This is not really about claiming a word, although that is perhaps a positive side effect. It’s about posessing myself and not being shamed. A lot of the lgbt community is incredibly insulted by the word faggot. In some ways, I understand why. This word has been used as a weapon against us for a long while. It has a host of negative connotations.
In a bigger way though, I don’t get why people make a fuss about it. If someone calls me a faggot, they’re saying I sleep with men, which I do. I’m not ashamed of that and I have no feeling of insult.
One might argue that a person who calls me a fag is also calling me weak, effemenite, swishy, or a host of other things. If a person calls me a fag they’re trying to invoke all the negative or insulting attributes of stereotypical gay men. I own my advantages and disadvantages, my failings and successes, and I choose which ones are positive traits and negative traits.
Words have power, whether or not we give it to them. The word faggot is chock full of power. But it’s my power. It’s a word that intersects with my sub-culture and gathers a tremendous amount of force, and that force does not belong to the people who use it as a weapon. It belongs to us as queer men and women. It cuts us because we invest it with the force to do so. I refuse to damage myself like that.
Often, when I refer to myself as a faggot people around me are surprised. Sometimes they are put off. Sometimes they are insulted for me. Sometimes they themselves are insulted. Every time it is an opportunity to teach people that I am not afraid or ashamed of the descriptions people give me. They are either true or not. If they are true, and I am ashamed, that means I have an issue I need to work on. If they are false, I have no reason to be hurt or ashamed by them.
This is part of a larger pattern of thought that I’ve been moving through lately. It’s a response to what I perceive to be a huge problem. I’ve had a few arguments with people lately about placing the blame on the wrong thing. The word faggot is not a problem. The problem is people who hate us.
We seem to make a habit of addressing our concerns by attacking the explicit instead of the implicit. They are certainly connected, but problems are usually rooted in the implicit. They’re rooted in an understanding, a philosophy, belief, or pattern. Changing explicit behavior does not always alter the implicit reality.
Correllation does not imply causation. Telling people not to use the word faggot does not stop people from discriminating against me or hating me. In truth, I suspect it makes them more likely to do so, and to do so in secret. On the other hand, recognizing that I am a faggot, makes a powerful statement that trying to supress the word does not.
It says that I own myself and my expression. It says that you can not shame me. It says that you do not have the authority to place moral judgment upon me. It says that I am not afraid.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about congruence lately. About personal congruence yes, but more about congruence with the world around us. As a gay man, A lot of my life is fraught with a certain quality of incongruence, that of my lifestyle as it relates to the heteronormative culture that surrounds me. I, and my community, tend to try and mitigate that incongruence by forming our own culture, and in a lot of ways I am very insulated from the larger world by the gay community. The same thing often happens in the pagan community. In any community that has large idealogical or cultural differences from the norm.
… read the rest
While I was going through poetry earlier today, I stumbled upon this short sexy story. It’s kind of mind-bendy, and I should warn you that it’s violent, sexually explicit, and potentially contains examples of non-consensual sex (depending on how you view it). That said, if you’re kinky or violent, it will probably be enjoyable. This hasn’t been edited at all, and may have some major issues. (To be kind to your brain I added a bit of formatting to make it easier to understand. You’re welcome)
… read the rest
I’ve just finished reading “The Door into Fire” by Diane Duane again, and I’m touched and transformed by the wisdom within it. I always forget how it speaks to me, how it unfolds and awakens. there is such beauty in the world that is described. I can not hope to do it justice.
Her world, like ours, is flawed. It’s inhabitants are flawed. The very truth of these flaws, their honesty, is refreshing and powerful, but the real beauty comes from an understanding of one of the few truths I hold dear. The power to love is the gift that redeems us as citizens of this universe. All our greatness comes from our emotion, and it is in love that we stand silently victorious over the chaos of the world.
“How She must love us, To share with us all, to give us so very much — I can’t understand it. Just for my own part, even. What incredible thing have I done, or will I do, to earn — to deserve such, such blessing, so much love….”
… read the rest
The world is not the place it once was. It is my deepest hope that you are experiencing a youth infinitely easier and more informed than my own. But if you aren’t, there are some things that I wish I had known, that I hope you know.
You are not alone. No matter what you are told, or how deep your fears, you are not alone. There are others who know how you feel, who have suffered as you suffer, and who have come through it.
Never be ashamed of who you are. The world will try to make the very words that define you into an insult. Gay. Faggot. Homo. Pride means owning and loving your self-image. Do not be insulted by the truth, and don’t be baited by lies.
If someone can not accept who you are, they are broken. It has nothing to do with you. Love them as hard as you can, and offer healing, but know that you can not force them.
Many who dwell in dogmas will tell you that queer people have a special gift. I can not confirm or aver the accuracy of this dogma, but I can tell you that our circumstances create opportunities for us that few others have. We suffer at the hands of our culture and religion, and that suffering tempers and hones our compassion. Our compassion, our ability to ease the suffering of others, is our greatest strength, even though it may seem to be a curse. Cultivate compassion with every breath and experience.
Do not be fooled by the fantasy that the nebulous ‘they’ are filled with hate and are out to get you. ‘They,’ are people just like you and I, and ‘they,’ are probably trying their best to do the right thing. Forgive them their errors and meet their ignorance with compassion, sincerity, and the simple truth of yourself. It is within your power to rise above the culture of ignorance and hate. Do not cultivate in yourself that which you decry in those that hurt you.
