Shirley MacLaine and Ann Miller - it's like winning the theatre fag lottery!

The song is replete with historical and cultural references and has been adapted time and again...and now I've stuck my hand into it to muddy the waters further. I hope I haven't done too much damage to one of my favorites.

So, with all apologies to Stephen Sondheim (along with my utmost admiration):

Good times and bum times,

We've seen them all, and by gosh...

We're Still Here.

Mardi Gras, one day...

Next day it's FEMA and Bush.

And we're here...

We made it through Katrina & Rita too,

Gustav and Ike both really blew.

We got through all of last year,

And we're here.

We've gotten through, "Hey, buddy! Why don'tchya just move away?"

Gee, that sure helps a heap.

Or better yet, "Why are you rebuilding anyway?"

Oh, Senator, go take a leap!

Fresh paint on one home,

One home stands vacant and bare.

But we're here.

One day, it's State Farm,

Next day, we dance without care...

And we're here.

We've had the best, and seen the worst,

Stayed through Katrina - the levees burst.

Come Hell or high water, and we're here...

Lord knows, at least we've been there...

And we're here.

We're still here...

Yes, we're here...

Plan-nicking, and other thoughts

OK. Deep breath, Ken.

Too much to do. Too much to wrap my brain around right now. Too little focus.

Must be time to blog.

Plan-nicking is the word I have given to this in-limbo time, as we wait and watch and obsess and prepare and email and post and bite our nails and make lists and check them thrice.

There are some things that you cannot do before evacuating in advance of a tropical system such as Gustav. Life still goes on, you have to eat, you have to (try to) sleep, you have to go to work and prepare that part of your life too. You still have to get through the day.

It ain't always easy.

Add to that, worrying over the political future of this country (Biden so rocked last night).

Stir in post-Olympics withdrawal - what does is say about how classy Dara Torres is that she asked the officials to wait to start her heat because one of her competitor's swimsuit broke and she was trying to change in time to compete? How about the comraderie and sportsmanship of the lead marathon runners sharing water bottles? Hygiene aside, that was a breath of fresh air.

OK, to vent a little more about the Olympics...If I - suddenly and for no specific reason - was placed in charge of the USOC, I would add a deal-breaker requirement for anyone wishing to represent the USA at future Olympic Games:

You must learn all the words to the Star Spangled Banner. It's our national anthem, and you're an athlete - you've heard it a quadrillion times in your athletic career. Can't sing? So what. At least mouth the right words - did you see the gusto with which Lisa Leslie of the US Women's Basketball Team was singing? That's what I want to see. From every last person. That includes you, audience.

OK, back to Gustav.

Unlike before Katrina, this time - if the prediction is dire - we will leave BEFORE the storm. Load up the truck, head North into MS. Try to telecommute from there. Yippee.

And tomorrow just happens to be the 3rd anniversary of the landfall of Katrina. And the beginning of Southern Decadence weekend.

We are as ready as we can be - oh, and add to all that, we are knee-deep in fundraising season for the New Orleans AIDS Walk (September 14). (Just in case anyone wants to sponsor me, you can check out my Walk Page here. Thanks!)

(Brain freeze.)

Sorry, but I tried to process too much at once there, and my mind seized up on me. We'll do what we have to do to stay safe. We'll get out of harm's way and we'll be prepared. We'll be with family and we'll take care of each other.

So, take care of yourselves - I will post as much as I can when I can and have the energy and presence of mind.

For now, peace and good thoughts. Pray if you do.

And tell the people you love that you love them.

Thanks for listening.

Love, your Ambassador

(I'm the taller one...)

December in New Orleans...

Looks like this...

And this...

And this too...

It was 47 degrees last week, and 83 this week.

Caroling in T-shirts & shorts.

Running the A/C while you trim the tree.

And Flowers that bloom all damn year.

Oh, and no hurricanes came our way.

Thanks for all the good thoughts this year.


Peace.

K+2

The anniversary retrospectives have begun again, essentially unavoidable this week. I gotta tell you, it’s exhausting.

I was scanning Saturday’s New Orleans Times-Picayune, when I spotted the shorthand expression that is my post title today. And you know what? It really disturbs me...

