Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 566

My awkward, uncomfortable gay moment

From a piece in The Daily Beast:

Eric Dondero, a former longtime aide to the representative, has written a post at Rightwing News defending Ron Paul against charges of racism and anti-Semitism but also acknowledging that the congressman is "personally uncomfortable" around gay people.

My first reaction upon reading the piece was to laugh out loud at the thought that anyone could be uncomfortable around gay people.  Especially a physician and a congressman with more than twenty years in office. 

You'd think that at some point, professionalism, education, experience and maturity would supersede any unfounded prejudice or personal discomfort.   

Why sexual orientation would even be in the forefront of another person's mind is beyond me.  I have gay friends, but their homosexuality is not the single most defining aspect of their character.  Yes, they are gay, but they are also fathers, husbands, golfers, designers, builders, attorneys and friends. Their sexual orientation is just one small part of who they are as human beings. 

The thought that anyone might be uncomfortable around them for one small aspect of their character is ludicrous.   

But then I was reminded of a time when I was younger and found myself feeling especially uncomfortable in the company of a gay friend.

Not the personal discomfort that Ron Paul allegedly feels, but discomfort just the same. 

For the story, I'll call my friend John.  John and I were managing a McDonald's restaurant in Massachusetts at the time.  I was about 23 years old, and John was about ten years older than me.  I knew that John was gay and lived with his boyfriend, but we had never spoken about his sexual orientation, nor had he spoken about it with any other employee in the restaurant as far as I knew. 

John was still in the closet, but the closet had a transparent door.  His sexuality wasn't exactly a secret.  It was more of an elephant in the room.  No one was going to mention it unless he mentioned it first, and during the first year we spent working together, he never did.

Then John and I were sent to a conference in Wellfleet, MA, a town on the tip of Cape Cod.  What was supposed to be a three hour drive turned into five because of the summertime traffic that we fought the whole way. 

About an hour into the drive, John and I were listening to music on the radio.  I was driving, and we had been sitting in a comfortable silence for quite a while, lost in our own thoughts.  Then without saying a word, John reached over and switched off the radio, took a deep breath, and said, "I know you know that I'm gay."

The statement took me by surprise, but after overcoming the initial shock, I remember feeling immensely relieved that John's homosexuality was no longer an unspoken fact hanging between us.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay what?" John said.

"Okay, it's true that I knew you were gay.  But I figured that it was your business, and if you wanted to talk about it, you would."

John said nothing, so I kept talking.

"But you know that I don't care if you're gay.  Right?  It doesn't matter to me."

"And I know you know that I like you," John said.

To say that this took me by surprise would be an understatement.

"No," I said, measuring my words carefully.  "Actually, I didn't know that.  I thought you had a boyfriend."

"I do, but you didn't know?  Kelly didn't tell you?"  Kelly was one of our fellow managers and a close friend.

"No," I said.  "But it's okay.  I mean, you know I'm not gay. Right.  I'm dating Christine.  I like girls.  But it's okay."

"God, I'm so embarrassed," John said. "I thought you knew."

"Nope," I said.  "But it's fine.  No big deal."  I wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible, for both John's sake as well as my own. 

"But I really like you," John said and proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes telling me why he liked me so much. 

And that was the moment, the only moment in my life, that I felt uncomfortable around a gay person.  My age probably played a big role.  Being young (and much younger than John), I wasn't equipped to deflect his amorous declarations with humor and empathy. 

It was also 1993.  Even in Massachusetts, it was uncommon to meet a gay person who so openly stepped out of the closet.  The subject of gay rights was not exactly a part of the national conversation at the time.  Gay characters has not yet broken onto the television landscape.  Yes, Massachusetts had barney Frank, but this was still new ground for me. 

Having John tell me that he was gay was a relief.

Listening to him explain why he was willing to leave his boyfriend for me was another story.

I also suspect that our physical setting played a role in my discomfort.  We were trapped in a car together for the next three hours, and we would then be spending the next two days at a conference, sharing a hotel room and almost every minute together.  As John continued to list my positive attributes, I had no way of extricating myself from the scene.  Collecting my thoughts.  Seeking counsel from a friend.

For the next two days, it would just be John and me. 

John, a man ten years my senior, who was suddenly eager to profess his love and ready to dump his live-in boyfriend of two years for me.

At that point, I was uncomfortable. 

Probably not the kind of uncomfortable that Ron Paul allegedly feels around gay people, but the kind of discomfort that I might have also felt had John been a girl who I was not interested in dating.

