Toxic Masculinity

Being a comedian here in Portland, there are moments where certain jokes are made at my expense. In those type of settings, be them in a theater or in a group of friends, I’ve learned to let a lot of what people say about me roll off me like water on a duck’s back. But recently I was the subject of a comment that seemed harmless, but eventually it ran off this duck’s back into a pool that I, until recently, did not realize was there. One small drop seems harmless, but when it meets an existing pool, it creates a monster of self-doubt and paranoia.

This particular pool of comments that affected me has been that of my masculinity. I would like to say that I’ve always been comfortable with the kind of person that I am, but really it’s just been a willing ignorance. I’ve always had certain vocal and physical tendencies that people have pegged as less masculine. I have interests in show tunes, Broadway, acting, performing, Carol Burnett and Sutton Foster. I keep my nails cut and try to keep my hair and appearance presentable. I randomly hum songs here and there. I have always felt more comfortable being friends with women. I prefer things to be cleaned and organized.

There have been times that people have admitted that they had a sinking feeling that I was gay, but people admitting that to me never really hurt when I was growing up. Why would it? Being mistaken as gay is not, and should not be an insult. But considering it in hindsight, why on earth do we associate these tendencies with being gay? Don’t these assumptions make asses out of all parties? As an adult, certain things in my life have become concrete. I am a heterosexual with he/him/his pronouns, and recently when people make jokes about my tendencies, it not only insults those who identify as that which you’ve jokingly tagged me with, it also damages a great deal of what I’ve come to try to view as being normal.

I grew up with a twin brother. My brother was someone I looked up to immensely. I literally learned to walk from him, I learned to talk from him. I emulated him socially because he was so good at making friends, and people at school and in church seemed to gravitate towards him. I admired him (still do), but I also grew with him. As twins, we naturally grew up to have many of the same interests, and because of nature and nurture we had same of the same vocal and physical tendencies. I never viewed this as anything other than me and my brother being the same. We enjoyed playing dress up and disappearing into our worlds of pretend. We were surrounded by female friends all throughout grade school. We played with Barbie dolls and we would clean our room singing along to audio cassette tapes of The Lion King and The Wizard of Oz. This was normal play for us, it was all I knew and so it was never seen as abnormal or weird. When we watched movies, we would re-create the worlds with blankets and chairs, and act out the movies line-by-line. Even when we were in the car, my brother and I would start a movie quote, and we wouldn’t be able to stop until we reached a pun or the end of a scene. I loved movies and acting, and I think I always knew I wanted to be a performer.

In Middle School we played Basketball and soccer, we acted in school plays, we played the piano and we sang in the choir. So when we hit High School, we had so many options open to us. But it was while I was sitting in Homeroom, watching the announcements projected on the classroom television that I saw an ad for Drama Club. It was on that fateful day that I decided that I wanted to join the drama department. We got involved in Thespians, then ran crew for a couple of shows, and eventually found our way into reading lines in front of an audience.

I worked really hard all throughout High School in an attempt to be good at acting. I loved acting because it allowed for me to escape who I was and become someone else. At an age that is full of questions, I found the answers in the world of theater. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy my life, or that my life warranted escaping. But there were so many answers that were lying in wake for me to discover in each and every script that I picked up. So many life lessons that came to me through dialogue or lyrics. Whether it be in Sondheim’s heart-wrenching song, “Somewhere,” or in the people’s testimonies of “The Laramie Project,” I learned from the words, characters and songs of playwrights and composers. The more characters I took on, the more I learned about myself.

In my senior year, I ended up performing two monologues and entered them into the Regional and State Acting Competitions. It was when I was on stage, in front of hundreds of Thespians from all over the state of Oregon, taking on the role of a man screaming at his sleeping wife about a mid-life crisis and transforming into a boy sickened by the world’s neglect of his late-grandmother, it was then that I felt an energy that I can only describe as euphoric. I felt like a composer, with access to the strings of everyone’s heart. In the span of 8 minutes, I took the audience on a journey of emotions. In one second I had them laughing, and in the next I could feel the silent support of everyone in the audience at the edge of their seat. It was the most energy and support I had ever felt up until that moment. I felt the true magic of what it is to be a storyteller.