K+2.

Two years since Hurricane Katrina made landfall and the levees broke, flooding 80% of New Orleans. Two years since so much of the Gulf South was devastated.

It is impossible to express some things in any terms other than “post-Katrina” - population centers, insurance rates, property values, etc.

But everything? I think what disturbs me most is this dangerous new identity. In years past, we hated how New Orleans was known to too many folks only for Bourbon Street, Girls Gone Wild and Mardi Gras. Anyone who’s ever visited this city for more than a day understands implicitly that it’s so much more than that.

And now? New Orleans has been shoehorned into this newer identity of ultimate victimhood. “How does it make you feel that the government is dragging its feet with recovery funding?” Umm, how do you think we feel? “Do you think the high murder rate will adversely affect the flow of tourists to New Orleans?” Do you really need me to answer that?

Oh...and please don’t ask if things are getting back to normal, because they never were to begin with.

Yes, as a city in recovery (sounds a bit like AA, eh?), we are not where we expected to be two years after this disaster of Republican proportions. Entire neighborhoods still lie in ruins. Our mental health services are non-existent. The levees still aren’t strong enough to hold back a surge of similar power. And, yes...the people here are getting more brittle and less likely to keep up the brave face.

But.

There’s so much good happening here that will continue to go unreported by the media giants. So, I guess you’ll have to look for it here.

Not only has our church rebuilt its roof and sanctuary, we are less than six months away from opening a free medical clinic in a neighborhood where such services don’t exist.

How does a creative city respond to trauma of this nature? With laughter and tears and great parties. Jazz Fest saw record number in attendance and the local theatre community is burgeoning with new shows - not all of which are acts of catharsis. (To misquote Stephen King, gallows humor is only funny when its your neck.) The Louisiana Philharmonic and New Orleans Opera Company are playing to standing room only crowds.

Oh, and the predicted conflict and strife that city leaders anticipated in “accommodating” the influx of Latin American workers (and their families - many of whom are choosing to stay here and settle down) never materialized.

It’s not perfect. It never was before. Stop comparing years and dates and what’s back and what isn’t. We’re here and we’re working as much and as hard as we can, and some days, it really really hurts. I mean bad.

But. That’s only some days. Most days, just like anywhere else in the rest of the world, we wake up, we work, we love, we eat, we fight, we talk, we worry, we build, we wonder, we teach, we grow, we die, we hope, we leave, we blog, we pray, we put our heads back down on our pillows and drift off to sleep...only to wake up and do it all over again.

Just like everyone else.

Everyone else who isn’t measuring everything in terms of when their world came to an end.

And yet, somehow the world kept turning. And it's still turning. And so tomorrow, we will wake up and start all over again.

Again.

So Much To Tell

Like all of you, there are a million posts running around inside my head, all struggling to get out at the same time. Recently, there just hasn't been the time to sit and sift through it all to post regularly - and thank you all for the prods to make the most of my new home internet connection, but the truth is this (to quote the pre-Simpsons Matt Groenig):

Work is Hell.

How and why are not the topics of discussion today. Let's just say I've let my work suck the blessed life right out of me. By the time I get home at night, the inclination to do anything other than read all y'all's posts does not exist.

Now for some Good News: the other thing taking up so much of my time is church. We are preparing a butt-load of really sensational music for this Sunday's services - no sleeping in for your Ambassador this weekend, as I will have to be at church, warmed up to sing by 8 - freakin' - AM.

Ya see, after 99 weeks, Rayne Memorial United Methodist Church (on the lovely, historic St. Charles Avenue) is coming home. We will be physically processing out of our large Fellowship Hall where we've been worshiping for all this post-K time...and entering our newly restored sanctuary. For those of you unfamiliar with this tale, Katrina's wind blew our gorgeous steeple off and through our sanctuary roof. Many pews were destroyed, the floors and altar badly damaged and the stunning and priceless Aeolian-Skinner Organ suffered substantial wounds.

The miracle in that day was that despite the destruction within and without the church, the 8 three-story, late 1800's stained glass windows were utterly untouched. They don't even make the glass the same way anymore to replace them.

