High Holy Mass of Contradictions

From the announcement: 

My dad died three years ago today. That’s going to linger with me all day anyway, but especially because my dad, despite conservative leanings, was already impressed with Obama back then. I bet he would be feeling happy and proud today, and crying like a baby.

I really liked Obama’s comment during his acceptance speech that, to all those who didn’t support them, he would be their president too. I felt like that did two things really well: it suggested that he would be open to input from those outside party lines, and it also, in good managerial style, quietly affirmed his authority. Any manager who’s ever had to take over an existing team knows that you sometimes come into a situation where you don’t have consistent support and you have to play that card both ways: I’m nice, I listen well, and/but don’t even question that I’m the boss. I think that was well played.

I’m just so proud that we did it. And relieved.

Originally published at Sticky, Sweet, & A Little Overdressed. You can comment here or there.

I was reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s “Eat, Pray, Love” on one of my flights a few weeks ago. (It’s a wonderfully insightful and beautifully written book; I highly recommend it.) There’s a passage where the author, having recently developed a personal relationship with prayer and a self-styled spirituality, is describing an exchange with her pragmatic sister, Catherine.

A family in my sister’s neighborhood was recently stricken with a double tragedy when both the mother and her three-year-old son were diagnosed with cancer. When Catherine told me about this, I could only say, shocked, “Dear God, that family needs grace.” She replied firmly, “That family needs casseroles,” and then proceeded to organize the entire neighborhood into bringing the family dinner, in shifts, every single night, for an entire year. I do not know if my sister fully recognizes that this is grace.

Karsten and I got talking about my father’s death. My father was a popular man, loved by many in his town and with a wide circle of friends and family across the country. Many people were praying for him as he waged his fight with cancer. Some people would probably conclude that the prayers must not have been very effective since the cancer ultimately won. But even as a non-spiritual person, I think that’s an unfair characterization of the effects of that praying. I would never attempt to claim that there is no power in prayer. I just don’t think it’s the only vehicle for the conveyance of caring, and it’s loaded with religious affiliation, which has no appeal to me. But I have no trouble accepting the possibility, perhaps not as a direct result of prayer, but perhaps resulting indirectly from the quantities of people who simply told my father and the rest of his family that they were praying for him, that my father died with more awareness of how loved he was, and that we, his family, could accept his death with more comfort because we knew how loved he was.

Maybe you wouldn’t call that the power of prayer, per se. And I would agree that it’s something different, but I think — and this is a non-believer attempting to understand the minds of believers, so I may have it entirely wrong — but I think there’s something uniquely potent about prayer to a believer that is somehow not present in the offerings of “thoughts” or “good vibes” or “positive energy,” or any number of alternatives you or I might suggest.

That’s the struggle I have as a non-believer who wants to offer comfort to my loved ones. I wish I had something I could offer my cousin’s family as they’re dealing with my 17-year-old cousin battling lymphoma. I have told them I’m thinking about them, but I feel acutely that that’s not as powerful a statement as telling someone you’re praying for them. To my eyes, as a non-believer, that’s the power of prayer: a communication shortcut that says you want to intercede for someone; that you feel their situation merits grace, and you’re looking to powers bigger than yourself to provide it.

But without that communication shortcut, I guess I find myself in the role of the pragmatic sister, trying to think of when and how to make the proverbial (or literal) casseroles and hope that they are received as grace. (Here I should mention how humbling it is to have a sister who is both a praying person and a casserole maker in the most active sense — she was recently awarded Citizen of the Year in her hometown for her efforts in setting up a non-profit organization that helps the poor and needy in her otherwise well-to-do suburb. She’s a double-helping of grace.) What I lack in spirituality I make up for in plain old compassion, but how can I be of much practical use to a family hundreds of miles away? There’s a missing ingredient that could help bridge the distance, and to say “I’m thinking of you” sounds hollow.