Even after High School, I continued to pursue performing. While studying at Utah State, I performed with the local improv group, The Antics, in their Friday, late night spot at the main street art house. I also acted in as many plays and musicals as I could, meeting some of the most wonderful, passionate people I have ever met in my life. After a couple of years infusing my life with theater and improv, I took a journey to Disney World and worked as a Character Performer. I brought magic to thousands of families in each interaction I had, and it was positively the most beautiful experience I have ever had at a job. Watching the faces of families from all over the world light up with delight and wonder was absolutely magical.

It was shortly after I returned from working at Disney World that my brother came out of the closet. It was a big moment for him, one that I will always be so proud of him for. But when he came out, nothing about my brother changed, other than him being more open and honest about who he chose to love. My brother was still the same old brother. When people asked if we were surprised when my brother came out, or if we ever suspected he was gay, I always just said, “It was never really about Cameron being gay. We never saw who he was as something to be categorized, we always just saw him as Cameron. When he came out, all that changed was our expectation of who he would be bringing to Thanksgiving.”

This same thought, though in a different context, can be said for me. I may have the same physical, vocal, and emotional tendencies as my brother, but that doesn’t make me gay. It makes me Chris.

I can honestly say that it is because of the physical, vocal and emotional tendencies that I grew up with that formed me into the man and the performer that I am today. It is because of my bleeding heart, and hopeless romantic tendencies that I inherited from the thousands of romantic comedies that I watched, that I now have a solid, beautiful life with my incredible wife. She and I listen to each other, and we encourage each other’s passions. She sees me for who I am, and encourages what kind of man I’ve become. To her, I am no less a man because of my tendencies and my passions.

But recently, I was the bud of a small comment that I could not let slide off. It was small and insignificant. It was a seemingly insignificant joke. But it was a joke that decided to strike a chord instead of roll away. The joke insulted my masculinity. It was a joke made from the context of my tendencies. I clip my nails, I love theater, and I have vocal and physical inflections that won’t be found on a football field or lumber yard. It was a joke that fed the paranoia of whether or not I am “man enough” for my wife, or to be considered friends with any of the males in my life. Even though I have had a life of just being me, and not paying attention to how others view my masculinity, it was this tiniest of tiny comments that sent me into the incredibly dark twister that is toxic masculinity.

So please, the next time you want to come to an assumption about any one based on how they behave, talk or look – Don’t. We are all unique. There is no right way to be anything or anyone. I identify as a heterosexual male. I perform comedy and I have a feminine quality to my voice. I enjoy a movie or play more than a sports game, and I wear my heart on my sleeve. But I am a man nonetheless. The LGBTQIA community doesn’t deserve to be marginalized by your jokes and assumptions, and neither do I. I have a life full of instances that made me into who I am. I am not a book cover to be judged as anything other than who I am.

Self-serving rant/journey of self-discovery over.

The Before

It’s like standing on a beach. The water up to your ankles, feet slowly sinking into the sand. The further your feet sink, the warmer the sand becomes. You close your eyes and the crashing waves, the familiar wind, and the cawing gulls fill your soul. The cool mist of the ocean kisses your face. You feel a part of something bigger, easing into a feeling of home and belonging, stability, and yet a longing for the horizon ahead of you.

Standing there, you feel the wind die. You can no longer hear the seagulls, and the crashing of the waves begins to fade. You open your eyes and see that the tide is receding. A few feet at first, but as you wait for the next wave to bring the water back, a knot begins to tighten in your stomach. The air turns thick and green with alarm, the silence louder than a scream. The tide rushes away from you, further and further back, until it is miles away. Too far away to be good. The sweat on your brow swallows you. You need to run. Run to shore, run away. Run from danger, from the unknown. But you can’t. Be it the sand’s grip, or the siren call of inevitability, you are planted to bear witness to whatever is coming.

The water is too far away, now. Along with the tide, safety is receding. With every minute of stillness there another moment of hope dies. You feel every moment passing, like soldiers in a war. A war that you should have control over, where if you only turned away and began to run, you could save every moment lost. But still you remain.

You look out to the horizon, and you see it. A dark line, the water. It’s coming back. It will all come back, and everything will be fine. To feel that cool water embracing your feet again, to feel that belonging would give you the strength to pick your feet up and walk again.