Find a creative outlet. You do not need to be a master painter, or lauded poet. You need be nothing other than yourself, but if you do not create something with the results of your suffering you will either explode or implode from the pressure. You do not need to show what you’ve created to anyone, but I encourage you to do so, it is often therapeutic.
Never conform. Do not try to be someone you are not, either in conformity to the predominant culture of your home, or in conformity to the pressures of the gay community. Stand for your own beliefs, your own life, and your own desires. You may lose some friends this way, but those who are attracted to your sense of self will be worth far more than any naysayers.
And finally, if you are ever in doubt, remember that you are beautiful, and you are strong, and you are loved.
In love,
theo geer
The cat has gotten tired of listening to me type and has left the room to cause some form of mischief. I’m sure her life is very exciting when I’m not paying attention.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the past lately. A large part of being able to safely perform Goetic operations is controlling your own demons. The injuries and injustices of your past, along with your own blunders and wrongs.
From about fifth grade on I was pretty much universally known as the fag. Needless to say, this was very painful to me. It was especially painful to me being a very self-absorbed and private boy who had few friends. Even more so being as sheltered and insulated as I was. I didn’t know what a fag was, not really. I knew it was wrong, and dirty, and a nasty name. I didn’t know that fucking men was an option. If I had, I like to think that I would have realized I was gay and come out of the closet many years before I did.
Anyway, I spent a lot of years being the pariah. The outcast. The fag. And though I like to think I’ve overcome many of the tortures and memories of those years, the truth is that they have shaped a great deal of the person I am today. My devotion to protecting and helping gay youth, to organizations like the Trevor Project. My unyielding stance that homosexuality is no more or less than another variety of existence, and my refusal to let anyone shame me for my sex.
A lot of really positive traits have grown from the years of abuse I endured at the hands of my peers, and the blind-eyes of the faculty. But there are very deep wounds as well. When I spoke to Amatheon about those wounds he had much to say. The one thing he repeated over and over again, that I remember more than anything else is “No matter how deep the damage, your wounds can heal.”
I’ve come back to that statement more than a few times in the past year. I’ve looked at the damage that was done to hy heart, and I’ve realized that I’m not to blame for it. But I’ve yet to prove that statement true. As much as I want to believe it, I do not KNOW that I can be healed.
Something Coriander said to me earlier this evening (yesterday now) resonated with all of this. One of the core benefits of disciplined practice of ceremonial magic, of goetic operations, is the balancing of chaotic forces in your life. The skills needed to perform Ceremonial Magic well lend you authority in balancing the various forces in your life.
Coriander, in his wise-fool way said something along the lines of “It’s not about ‘Oh, this will balance my chaos so I’ll do that.’ It’s about ‘here I am doing what needs to be done. Oh! look, my chaos is balanced.’”
He’s right. I can’t go into things planning to fix the uncontrollable influences. Chaos is chaos because it can not be predicted. Balancing it is a function of an ordered experience in life, not of an effort to balance it. Similarly, I think I’m finding that the truth in Amatheon’s statement, not through finding methods to heal myself, but through observing that healing is happening. I don’t really know how. I know I don’t cry every time I think about those times anymore. (Sometimes I still do, but not every time.)
I’m also realizing that healing those wounds can not be the goal. They are too deep, too much a part of the person I’ve become to be approached directly. Their healing must be the result of life and learning.
One lesson I’ve learned, perhaps one of the most important lessons of my life, is that my concept of self may not be dependent upon those around me. It is a hard lesson to learn, particularly when one adores praise as much as I do. It is an even harder lesson to practice. Distancing myself from the long-standing pattern of feeling as though I’ve failed if I’m not stroked for my achievements is something that I struggle with every day.
It is even harder to accept praise with humility and gratitude, particularly when trying not to depend on it. It would be far easier to pretend not to hear it, or demean it’s value or intent. Of course doing so would be a rudeness and disrespect that I’d prefer not to commit.
And so it goes.
I had a sex dream last night. Normally that would have been quite enjoyable. For some odd reason though, this dream featured my ex in a leading role. Very disturbing. I haven’t fucked a woman in about 7 years, and it’s rare for me to want to. The dream made me uncomfortable.
It doesn’t help that I’ve been rather absurdly horny for the last couple of days. Yesterday all I could think about was sex. Sex and violence. I wanted all day to grab some cute guy by his hair and bite down on his neck or shoulder, and scratch his back or chest. There is that smell of sweat that men have and women don’t. Women smell of the deep forest when they get heated. They smell of nature, of the earth. Men smell of heat. They taste like pain and a violent thunderstorm. The heat of a man is like nothing else in this world.
The pain is part of it. When a man is hurting he radiates heat and energy and scent. His skin starts to glow and sweat seeps from every pore. His eyes get glassy. If you hurt him enough he begins to make noises that people don’t normally make. Enough that his body shudders and squirms with energy that needs to be released. You can feel it boiling off his skin, puddling like sex on the floor at your feet. The smell of it can blind you to anything else, and there is nothing in your world but that heat.
I did mention that I’m horny right?
Going to dinner with John tonight, gonna meet all his on-campus friends. The ones that think Ceann Uide and his North-Side friends are some mysterious illusion, possibly dangerous. I don’t know that I’ll break them of their thoughts of danger, but they’ll figure out that I’m not illusion that’s for sure. I’m about ready for a nap already. I haven’t even gotten to work yet, and I’m ready to sleep. I am considering breakfast.