I suppose it’s relevant in some way that I’m musing about this on Easter morning. I have no real ties to Easter: nothing about its religious implications carries weight with me, and the childhood chocolate-fest is behind me. Even the pagan traditions offer little to the pragmatic, so it’s simply a Sunday when more businesses are shuttered than usual. But there is something about the hope of renewal, the rituals of rebirth that carry through from the pagan to the Christian traditions, in welcoming spring and recognizing the cyclical nature of life — something about that does appeal to me. (Maybe it’s the gardener in me.) I know I’m looking for a chance to discover something in myself — some offering I can provide to those who need comfort that feels as powerful as prayer and does as much good as casseroles.

I don’t expect to find the answer today. But I’m asking the question, and questions are more important than answers.

Happy Easter, happy March equinox, happy Sunday, happy day. I’m thinking of you.

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Originally published at The Bee Hive. You can comment here or there.

Monday is the anniversary of my dad’s death, again. It was a reflective time for me last year and it’s looking like it will be the same this year.

I can tell because last night we went to see Josh Ritter (whom Jae has been talking about for years but I’m just catching up). There was a song he played with lyrics that said “tell me I got here at the right time” and it was bittersweet and melancholy and painted a picture of loving someone through illness, and it got me thinking about the process of caring for my dad while he was sick and the acceptance I had to come to about the possibility that in one of my trips back to Nashville, I would not be there when he died. And that’s basically how it worked out in the end — Karsten and I had just made it back to Chicago that evening and decided not to go by my parents’ house until the next morning since it was already pretty late. And my dad died that night.

Sometimes the loss hurts more because I know I could have seen him alive one more time, but more often I know I was there at the right times all the previous times.

Anyway, it’s funny how once you’re reminded of something difficult, you can see connections in the loosest ways. So all through the rest of Josh Ritter’s set, I was primed to reflect on all kinds of loss, but especially my dad. And then he played “Kathleen,” which is one of the few songs of his I knew before last night, and I like it but it’s a tough one for me, because it so heavily references the Irish standard “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” and that’s one of the songs my dad used to sing when he was a nightclub performer and is the source of my name. Of course, Ritter’s song goes off in a different direction, but I think if you carry the connection over and think about his song in the context of its heritage, it makes his song even more intriguing. The Irish song is a plea to that song’s Kathleen to hold out hope in the narrator, to recognize that he sees she is unhappy and that he can once again bring her the happiness that she has lost. The Ritter song is a plea to its Kathleen to place some hope in the narrator, to recognize that he appreciates her and can see her clearly and can make her happy even if it’s just for one night. Each song is a kind of begging, but from nearly opposite ends of the lifecycle of a relationship — and, you could even say, nearly opposite ends of life itself.

Anyway, I thought about that while he was playing the song, but I was also just washed away in grief every time I heard the line “I’ll be the one to drive you home, Kathleen.”

And yet I walked away from the show feeling hopeful, and creatively inspired. I think there’s another post about that I need to write, because there are other factors at work there, but I definitely took away ideas from listening to Ritter’s brutal and beautiful honesty, and I intend to use them.

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Originally published at The Bee Hive. Please leave any comments there.

I didn't think I was in the mood to do it, but I did it. I got outside right after breakfast (which, by the way, was a waffle with diced mango and kiwi along with my absolute favorite coffee, Bongo Java Kaldi's Dog -- but I digress) and got my gardening stuff all set up.

And then went squeeing back inside to tell Karsten that the resurrection lilies had finally emerged. They grow incredibly fast -- they're already over two feet high -- but I didn't even notice them emerging before this morning.

You may recall that these are a gift from my dad. A while before he died, they were in bloom in my parents back yard and my mom cut some and put them in a vase for him to admire from his bed. I complimented him on his beautiful flowers when I came to see him that day, and he told me that he wanted me to dig some up to remember him by.

So I did. The day he died, after the day had quieted down a bit, I went out back to where the bulbs were planted. It was early November in the Chicago area and the ground was pretty hard but the digging felt good and cathartic, and eventually I managed to dug up three good bulbs. I put them in a plastic bag in my parents' refrigerator to bring home with me a few days later. It was cold when I got back to Nashville, so I worried about putting them right into the ground, which meant that they stayed in our refrigerator until the next spring, when one day I happened to notice a little bit of green emerging from the bulbs right inside the baggie in the fridge.