The line on the horizon grows bigger, but still the silence remains. No life other than your own to welcome the coming tide. Still looking to the water, you wait to be embraced. Still miles away, the line grows. Larger and larger. As it closes its distance, it gains momentum. Growing to where you can no longer see the horizon, it is now a wall of water. Closer and closer, larger and larger, the line grows from a wall to a mountain. The mountain of water rises from the depths, like a leviathan, angered from it’s awakening.

Wrestling under the sand, your toes wriggle and writhe for freedom. The static of your legs scream to flee. But still you remain, frozen in an emotion you do not understand. Fear does not hold you, neither curiosity. Some thing holds you still, a capture’s grip. The ground begins to rumble. You see the abandoned shells and rocks around you begin to quake, like flipped quarters before finding their landing. The rumbling of the earth joins the roaring crescendo of the approaching mountain of water. Be it the electric thudding of your heart, or the scream you forgot to make, all are lost to the bellowing of this beast.

You feel the mist once again, but this time it is not the gentle kiss of belonging, but the evil breath of water’s fate. The howling of the water, the twisting, turning winds, and the deafening shudder of the earth tease you. Only ever growing louder, but never ending. You switch from fear of impact to welcoming it, begging for it. You only want it to stop, to come to an end.

The water is closing in. It is but seconds before it takes you. There is no life flashing before your eyes, no defining moment of peace. All you feel are questions without words. All you see is the deep, dark, ominous blue of the water charging at you. All you feel is the vibration of mother nature as she tears towards you.

And at the moment when you could literally reach out and touch the horror in front of you, where you can feel its raw, awesome power, when you feel that the end is but a blink away, the water stops. Everything is still. The roaring ceases and lingers like a prayer in the darkness before you. One breath, one movement, and the jaws of this titan could come crashing down. You look deep into the waters standing before you, and all you see are the eerie shadows of memory swimming in the leagues of distance beyond. Untouchable giants that rule the chasm of this sea dance too far to reach. The shadow of this wall standing before you blocks out the sun. It removes you from God’s gaze. With the strings of your regret it taunts you with its horror.

You feel the world behind you. Her shores are outstretched, reaching for you. But can you risk taking your eyes off the water? Can you run from this dark titan? But as quickly as the monster came to greet you, it turns it’s back. The wall retreats, taking with it the light of memory that lies within it’s dark chasms. It returns to the depths of the horizon to slumber for another year. The shadow fades and the sun returns. The gentles winds, the cawing gulls, and the cooling mist re-assimilate, and the ghost of normality settles. The water returns to your ankles and the crashing waves begin to sing their song once again. But you are still standing. Shaking. Waiting.

My sister was taken from this world on July 15th, 2008. Today marks 9 years and 364 days since her death. It is never the “day of” that terrifies me. What happened that day was finite. Tomorrow is the day it happened. It is the “before” that scares me. It is memory that plants me in that sand every year. Each day prior is the ruthless charge, and each day after is the forlorn recession of those waters. It is the “day of” that the monster takes its ruthless pause. Memory stays. She is remembered. Like a moth to a flame, the “day of” draws out all that was Mallory, all of her goodness and beauty. All of the promise of what could have been and should be rise. But the flame will always go out, the waters will recede, and every year I remain on the beach waiting for that pause, waiting for the “before.”

24 Hours

Cliche as it is to say, a lot can happen in 24 hours. Hell, while 24 hours can be a life-changing experience, a whole lifetime can alter in the matter of a few seconds. While 8 years seems to have slipped by like a drunken blur, it is a matter of 24 hours that managed to change absolutely everything. 8 years ago today I was in a car, driving to get the Parsons’ Breakfast of Champions (a pile of doughnuts and a gallon of chocolate milk that never seemed to be big enough). It was the summer to be, the cherry on top of a most brilliant year. Graduation for the eldest boys, many dance awards for our sister with the promise of academic success for her in the remaining years of High School, and being at the top of the food chain as a 5th grader for our youngest brother. Many vacations rolled into one incredible summer, with the promise of a couple of weeks in Utah with the family, and our first time to Yellowstone National Park to sum it all up. It was going to be a great send off for a fantastic year, and an expected door to more promise. But as the title of this blog states, the matter of a year didn’t matter, it was the sum of a mere 24 hours.