Though I have to admit that had John been a girl, my level of discomfort would not have been so great.  Perhaps because I had been hit on by girls I did not like before and had learned to handle those situations, but also because I was 23 and had never had a gay friend before.

Suddenly this friend and colleague was speaking to me in a way that no man had ever spoken to me before, so yes, I was uncomfortable. 

Eventually I found a way to break into John's monologue and explain to him that I was dating Christine and would never have those kinds of feelings for a man.  I suspect that I was unnecessarily harsh in making these statements, mostly because I wanted John to stop and partly because I was annoyed at his choice of time and place, and this led to a new, much longer period of silence as the tires of my Chrysler LeBaron continued to devour Interstate 495. 

I remember that we began speaking again after crossing over the Bourne Bridge.  John expressed embarrassment for what had transpired, and I tried to assure him that he shouldn't feel this way.  I remember saying, "Don't worry.  I've hit on plenty of girls who weren't interested in me.  This is sort of the same thing.  Right?"

He agreed, though I don't think he really felt this way. 

Hitting on a girl and having her ignore you is one thing. 

Being rebuffed by a colleague who you then have to spend the next two days with is another thing entirely.

I also remember telling John that he would have been better off waiting for the ride home before telling me about his feelings.  "It was poor planning on your part," I said.  "You had no way to escape if it didn't work out.  You suck at this kind of thing. Huh?"

That made John laugh, and though tension remained between us for the two days spent together, it got better as the hours and days ticked by.

Eventually we returned to our restaurant and settled into our familiar routines.  John never spoke openly about his sexuality to me again, and though I would occasionally ask how his boyfriend was doing, I never spoke about it either.

But that makes sense.  Right?  I don't talk about my sexuality with my straight friends, so why would John's homosexuality ever become a source of continued conversation?  John was gay, but that was only one aspect of his character.  In my world, it was more important that he was an effective manager, a responsible person, and a trustworthy friend. 

Still, at the time, it felt as if the elephant had returned to the room, and I felt bad about it.  John had shared something very personal with me, and as far as I knew, he had only shared that information with one other person in our restaurant.  In failing to ever speak about it again, I suspect that John's embarrassment over our conversation in the car never completely went away. 

That conversation had become a second elephant in the room, and in many ways, a much larger elephant.

Had I met John later in life, and had that conversation taken place ten years later, I suspect that I my level of discomfort would have been minimal.

Perhaps nonexistent. 

I also suspect that I would have handled it in such a way as to strengthen our friendship rather than hinder it.  John needed someone much smarter and much wiser than me that day.  He needed someone who could've recognized his extreme vulnerability in that moment and said something to lighten his load and somehow transform his declarations of love into something more positive.

Because of my discomfort, I just wanted it to end as quickly as possible.

I've always regretted not handling it better.

Six months later, the New York Times finds a whole need breed of douchebags to quote about wrist watches

Six months ago, the New York Times published a piece about the unexpected ascension of wrist watches in certain segments of the cell phone generation.

Somehow they found men willing to say things like this:

"In certain circles," Mr. Thoreson said, "if you don't have a substantial timepiece with some pedigree, you feel like you're missing out on something."

"Right now there is no clearer indication of cool than wearing a watch. If it was your grandfather's bubbleback Rolex, even better."

This led me to suggest several alternate titles for the article, including my favorite:

Douchebags Make It Douchy for Non-Douchebags to Wear Watches

Fast forward six months. The New York Times has once again published a piece on wrist watches (perhaps a bi-annual feature?) and has somehow managed to find an entirely new set of douchebags to quote for their story.

This piece centers on the increasing size of wrist watches, spurned on my celebrity fashion trends, and includes quotes like:

"Guys wanted a fine timekeeping device that not only kept time but said something about status and personal style."

"It (a large wrist watch) gets attention, and it makes a statement."

"No man wants to wear a watch smaller than a woman has on."

Once again I am stunned that they were able to find men willing to be quoted like this.

Have we really reached a point where male coolness is determined by the size and price of a man's watch?

Whatever happened to the strong, independent man?

The man with his own sense of style?

The man whose style of dress was dictated by personal taste and not by a desire to dress like Tom Cruise or compete with the 64 millimeter watch that his buddy is wearing?

Why haven't these guys realized that high school is over?

That unfortunate penis size cannot be compensated for by a wrist watch?

That materialistic displays of wealth strapped to a wrist only serve to demonstrate your insecure, sheep-like douchebaggery to the world?    