So I got outside and placed them in a line of three and planted a semicircle of daylilies around them to accent them. And they continued to sprout leaves, which died back as they're supposed to, but no flowers ever emerged that summer.

I was a little worried they weren't very healthy after their difficult transition, but this past spring the leaves came up again and I got hopeful that they'd actually flower this year.

And there they are, beautiful as can be.



I can't tell you how happy it makes me to have these flowers. I really can't tell you; there are no adequate words. But perhaps you can imagine.



I did get my other gardening done, too, by the way -- planting, weeding, transplanting, mulching, watering, oh my! -- and took a bunch of pictures, which produced some of the better results I've gotten with this newish camera. Here's one of the new dianthus firewitch plants, all up close and personal:



And then I wanted to sit back and admire it all, but first Karsten thought I should show you all how dirty I got and how "cute" (I say "dorky") I look in my shade hat.



Here's

I wonder about the organizers of Bonnaroo, and whether they intentionally scheduled the festival for the weekend of Father's Day. You have to figure that with 80,000 some attendees, there are bound to be a whole lot of arguments about missing the family cookout or whatever.

As I am not attending Bonnaroo nor is my father living nor am I within proximity of any kind of family cookout, I have no such dilemma. My dilemma pertains more to simply getting through Father's Day with the least amount of psychological trauma.

Here, in no particular order, are a few ideas that have occurred to me thus far:

• Stay in bed.
  
  Tempting. On the other hand, Karsten points out that it will be there all day. I can always keep it as a fall-back option.



• Go for a walk in a park or other natural space.
  
  Good possibility. It's especially meaningful if there are a lot of birds around, since my dad used to love to watch the birds. But it might be too hot for this to be a pleasant experience, so I'll have to wait and see how the day shapes up.



• Sit on the front steps and try to enjoy the beautiful day.
  
  Already getting a jump on this one. Sitting out here with my laptop and a pot of coffee. But again, in an hour or so, it will probably warm up to where this won't be pleasant anymore.



• Do day-job work.
  
  Yeah, no.



• Write a song or three.
  
  Very probable. I did a little last night and was surprised at some of what came out.



• Clean, tidy, organize.
  
  I'll see how I feel. This would be helpful to do, but I just don't feel motivated to do it.



• Organize files on my computer.
  
  Same as above.



• Plan the porch party.
  
  I need to do this, and it might be fun. So maybe this will be a good stay-inside-while-it's-hot activity.



• Go back to bed.
  
  I know, I already talked about bed. But it's sounding like such an appealing option.

I do genuinely wish a happy Father's Day to anyone out there to whom it applies. And I genuinely wish good alternatives for anyone who needs them.

A coworker's dad is battling cancer, and has just taken what sounds like a significant turn for the worse. The coworker is understandably distraught.

My heart goes out to him, of course, but the reason I'm even writing about it is that, naturally, the situation has me thinking about my own father's battle with cancer, and the dragged-out, painful process of losing him. There's still not much positive I can say about that whole time period. I'm not even sure I believe the "that which does not kill us makes us stronger" canard, chiefly because it's taken a crazy long time to recover even to this point, and I still feel like I'm operating at about 50% of my prior capabilities.

I think about the best that can be said about going through such difficult times is that, if we allow ourselves, we can become better listeners, more empathetic, more in touch with our deepest hopes and fears, and more aware and appreciative of the precious fleeting goodness all around us.

That's good and bad. I suspect all of that may be why I'm operating at 50% -- all the added awareness and emotional processing may be crowding out the rational and analytical processes in my poor, overworked brain. And it's hard to function normally in society when you're a walking barometer of other people's emotional states. But then again, maybe that's a version of being made "stronger" -- I don't know. It's certainly not the kind of "stronger" I was anticipating.

But I guess I'll take it.

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Yesterday when I posted my year in review stats, I briefly thought the 28th of December was just a tad too soon to wrap up the year. And then I dismissed that thought with a snort.