8 years ago from this very moment, I woke up late. We were sleeping on the floor of my grandparents house in Logan, UT. We were in the midst of a family extravaganza that we as children loved, but I’m sure our fathers wanted to stay clear from as much as possible. My dad returned home to Portland the day before, exhausted from our previous vacation, and needing to return back to work. My mom was upstairs shuffling around the kitchen with my aunts, preparing for our next adventure to Bear Lake. My brother rolls over, and in the motion of rolling from one side of the pillow to the next, groans that I need to get up to grab breakfast. He trailed off with more important details as his face disappeared into the newer side of his pillow, and so I shuffled out of the blankets and go upstairs to find out the specifics from my mother. She was very busy, I followed her around for a solid 20 minutes trying to extract breakfast from her, but the moment she would stop to talk to me another crucial element of our trip would seem to go out the window. It was at the moment that I could tell she was about to rip her hair out that I noticed my sister standing at the entrance to the kitchen with a list in one hand and the car keys in the other. She was looking at me as if I was completely missing the point, it took me a second to realize that I was. I ran downstairs and put on a pair of jeans and a cap, and rushed back up stairs to relinquish the keys from my unlicensed sister and we jumped into the car.

The thing that I love about Logan, UT is that it is a small town full of the kindest people, a valley surrounded by mountains tucked away. It always felt like it was an oasis of adventure and relaxation that was waiting for our family every summer. Driving to the grocer’s that morning, despite my desperate hunger, I took my time. Soaking in the warm sunshine and comfortable, dry heat. As we passed the quaint houses along the street, my sister and I debated on who was the better driver, me or my brother. We both knew that neither of us were good drivers, but I made a solemn effort to argue my case. She humored me… then she humbled me. She was always good at that, more so the humbling part. I was still arguing my driving etiquette when we jumped out of the car. I knew she wasn’t listening anymore, because she bolted right into the store, but that didn’t stop me from trying to convince myself.

The store was small and charming. It was the kind of store that if it could, would be spelled in a pseudoarchaic way, like ye “olde shoppe.” The store had a bell on top of the door, alerting the clerk of customers’ arrival. I still remember the sound of that bell, it rings as clear as day to me even as I am typing this now. There were only 4 aisles, and a single row of coolers. The clerk was at the check out counter, chatting it up with a patron about how hot the summer was going to be. My sister was already in the aisle we needed to be in as I groaned just thinking about the heat at Bear Lake. As much as I loved our traditional family reunion spot, the heated nights at Bear Lake were a nightmare. I remember countless vacations where I would debate on sleeping without the sheets to escape the heat of the condo lofts, or bundle up the covers to keep my sun burn, that I always seemed to manage every summer, from being exposed to the mosquitos that seemed to slip in every night despite the obstacles. Though this was only one miserable element in a sea of oppositely bright memories from Bear Lake, it was enough to distract me from our mission; breakfast. My sister made a coughing noise, and snapped me back into reality. I joined her in the aisle and we gazed at the surprising amount of options for our breakfast of doughnuts. While it took me a matter of minutes to decipher what we could get as the most bank for our buck, it took my sister a mere 5 seconds before she snagged the bag of chocolate frosted and moved onto the milk section. I made her wait, and she was gracious enough to humor my pride as I figured it out for myself. I confirmed she was right, and we both rushed to grab the swiss chocolate milk and get back up to the house. On the ride up, I continued to try and persuade her that my driving was better than my brother’s, but as per usual, she had many exhibits to prove that I was wrong.