So, this Sunday, we will re-enter our sanctuary as a family. Not the kind of family that we were before the storm, but a tighter, more involved family. You cannot come through tragedy such as this unchanged. And none of us are fooling ourselves that the work is done and we'll all go back to the way things were before Hurricane Katrina. Understand this: there is no going back. Only forward. (Or, perhaps, in the hardest cases to bear, away.)

Yes, the work is not done, but it is clearly time to go home...The organ has not been fully restored, nor the choir loft that is cradled by those gorgeous pipes. Key to our re-entry is the successful installation and testing of the air conditioning system. It works!! Tested in the midst of the hideous heat and humidity that plagues us in summer here, it works!

So, if you happen to be in New Orleans this weekend, please feel free to drop on by - we have 2 services, 8:45 and 11:00AM, both with full choir and such. All are welcome!

It's been a tough year, even by New Orleans standards.

One of the things that I've always admired (and I must admit it's part of the city's appeal to me) about New Orleans is how it deals with tragedy. Some folks found their way to Louisiana through hardships in their homelands, others suffered upon arrival. So many different groups, with just about as many different kinds of suffering. Yellow Fever. Hurricanes. AIDS.

So much of what makes this region what it is today comes indirectly from the struggles it has endured. That will be what makes us stronger as we move through this ongoing recovery.

However.

It's been a really tough year.

New Orleans is still way below it's pre-Katrina population of 450, 000+. Recent estimates put us at less than half that, depending on which survey and what agency is in whose pocket to set the numbers high or low. That makes us now officially a small city. Smaller than Plano, TX. Tinier than Anchorage, AK. Embarrassingly diminutive next to the likes of Jersey City, Lexington, and Buffalo.

(Not that we're obsessed with size.)

However, if you haven't caught any of our news recently, it seems that people are just dying to get into New Orleans. Or maybe that's not quite right. Dying to stay, perhaps?

This past weekend brought our fair city its 90th and 91st murders. A handful of arrests have been made. No convictions this year. This is not the post to dwell on why. I don't have that kind of time just now. Most of those are gang/drug related retaliation killings. I once thought that you could fairly easily avoid the parts of the city where all this is happening.

I was wrong.

And now it's personal.

Last week, Robin was found beaten to death in his Marigny home. The Faubourg Marigny is the wonderful sprawling neighborhood adjacent to the French Quarter, and my home for many years now. Robin's house is a mere 7 blocks from my apartment.

It's all too close now.

There haven't been any arrests in his murder, although the authorities have questioned a "person of interest". Robin's car was taken at the time and found burned out some blocks away, either in an attempt to make it look like a robbery or some such act gone bad. Truth is we just don't know the truth and might never know.

But like I said, it's personal now. Robin rode the school bus with my friends Mark and Chrissie. He managed a bar that I frequented throughout my most formative years in the city. He was a champion of many causes, using his more recent success at the salon he owned with his sister to raise money for AIDS and breast cancer research. And as recently as October 2006, Robin had been interviewed by WDSU NewsChannel 6 regarding crime in New Orleans:

"Drive-by muggings -- I mean, there's guys riding around in vehicles just mugging people, jumping in their vehicles, going around the corner, mugging somebody else," Malta said. "I'd like to see the mayor actually walk Marigny Street, from Charters to Rampart Street, by himself at 3 o'clock in the morning. I guarantee you he'd get mugged."

No irony there, eh?

In 1997, Robin reigned as Southern Decadence Grand Marshall, and single-handedly scared the crap out of a whole hell of a lot of military guys when the parade he was leading intersected with the Labor Day Parade in the Quarter. In full "I Dream of Jeanie" costume, he mounted the running board of the nearest Humvee as it slowly cruised down the street. Holding onto the driver's side mirror and waving his free arm wildly, singing at the top of his lungs as the parade crawled along Decatur Street - I can still hear him belting out the theme song now.

It's up to us to remember in our own ways each person who's gone now. But it's more than murders. It's all kinds of death now.