Well, my anal-retentive detail-oriented nature turned out to be right, because the number of bird feeders stolen this year has now increased by three. One of them was only a cheap suet cage, and the other two were relatively inexpensive, but the feeders themselves were still worth about $30 combined and they were full of feed, so that's another $10 or so.

And it's not the money anyway. Putting out feed for the birds isn't all that cheap a hobby even if nothing ever got stolen, so I'm prepared for a little expense here and there. It's the principle of it. As I mentioned in one of the previous posts about stolen feeders, we originally set up these feeders as a sort of memorial to my dad, who loved feeding the birds. Every time we lose one, I wish the thieves could be cursed with knowing the grief they're inflicting. (And now the number of posts tagged "dad" just went up by one, too.)

Actually, I realized that I underestimated the stolen bird feeder number anyway -- it was three the first time, and four the next time (three the day I wrote about it and one the day before). So it should have said seven yesterday, and it'll say 10 when I update it.

These were in our back yard and along the side of the house. I don't know why, but the theft of stuff from our back yard feels more invasive than the theft of stuff from our front yard. Well, yeah, I guess I do know why: the front is so public and accessible, and people walk by on the sidewalk all the time, and it's only a few steps off the sidewalk to anywhere in the front yard. It's hard to really secure anything, and somehow I just accept that now. But to get to where the feeders were in the back you have to come clear across our back yard -- not huge, but a good deal more than a few steps -- from the alley and right up next to the house. It's even more invasive that they went along the side of the house, right next to our bedroom window. That all feels pretty creepy to me.

And I haven't reported it to the police because every time I call in one of these petty thefts, the person on the phone (not sure if the person who answers the non-emergency line is an officer or an operator or what) acts like I'm annoying them with trivialities. I'm certainly not looking for police action or for an officer to come to my house or anything, but in my mind, even the little stuff like this matters in case a pattern evolves and can be linked with larger thefts or break-ins. But from the way the police act over the phone, you'd think I was reporting that someone looked at my cat funny and I want them arrested.

Anyway, I'm irritated beyond belief.

It’s Veterans’ Day, and it’s my niece’s birthday. Prior to last year, that was a point most often acknowledged by the joke about how, the day my niece was born, it was also Labor Day for my sister. Last year, the overlap gained new significance as my dad — her grandfather — had just died (on 11/5), and was to be buried in a veterans’ cemetary. The funeral was on 11/10. I thought a lot that day about how hard my niece’s birthday the next day would be for her. In fact, one of my most daunting challenges all that week was trying find a birthday card that said the right variation on “hope you have a happy birthday anyway.”

= = =

My dad’s service in the Army back in the ’50s was as an Arabic linguist, so his work was in Military Intelligence. We didn’t discuss it often when I was growing up, but we knew it. I’ll never forget the first argument we had after 9/11. He’d been visiting me and Karsten in Portland on 9/10 while traveling on business, and then had to go on to Vancouver, BC. Following the restrictions of 9/11, he was stuck in Canada for a few days. When he came back a few weeks later to complete his business trip, we walked along the Cumberland River and got into a heated argument about why. If I could have it to do again, I’d shut the hell up and listen to him. I didn’t have to agree with him, but he was an expert on the region (albeit with dated expertise), and I just might have learned a thing or two instead of presuming he was coming from a place of conservatism and closed-mindedness.

= = =

Here’s a bit of trivia: I almost joined the military myself; did you know that? I was all set to follow in my father’s footsteps, as a military linguist. I scored very well on the ASVAB and absolutely rocked the DLAB. Highest score ever recorded in the state of Illinois, they told me. When I told my dad, he beamed and said he’d scored the highest ever recorded in the state of Maryland when he took it, and then he hugged his little language-learning-freak daughter. Over the next few weeks, though, the Army stalked me. Recruiters called me morning and evening, recruiters tried to give me rides home from school, recruiters made a nuisance of themselves. And I felt positively cornered. So I told them to get lost. It took a lot of repeating myself to get the message across, but eventually they did give up and go away.