The rest of the packing was a blur. A good majority of my family was able to pack up and drive through the canyon to arrive at the lake earlier that day. But since my family was usually at the tail-end of speed, and the foresight of preparation, we were almost always last in the race to arrive. But around 4 o’clock we had received the last phone call from family members making their last request to bring things they had forgotten, and we were finally able to load up the car. My job was to install the DVD system, a miniature television set that hooked up through the cigarette lighter of the car, and strapped to the headrests of the driver and passenger’s seats. It was a simple task, but I prided myself on how much more efficient I was at it than my siblings. Everyone else always managed to install it, but it was never straight enough. We piled into the car, some of my cousins, my sister and I. My mom started the car, and we instantly started arguing about which movie to watch as we drove through the canyon. Since I was in the passenger seat, I fought for the least interesting movie, a plight that my family saw through in an instant. They decided on The DaVinci Code, a popular movie from that year. I remember listening to Tom Hanks’ interpretation of the Robert Langdon character, and watched the walls of the canyon slide by. The growth of the trees was always so breathtaking. There were parts of the canyon where they grew over the road, like a tunnel of leaves taking you to some magical land. The rocks of the canyon walls grew like relics to a secret age, lined with brush and hidden wildlife. I could never make it all the way through the canyon, I always fell asleep 20 minutes in. The curves of the road and the majestic beauty of the canyon itself was lulling, like a mother’s lullaby. But then we hit the descent into Garden City and the sensation jolted me awake, that and the sound of gunshots and yelling from Sir Ian McKellen. As the sun was on it’s last breath of sky, we drove through the many streets I had come to love as a child on vacation. We pulled up to the resort, and as my mom got out to check us into our condo, I got out of the car to join my cousins in the back to finish the movie. Unfortunately this did not have the desired result, and my mother mistook my movement as volunteering to escort her into the resort’s office. I sighed and joined her.

Most of my family had to wait for their condos to be ready, due to conflicting schedules with the timeshare in place, and so a family friend offered their cabin on top of the hill for temporary housing. When we pictured this house, we thought it would be a cabin with enough floor space for sardine-style sleeping bag arrangements. We unpacked fairly fast, with my Parsons approach to unloading. Which is to carry as many things as humanly possible so as to avoid making more trips than needed. Once we were settled, the family on top of the hill called and we came to the conclusion that we needed to eat dinner at LeBeau’s, one of the best milkshake establishments I have ever come to know. Of course we would suffer through their substantially mediocre burgers, and enjoy their incredible fries with their out-of-this-world fry sauce. But mostly we were in it for the ice cream in a cup. We drove up to the house on the hillside to pick up some of the straggling family members at the cabin, and soon realized that this cabin was no mere square of lincoln logs, but a mansion worthy of a king among vacationers. Yes, it was made of logs. But from the size of the thing, it had to have been made from several of those giant California Red’s, you know, the trees where you can drive your car through? The place was huge to say the least. There were at least 12 rooms, a professional-grade kitchen, high-end appliances, and enough entertainment space to make a child with a fresh pair of running legs happy for weeks. Pool table, gaming system, large flat-screen TV’s. Clearly those of us who were down in the valley got the short end of the stick. Needless to say, we spent some time touring the grounds before we left for dinner.

As we stepped into the car, an argument began between the cousins, and filtered through the car as we drove back down to the valley to eat. The angered tension was palpable, even the parents in the front rows of the Tahoe were starting to get red with each other. I don’t believe the term “hangry” was around back then, but it doesn’t mean we weren’t experiencing it. We were all packed into the car, some of us sitting on the floor and others on laps. My sister had one of our youngest cousins on her lap. My sister loved taking care of the younger kids. She was always happiest when she could occupy and make happy with the smaller cousins. In fact, that was the only time I ever saw my sister smiling, was when she was taking care of the little ones. As I sat absorbing all of the murmuring, my stomach raged, a storm of rumbling tides of angst. But amidst the mumblings of the starving troops, one of my youngest cousins started to sing a song. It was a song from a children’s primary hymnal. Her voice was so young and innocent, that kind of sound that floats in the air and you don’t realize it is there until you feel it hit your heart. The car grew silent, and when all of us were still, she said, “My teacher said that when things go bad, just sing a primary song, and the spirit comes.” Of course in the moment, a good majority of us rolled our eyes. But it made us stop arguing for the moment nonetheless.