It appeared to start with older friends - struggling with myriad afflictions, and exacerbated by the effort of recovery - started to succumb more rapidly. A shocker for me was Sandra. Sandra (whom I always pictured as 40ish) passed away at the tender age of 67 after struggling through the horror of Alzheimer's. I first met Sandra in 1991, weeks after I arrived in NOLA at a P-FLAG meeting - she was president of this chapter for 15 years and spearheaded the national meeting here in 1993. I had not seen her since the storm.

I sang with our church choir at a truly moving memorial service last week for a former choir member at my church. Chris was described during the service as a magnificently kind and elegant woman - and she was. But, oh...she could be salty when she wanted to be. It was her kindness and elegance that made her saltiness shocking and yet acceptable.

Arly, the owner of a local pub and grub, suffered a devastating 45 minute seizure that left her in a vegetative state for 2 weeks before she mercifully slipped away one day. My dear friend Venette's wife Cate worked for Arly for years - and I had the great honor of attending the wedding rehearsal dinner Arly and her partner Louis through for Cate and Venette. Lord, did they throw down some food that night!

An officer in a nearby parish died in an on-duty accident 10 days ago. During the car procession to his funeral, a violent summer storm blew up - winds so fierce they knocked a huge tree over onto the car of two officers on their way to the service...killing one officer and critically injuring the other.

A New Orleans officer took his own life just days before standing trial for brutally beating an unarmed 65 year old retired teacher in the early repopulation after Katrina.

So much death following so many months of struggle to bring this city back to life...

Before the week is over, New Orleans will have its 100th murder. Like other bloodier milestones, this is not one to celebrate.

Somehow, we...We will come through. We will grieve. We will deal with tragedy. We may employ some clearly inappropriate humor and drink a bit too much to do it, but we'll deal.

We - together - will get through this.

There are only two things certain right now in New Orleans. The first is daunting, but the second is much more powerful.

1. More death will come to our city.


2. We will rise.
   

(For those of you wondering where I've been and why I haven't been posting to the blog, it's been a really tough couple of weeks. And this post was trying to get out.)

Sometimes...

You just have to throw a little beauty out there.

I was so lucky to have a brilliant sunny day to run around my neighborhood last weekend, taking pictures randomly here and there...this is the result.

I don't have a space that is large/sunny enough for waterlillies, so I headed over to a local nursery and was stunned by their new collection. I especially like the one above, because it isn't perfect - notice the browning petals.

Have you ever seen this many gradations of yellow in one blossom?

Now, when I shot this last one, I was just kind of hoping something interesting might come of it.

I wasn't disappointed.

This is the interior of an Angel's Trumpet bloom. I wish the resolution translated better to the blog, becuase the original is unbelievable.

I love the fact that stunning flowers like this grow in the hot-house climate that is Louisiana - there is a certain defiant thriving-through-neglect aspect to their existence that appeals to the survivor in me. The fact that so much of nature is burgeoning down here - despite everything - gives me hope.

Ah, the Power of Beauty.

Enjoy.

Why Not?

I commented on a post recently and received an incredibly kind personal response to it that has stayed with me, popping up every other day to nag and say, "blog about it"...so here goes.

I was 23 when I found out I was HIV positive. I was sure I would be dead well before 30.

I am now 39 and still fighting the good fight. During a powerful conversation a few months ago, Soccer Mom thanked me (through tears, albeit) for not giving up. I don't have a choice, surrounded by the strong women in my life who'd kick my ass if I did give up, or even show signs of starting to.

I can't think of it as totals...not in numbers of doctors visits, or vials of blood drawn, or hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of pills swallowed, or sleepless nights, or crying jags, or friends who lost the battle.

It's the years that come to me, piling up their profound weight and simply not going away. 16 years. Whether I want to or not, every July 9, my brain reminds me, "This is the day they told your life has changed forever." I do not recall much of my adult life not thinking about this. That changes a guy for good. Maybe not for the better, but certainly For Good.

So, the response I got from commenting on that post was this:

16 years is a long time.
not long enough.
go 16 more.
then 16 more.

sure. why not.

Someone who didn't know me had summed up in words I never would have found just exactly how I deal with every day of my life. Thank you, Daniel.

And you know what? Why not?