So, this is embarassing to admit, but on 9/11, one of my first feelings was guilt. With my score on the DLAB, I knew I may very well have been an Arabic linguist, and there may very well have been something I could have done to better prepare us as a country. I know, I know, it’s a ridiculous, arrogant thought. Like I said, it’s embarassing to admit. But it was an honest reaction, and a well-meaning one.

= = =

My boyfriend during the first few years in college was an Army Ranger. He was in the reserves, though, so after basic training, he only had to report for duty one weekend each month. He came over to see me on a break from his duty one weekend, but there was a miscommunication and no one knew where he was. He was actually AWOL, which both freaked me out (AWOL? just to see me?!) and amused me greatly. The scariest part was when his grandmother found out. She got really mad at him. The Army should have recruited her as a drill sergeant. She was terrifying.

= = =

After writing all this out, all that’s left is to sincerely thank the people who’ve actually put up with the recruiters, gone through with enlistment, and who’ve done something for our country. There are many ways to serve a concept you believe in, and the military is one dangerous way to serve the concept of the greatness of the USA. It’s a concept that we don’t always live up to, but I deeply appreciate the work of those who believe in it enough to risk their lives for.

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Originally published at The Bee Hive. You can comment here or there.

It's Veterans' Day, and it's my niece's birthday. Prior to last year, that was a point most often acknowledged by the joke about how, the day my niece was born, it was also Labor Day for my sister. Last year, the overlap gained new significance as my dad -- her grandfather -- had just died (on 11/5), and was to be buried in a veterans' cemetary. The funeral was on 11/10. I thought a lot that day about how hard my niece's birthday the next day would be for her. In fact, one of my most daunting challenges all that week was trying find a birthday card that said the right variation on "hope you have a happy birthday anyway."

= = =

My dad's service in the Army back in the '50s was as an Arabic linguist, so his work was in Military Intelligence. We didn't discuss it often when I was growing up, but we knew it. I'll never forget the first argument we had after 9/11. He'd been visiting me and Karsten in Portland on 9/10 while traveling on business, and then had to go on to Vancouver, BC. Following the restrictions of 9/11, he was stuck in Canada for a few days. When he came back a few weeks later to complete his business trip, we walked along the Cumberland River and got into a heated argument about why. If I could have it to do again, I'd shut the hell up and listen to him. I didn't have to agree with him, but he was an expert on the region (albeit with dated expertise), and I just might have learned a thing or two instead of presuming he was coming from a place of conservatism and closed-mindedness.

= = =

Here's a bit of trivia: I almost joined the military myself; did you know that? I was all set to follow in my father's footsteps, as a military linguist. I scored very well on the ASVAB and absolutely rocked the DLAB. Highest score ever recorded in the state of Illinois, they told me. When I told my dad, he beamed and said he'd scored the highest ever recorded in the state of Maryland when he took it, and then he hugged his little language-learning-freak daughter. Over the next few weeks, though, the Army stalked me. Recruiters called me morning and evening, recruiters tried to give me rides home from school, recruiters made a nuisance of themselves. And I felt positively cornered. So I told them to get lost. It took a lot of repeating myself to get the message across, but eventually they did give up and go away.

So, this is embarassing to admit, but on 9/11, one of my first feelings was guilt. With my score on the DLAB, I knew I may very well have been an Arabic linguist, and there may very well have been something I could have done to better prepare us as a country. I know, I know, it's a ridiculous, arrogant thought. Like I said, it's embarassing to admit. But it was an honest reaction, and a well-meaning one.

= = =

My boyfriend during the first few years in college was an Army Ranger. He was in the reserves, though, so after basic training, he only had to report for duty one weekend each month. He came over to see me on a break from his duty one weekend, but there was a miscommunication and no one knew where he was. He was actually AWOL, which both freaked me out (AWOL? just to see me?!) and amused me greatly. The scariest part was when his grandmother found out. She got really mad at him. The Army should have recruited her as a drill sergeant. She was terrifying.