We finally made our mark at LeBeau’s for the night, my family the horde of starving  locusts that we were. We sat on top of picnic tables as we watched the sun disappear. My sister still had our cousin on her lap, only to disappear to play with all of the younger kids, my youngest brother included, on the rusted play structure in back of the restaurant. I sipped on my mint chocolate chip milkshake thinking that this was going to be the best summer, starting with the day at the beach we were going to have the next day. We made our way home and felt the sugar kick in. Our parents must have notice too, because they sent us outside to play. Among the roaring crickets and the warm breeze from the lake front’s tide, we zigged and we zagged between the giant trees of the park outside of the condo. The lamps that lined the concrete path remained lit, allowing us to stay out past our bedtime playing tag in the dark of the night. We climbed trees to avoid being tagged, we danced around barbecues and picnic tables, and we screamed and we laughed until our legs ran out of energy. What really ended the game, though, was an argument between my youngest brother and sister. My sister wasn’t stupid, as you may have already guessed, and so whenever she was tagged, she went for the slowest runner, who so happened to be my brother. It wasn’t his level of athleticism that was his downfall, it was merely the fact that he was the youngest and the shortest. My brother caught on to her strategy, after being tagged by her for the 10th time in a row, and started to scream at her. The game broke up, and we all started to trickle back inside. I stayed behind to console my brother. My sister continued to taunt him from a couple of paces ahead, but we held back abad let her cries of self-proclaimed victory disappear into the night. Among the fading lamps of the park, I knelt down to my brother and asked him what was wrong. He told me he was tired of our sister picking on him, and that it made him feel bad. I told him that that was what sisters do, that there was no stopping it. I told him that the only thing he could control was how he took it, and I suggested that he just let it roll off of his shoulder. Now, being the age that he was, I’m sure that these were just empty words. I’m sure while my lips were yapping, he was plotting his revenge. But despite whatever he heard and whatever I said, we both headed upstairs to pass out watching SpongeBob Squarepants, with false expectations of what the next day had in store for us.

I woke up the next morning and everyone was already up. I quickly relieved my anxious bladder and headed downstairs to partake in the buffet of Capn’ Crunch, Trix and Lucky Charms. I was always partial to Trix, mostly because my mom never bought it for us. I remember the taste of that artificial, fruity batch of sugar and the smell of sunscreen as my family members bathed each other in it in the living room. After breakfast I helped blow up some of the flotation devices. I was always acknowledged for my extremely large lung capacity, and how I could blow up a ring or raft in the matter of a few seconds. I can still taste the bitter plastic as it brushed up against my face, thinking of ways I could prevent my spit from showing up on the inside of the ring. In no time at all we were packed up and ready to head down to the lake front we called “the beach.” My aunt and uncle brought their 4×4 and mini trailer, allowing us to transport a good majority of our crap from the condo to the beach without too much trouble. While they shuttled our belongings to the water, my mom sent us on an errand to purchase some t-shirts we would be using for a craft latter that day. We were able to bring our bikes with us on this trip, so riding to and from each other’s condos, or to the pool or mini-golf course, would be way more fun and efficient. So we took our bikes, my cousins and I, and we set out to the crafting lodge to purchase our t-shirts. The breeze felt amazing as we sped along the sidewalks of the resort. Normally we would be panting and sweating as we trudged along the paths leading from one activity to the next, but our bikes gave us this new sense of freedom. I thought about all of the possibilities we had with these bikes. We no longer had to spend 10 minutes at a time going from one family’s condo to the next. If we wanted to go to the video store at the resort’s office and with our hard-earned allowance rent an animation none of the adults wanted to watch and purchase some ice cream bars we would inevitably regret ingesting, we didn’t need to ask our parents to drive us over, we could just bike. It was like driving the car for the first time as a licensed driver, the horizon become a mark of freedom. I smiled as we zoomed past all of the brown condos, and took a big breath in as a breeze carrying the scent of the lake swarmed the air. Everything was perfect.