I have a friend who, like me, does not wear a single item of clothing (other than sneakers) that displays a name brand.  He intentionally opts out of fashion name-plating despite the fact that he was able to sell his company and retire quite early in life.

Unlike me, he is a man with plenty of money and could purchase the finest clothing and accessories possible, yet his style is completely his own.  It is not dictated by celebrity fashion or the appearance or fashion choices of his friends or the people around him. 

This, in my estimation, is a man.  A real man.

The need to wear a time piece that "says something about status and personal style" is sad.

The belief that "there is no clearer indication of cool than wearing a watch" is pathetic. 

The need for a man to wear a watch that "gets attention and makes a statement" is disgusting.

I do not understand these men.  They sound like cartoon characters to me.  They sound like the mean, rich bad guys that populated so many of the John Hughes and John Hughes-like films of the 1980s.

Did films like Pretty in Pink and Revenge of the Nerds teach them nothing?  

There is nothing wrong with wearing a wrist watch.  It is an excellent way to keep track of the time. 

There is nothing wrong with wearing a wrist watch that you think looks great.

There is, however, something wrong with a man whose choice of wrist watch is dictated by price, celebrity style trends or a mindless, materialistic competition with the men around him.

This is the sign of a man who never grew up.  Never became a man.

And I remain shocked and dismayed why this guys would offer these kinds of douchebaggy quotes to the New York Times.

Again.

Alcohol must have been involved.  It's the only explanation.  I hope.

Maximum joy

My daughter says that her cousin is her best friends.

Based upon this photograph, I believe her.

The story of our engagement

Today is Elysha and my engagement-versary. 

On December 28, 2004, I proposed to Elysha in Grand Central Station while twenty-two friends and family secretly watched.

Here is the story of that day. 

Outsourcing my New Years resolutions: Would you like to play a role?

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you probably know that I take my goal setting and New Year's resolutions very seriously.  At the end of every month I post the progress of each of my New Year's resolutions, and I am tough on myself when I fail to achieve my goals. 

I'd begun the process of deciding upon my 2012 goals when I came upon a piece in the Wall Street Journal on New Year's resolutions that suggests that outsourcing your resolutions may improve your ability to achieve them.

Most of us could use help achieving our goals. Who better to tell us how to improve ourselves than someone who knows us well—perhaps better than we know ourselves—and even may be all too happy to offer up some tough love? And if we promise to check in regularly with this person to discuss our progress, we'll probably do a much better job of keeping our resolutions.

"We all have blind spots, but the people we are intimate with can see through them," says David Palmiter, a couples therapist and professor of psychology at Marywood University, in Scranton, Pa. A loved one can encourage us to meet our goals and hold us accountable when we slip, he says.

I've always asked a select group of friends to suggest goals for my upcoming year, but after reading this piece, I thought it might be a good idea to open up my goal selection process to anyone who might want to participate. 

So if you'd like to suggest a goal for me in 2012, I would love to hear your ideas.  Please note that this does not guarantee that I will adopt every suggested goal, but I will seriously consider all that are submitted. 

Also note that all goals must be empirically measurable, so a goal like "Be less of a jerk-face" could not be included in my list of resolutions because there is no way for me to determine if the goal was met.

But you're welcome to tell me to stop being a jerk-face at any time if you'd like.

Not need to wait until the end of the year to make that request.  

Genius!

I want one. 

How a fan of Boston sports fell in love with the Yankees

Robert Krulwich writes about how we become fans of the teams that we love.

Based upon the research, it tends to be a love instilled upon us primarily by our fathers. 

This video demonstrates this fact beautifully, if not a little cruelly. 

My father and my step-father were not sports fans.  Neither ever spoke a word about sports to me, nor did either one ever play a single sport with me.

I am an outlier when it comes to the research cited by Krulwich.  My undying love for certain teams came through means other than my fathers.

In general, my love for sports teams tended to be geographic in nature.

The Patriots were the only football team on television each week (when they weren't blacked out due to poor attendance), so my obsessive infatuation with the team (I'm a season ticket holder) was born from indoctrination based upon exclusivity. 

They were all I had in terms of football, so I loved them with all my soul. 

I also love an underdog, and in the 1970s and 1980s, the Patriots were consistent underdogs.  Even when they were good, they lost. 

My love for the Bruins was similar in nature.  Channel 38 in Boston broadcasted grainy footage of most of the games throughout the 1980s, but in Boston, a love for the Bruins was also expected. 

No, demanded. 