= = =

After writing all this out, all that's left is to sincerely thank the people who've actually put up with the recruiters, gone through with enlistment, and who've done something for our country. There are many ways to serve a concept you believe in, and the military is one dangerous way to serve the concept of the greatness of the USA. It's a concept that we don't always live up to, but I deeply appreciate the work of those who believe in it enough to risk their lives for.

Well, here it is: the day I've been dreading. It's been one year since my dad died. I thought I would have a lot to say about that, but I find myself oddly quiet on the subject. The only thing I'll say is what I wrote in an email to my sister this morning:

I still miss Dad very much, of course, but I'm also amazed at how much healing happens in the course of one year. Then again, I'm equally amazed at how much still hurts after a whole year has passed. It's almost like time and healing can be measured in two different dimensions, on two different scales, with one exceeding my expectations and one falling so very short. Or whatever. I guess that's why it's easier just to say "life is funny." ;)

Shawn Colvin already summed it up for me, anyway, with this song:

( One Small Year )

Yesterday, the Race for the Cure came through our neighborhood, and I stood outside with a cup of coffee and watched them, thinking of my dad, and how he lost his race. But it was encouraging to see how many people turned out to help raise money for the cause, so maybe someday cancer will be a thing of the past.

Speaking of raising money for good causes, last night, we went to two fundraisers. The first was for the Nashville Humane Association: Anipalooza. Heh. We went to the one last year, too, and I'm sorry to say that this year's wasn't as good as last year's. Last year they had doggie speed dating, which was just about the cutest thing ever, but that was gone this year for whatever reason. The music in the main tent was also too loud, meaning you could barely hear someone shouting next to you, and you sure weren't going to casually mix and mingle and get to know new people.

On the plus side, there were kittens inside the shelter, which just about makes up for any shortcoming in event planning. Just like last year, Karsten was in one of the cat rooms playing with kittens most of the time we were there, and drew a crowd watching him get the kittens all excited. You should have seen these kittens crawling all over Karsten. I took pictures but they only hint at the stinging cuteness of it all.

After that, we went to back to our neighborhood for the "Heart and Soul" benefit at Werthan Lofts, for the American Heart Association. The contrast was stunning: someone there must be a professional event planner or something. They gave out wine glasses to each attendee, along with maps of the building showing the lofts that were open for the event. And then they had signs up on the hallway walls and balloons marking the entrance of each open unit to help people find their way through the somewhat confusing layout of the building. Plenty of volunteers, plenty of wine, plenty of cool people, and plenty of music ensured that it was a great party. A lot of folks were there from the Germantown neighborhood, too, which was fun.

A Vietnamese coworker of Karsten's used to say: so much good, so much bad. I think of that a lot, and I consider it a victory when the bad doesn't overshadow the good. Right now, as much as it still hurts to miss my dad, I know the good in my life -- like loving and being loved so deeply by someone as wonderful as Karsten, and having a job I enjoy, and being part of a community of great people, and living in a home we have the ability to enjoy and improve, and having good friends, not to mention that I was lucky enough to have had a dad as wonderful as he was -- all that good is as bright as sunlight and nothing can overshadow it. And I guess that should be enough to get me through another small year.

Originally published at The Bee Hive. Please leave any comments there.

Today it begins. You’ve probably heard of NaNoWriMo, and some of you may remember that in years past I’ve attempted my own version: NaSoWriMo. 30 songs in 30 days. Last year, as a result of the death of my father, I didn’t participate.

I’m back in the saddle this time, though, so today I will be setting some time aside to begin my challenge. Wish me luck!

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According to the HRC, the theme of this year's coming out day is "Talk About It." They've got a "Sorry Everybody"-style collection of pictures of people posing with signs that say "Talk About It."

I'm bisexual. But I'm also too lazy to print out a sign, take a picture of myself, and upload it, so I'll just talk about it here instead, shall I?

Step 1: Coming Out to Myself
I started my coming out process (and it is a process, rather than one big step -- and that process continues as long as you continue to meet new people) in 1991. That was the year I started college. I knew before that, in a way, that I was attracted to both men and women. What I couldn't tell was whether those attractions made me completely normal or psychopathically deranged. Because while I had plenty of exposure to gay and lesbian people (well, plenty of exposure to gay males -- it was rare that I encountered a lesbian), I had never heard of anyone who was attracted to both men and women... but I had never heard that it wasn't possible, either, or even normal. Still, I kept it under my hat, hoping someday it would all make sense to me.

And one fine day, in August 1991, it did. I was walking around with my new roommate, Andrea, and all across campus there were informational tables set up for student groups. And that was when I first saw the word: Bisexual. It was on the banner for Pride, the GLBT student group. I could parse it right away: bi meaning two, and sexual... well, let's just say I definitely knew what that meant. I stopped in my tracks and stared at the word. I even said it out loud. I can't remember if Andrea looked at me funny right then, because I was too caught up in my own world. And then we moved on, and I didn't say anything else about it for the rest of the day.

But the next day, after musing on it all night, I said to Andrea, "You know, I think I'm bisexual." And she said, "Yeah, I know. It was obvious when you saw the Pride sign yesterday."

Step 2: Coming Out to My Parents
I came out to my parents in 1993, just before leaving the country. At the time that felt like really smart timing, but in retrospect it gave us too much time apart with them unable to ask questions or have follow-up conversations, and in years to follow, they did their best to pretend I'd never said it. Even when I would deliberately make references to this "ex-girlfriend" or that "girl I was dating," it was just dropped as quickly as possible.

Step 3: Coming Out to My Sister
I came out to my sister in a letter in 1996, just after I'd moved to California. She'd told me before I left that she was a good pen pal, and since we'd never been close, she indicated an interest in getting to know each better through writing letters. I included the fact that I was bi in the first letter I sent her, and I never got a response. For years, I thought this was her rejection of my queerness. It wasn't until last year, as she and I were both giving care to our dying father, that I broached the subject. And it turned out she had never received the letter. She knew about my being bi before that point anyway, as my parents had told her, and she says she would've reassured me that it wouldn't change anything. Instead, the letter that got lost in the mail was one of the causes of a 9-year rift between us.

Step 4: Coming Out to My Extended Family
I came out to my extended relatives a little bit by accident, in 1998. I'd volunteered to help coordinate a family web site, and in the process included a link to my personal web site. At the time, I was running a large, high-profile bisexual resources web site, and it was prominently linked from my home page. I didn't worry about this, because I was under the impression that at some point, my parents had divulged this bit of information to the rest of the family, and that no one would be finding out this way. This was not the case. I received a scathing email from my uncle, who called me immature and selfish, and told me I was hurting my parents.

On the bright side of that hurtful incident, my dad came to my defense, writing a letter back to his younger brother and telling him that his response has been "extreme and totally unenlightened as well as un-christianlike" and adding that his "unfair and unkind judgment" of me was "totally unacceptable." If my dad hadn't already been my hero, he would have been immediately promoted based solely on that one letter.

Step 5: Not Becoming Invisible
In 1997, I met the love of my life. He happens to be male, and he happens to be straight, and initially that was hard for me. I didn't want to limit my identity to just the "heterosexual side" (I don't actually conceive of my sexuality as having sides, which is why I use the quotes, but it's simplest to explain it that way). I feared that if we were monogamous, I would be defined as straight, and that felt deeply wrong. But being involved with other people has never worked out well for us, and we've been mostly monogamous for a large portion of the nine years we've been together. I'm still bisexual, I still find women attractive (just as I still find men attractive -- occasionally!), and I still have major misgivings about being thought to be straight. But I have no regrets about being with Karsten, and our love is broad enough and complex enough that it makes sexual orientation a moot issue.

Step 6, 7, 8, ...
And so it goes. Every time I meet new people, every time someone makes a gay joke, every time I hear someone ignore the possibility of bisexuality, there's an opportunity to out myself. I'm less forward about it in some ways now than I used to be, partly because I live in a more culturally conservative area than I ever have before, partly because I find myself questioning how relevant it is to anyone but me, and partly because it's just there in the background, not bothering me, not needing to be announced, not needing to be talked about.