If you were living in the Boston area, it was highly recommended that you root for the Patriots, the Red Sox and the Celtics, but when it came to the Bruins, you had no choice.  Bruins fans are an angry, violent, often drunk bunch of young men. To profess your love for the Rangers or the Red Wings at the time would have risked a genuine beating.

I had no choice but to love the Bruins. 

But Ray Bourque and Cam Neely were playing for the team at the time, so they weren't too hard to love.   

My love for the Celtics is credited to my mother. She was an insatiable Celtics fan. I would often fall asleep to the sounds of her swearing at the television when things weren't going well.  My mother lived and died with every basket of the season, and she cried like a baby when they won the championship in 1986. 

You also can't underestimate the enormity of the Celtics in the Boston area in the 1980s.  The Celtics ruled the sports landscape at the time.  I remember marching in a Memorial Day parade on the same day that the Celtics were playing in a playoff game against the Pistons.  In order to keep us abreast of the score during the game, two students armed with transistor radios were charged with listening to the game and moving through the rows of musicians, relaying updated scores as often as possible.     

There was nothing bigger in the Boston area in the 1980s than the Celtics. Falling in love with them was a no-brainer. 

And then there is my love for New York Yankees, which is credited to my brother.

My brother loved the Boston Red Sox more than anything else in the world. 

I did not like my brother.

Therefore, I liked the Yankees.

Conveniently, the Yankees games were broadcast on Channel 11 out of New York, which I was able to pick up on the UHF band on most nights.  I grew up listening to the late Phil Rizzuto describe the heroics of players like Ron Guidry, Willie Randolph and the great Don Mattingly.

What admittedly started out as spite eventually transformed into pure, unadulterated love.

Has there ever been a better love story?

Full house

And we wonder why it takes her so long to fall asleep.

 

You are not pregnant. She is.

New rule:  No more "We're pregnant."  Especially from men.

In the realm of pregnancy, there is no we.  While I'm sure that the men who use this ridiculous turn-of-phrase probably have the best of intentions, it is a stupid thing to say.

If you are a man, you are not pregnant. To imply otherwise is an insult to the  women who actually bear the burden of pregnancy, and it makes you sound like anything but a man.

It makes you sound desperate for attention.

Like impregnating the girl wasn't good enough. 

Like you need more. 

You don't.     

"My wife is pregnant" says it all.  It indicates that you are responsible for creating a baby and are probably assisting your wife as the burden of pregnancy becomes greater, but doesn't imply that you are seeking any credit where credit is not due.

Take a stand against "We're pregnant" in 2012.  Will you?

Stop using this ridiculous phrase if you have been, and if someone is foolish enough to use it, inform them, with grace and civility of course, that they sound utterly stupid.

Let's make 2012 a year filled with a little less stupidity. 

My 2011 Christmas haul

My wife is an incredibly creative and insightful gift giver. 

Last year's Christmas gifts were outstanding.

The assortment of gifts from 2009, which included a signed first edition of Kurt Vonnegut's MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY, were even more impressive.

This year we agreed to forgo any real Christmas presents in favor of upgrading our entertainment system, but we were still allowed to purchase gifts for our stockings. 

Here is what I found in my stocking on Christmas morning. 

A game of Go Fish that uses images of famous novelists instead of regular playing cards.

A six-in-one utility key    

A sheriff's badge that I will wear with pride in the classroom.

A Darth Vader LEGO pen.

A laser guide training tool designed to assist with putting. 

And best of all, a Mr. T in your Pocket.  Press one of six buttons to get Mr. T to say things like "I pity the fool!" and "Quit your jibber-jabber!"

Also perfect for the classroom and life in general. 

  

A remarkable collection of gifts.  I don't know how she does it.   

Sadly, I am not nearly as creative as my wife. 

My original plan was to fill her stocking with kitchen gadgets, but after two circuits of Bed Bath and Beyond, my shopping cart was still empty.  Standing near the front of the store, preparing for a third go-around, I said, "The hell with this. I'm just getting her an iPad."

It violated the spirit of our Christmas agreement, but my wife is pregnant and will soon be spending untold number of hours sitting in a chair, breastfeeding a needy infant.  I knew that an iPad could change this otherwise monotonous time in her life into something slightly more palatable, so I felt it reason enough to violate the agreement. 

When she opened her gift and attempted to protest, I immediately pointed my Mr. T in your Pocket at her and pressed the top right button:

"Don't gimme no backtalk, sucka!" 

I pressed it a few more times until she ceased her protest.

See what I mean?  How many gifts are so perfectly chosen that they can be used… no, needed….  about 30 seconds after opening?