Except for today. Today I'm talking about it. I hope it helps someone understand themselves or someone else just a little bit better.

Happy Coming Out Day, everyone.

I got email from my mom today. Apparently, some former colleagues of my dad's planted a tree and staked a plaque at the tree in memory of my dad. The site was a golf course where he'd organized a bunch of golf outings for the organization. The email included this forwarded message from a former colleague of my dad's:

"John, Bert and Amy Coghill from Silver Lake Country Club have planted a tree as a memorial to Marty. Kop-Flex and AIST have placed a plaque at the base of the tree to commemorate Marty’s long career with Kop-Flex and his dedication to the AIST organization. The tree is a Red Horse Chestnut and is located on the number 1 hole on the south course about half way down the left hand side of the fairway. We as a group felt that since Marty has planned so many wonderful golf outings for us over the years that he should have a place to watch over the outing for many years to come. The Coghill family welcomes you and your family to come and see the tree and plaque anytime you wish."

My mom was clearly very moved, and I am, too. It was a lovely thing to do. But wow, seeing his name and dates of birth and death on the photo of the plaque really stung me.

I was just reading a blurb in the Borders newsletter about Tim Russert's new book "Wisdom of our Fathers" and getting choked up when I noticed a CNN email alert that Ian Copeland died Tuesday and he was only 57, so I went to check that article out, and of course he died of melanoma.

Looks like it's going to be a rough Father's Day this year.

Edited to add: Billboard's obit.

Following up on this post from a week and a half ago:

When I saw my mom last week in Chicago, she said there was one thing she was disappointed about regarding the article that described the luncheon that turned into an impromptu memorial for my dad. She wished she'd known they were going to do that so she could have directed them to the memorial web site and information about his memorial fund.

I suggested she write a letter to the editor, partly to thank them and partly to provide that information. She did, and says she's already heard back from the editor, as well as the business editor and the reporter who covered the luncheon, and they're all touched by what she wrote.

( Here's that one )

I talked to my mom last night, and found out that a work luncheon last Thursday turned into a tribute to my dad, and the woman who was there from the newspaper wrote the article almost entirely about that.

Matteson chamber's first luncheon
Marty O'Neill honored during inaugural ceremony

Sunday, February 12, 2006
By Erika Enigk, The Star

The inaugural Matteson Area Chamber of Commerce luncheon on Thursday became an unofficial tribute to a member who died in late 2005.

( Directors and members fondly remembered the late Marty O'Neill )

( ginormous 2005 year-end meme behind cut )

It isn't easy being back at work, that's for sure. It doesn't help that things around here are kind of nutty what with problems that have arisen since the latest software release in mid-October, so there's a whole damage-control element to the work I got back just in time to do.

Still, it's distracting, and sometimes that helps. But other times, I just want to curl up into a ball in a corner and cry and miss my daddy.

My mom has made her plans to come visit Nashville at Christmastime. She's traveling on my dad's birthday (December 21st) and will arrive that evening, so she'll be here for my birthday (the 23rd), as well as the 22nd, when we always used to celebrate both my dad's and my birthdays together. I imagine that's going to be tough for both my mom and me, so I'm glad we'll be together. And then she's staying through the 27th or 28th, I can't remember which. Still not sure if my sister and her kids are coming down -- they've been invited, but I don't know if they'll be able to swing it. And I think my brother and his wife are stuck working around Christmas, so they can't get away.

Anyway, that's that. I'm glad we have plans. Christmastime is going to be hard. I don't even care that much about Christmas, but because of the timing of our birthdays, I associate the whole season so much with my dad; it's just going to hurt like hell.

I can't decide if I should have a birthday party (or rather, get Karsten to throw me a birthday party) to help distract me or if I'll just be miserable. Guess I'll wait and see how I feel in the next few weeks before I make up my mind.

Someone paid to have a "guest book" set up at legacy.com, linked from the Chicago Tribune web site, for comments about my Dad. The entries are really touching.