Soon after our errands, we awaited the green light for our decent onto the beach. Our uncles were setting up the canopy, the fathers unloading their wave-runners, and we couldn’t go down until our land was claimed for the day. When it was time, we ran. We passed the soft green of the vast lawn behind the condos, where for many years we had played baseball, soccer, and tag. We zoomed through the play structure where we had spent many nights waiting for the metal to cool down from the sun, and play our games of pirates, lava tag, and sometimes even a simple game of pretend house. We made our way through the seemingly vast amount of sand until we reached the row of canopies belonging to our family. We plopped our things down and made for the water, each of us claiming the flotation device that would be our’s for the day. We paddled as far as we could, past the buoy and into the wake zone. We floated there reminiscing about funny stories from the past, like one time when I went charging into the water claiming I could see without my glasses, only to realize too late, once my feet could no longer touch the bottom of the lake, that I still had my glasses on. We laughed and played Marco Polo. We soaked up as much water and sun as possible, and when we got too tired for water play, we took to the sands on the shore and started to make sand castles. Each of us begged our parents to take pictures of our own castles that were clearly better than the others, and always disappointed that they looked worse on the camera than they did in real life. It was at the point that I was giving my castle a moat that I went into a state of mind where I could only see, think and feel what was in the moment and right in front of me. In that moment I was hungry, and so I went to the canopy where all the snacks were, and I had myself some crackers and spray cheese, another luxury that my mom neglected to pay for outside of vacationing. As I sat indulging on my coveted snack, I listened to my mom and aunts talk to my sister as she sun bathed. She complained about her body image, how she felt that she was too fat. My mom and aunts were quick to jump in and tell her that she was in the most pristine condition of her life, that she was truly beautiful in this moment, and that she should appreciate how she looked now more than anything. They talked about how they wished they had appreciated the shape they were in when they had healthy bodies. I remember looking at my sister when things went silent, and thinking that she really did look like an angel. I had an impulse to kick sand on her. But I refrained. I wish I had, though, maybe things would have turned out different.

The day continued like this for a few hours. The winds began to pick up, and the waves got bigger. I was still in my state of self absorption, playing in the sand making architectural advances to my castle when my sister and cousins went out onto a raft that my uncle brought with him. I paid no mind to them. My cousins invited me out onto the water one last time, and I joined them on my noodle as we paddled out towards the buoy. We saw my sister and cousins on the raft, and we waved as they rode the waves further away from us. I got tired, and felt a twinge of hunger again, so I paddled back to shore, wrapped my towel around me, and sifted through the bag of snacks for something that would satisfy my hunger. This was the 24th hour. This is when everything changed. At noon the day before, I was just waking up on the floor of my grandparents, groggy and reluctant to venture out with my sister to get doughnuts, and now I knelt down selfishly looking for Oreos or cheese Ritz Bitz. It only took one second to hear her voice, one of my other cousins’. She was wet, and she looked as if she had done something wrong, like step on her sister’s sand castle or broken a sea shell. She was shivering. I remember her words exactly.

“Mom… She didn’t come up. Mallory never came up from under the water.”

My aunt started to question her, but I didn’t wait around to hear the answers. I ran to the water, and pushed through every wave I could to get to where she was. The only thing was, I had no idea where to go. I remember feeling angry that the water was so difficult to run through. Every panicked spring of my leg pushing through the lake as if it were some thick gelatin. I wanted to sift through every inch of that water, like a prospector for gold, only it wasn’t for something as meaningless as gold that I was after, it was my sister. I waded through that water, careful of where I was stepping, for what seemed like an eternity. My aunts and uncles were doing the same, combing the shores for her., screaming her name. One of my aunts did the same, adding a few choice words that I can still hear in my head to this day. I have never felt more hopeless than I did in that moment, searching for the needle in the haystack. Among my panicked sweeps, I turned my head to the sound of a wave runner. My uncle had commandeered one, and came up to me. He reached out his hand and told me to get on. He had me put on a life jacket, and we zoomed through the water attempting to locate any sign of my sister. We eventually went so far out that the screams of my family faded away. We stopped occasionally to canvas specific spots where the current had settled, but they proved to be useless. It was only in those moments that I took the time to call out to her or God, pleading for this not to happen. I remember promising that I would stop doing all of the stupid things I was doing in my life, that I would dedicate my entire life to whatever service I could if she could just pop up. I could tell that every second mattered, because my uncle stopped for only a few seconds at a time before speeding to another area. His movement was precise, and yet I could tell he was as desperate as I was to finding her. The water was too thick to see through, and the winds were picking up more and more. Eventually we gave up and headed back to shore, realizing that looking out this far would be useless. I never realized it until now, but my uncle took me away from much of the horror on that beach, he made me feel relatively useful in a time where I, in reality, could do nothing. I will always be thankful to him for that, among other things.

Another uncle was waiting for us to see if we saw anything, he could tell from our faces that we had as much luck as he did. As he helped me down into the water, I looked around and saw hordes of people on the beach gathering underneath their canopies. I looked at them and wanted to scream “HELP US, HELP US FIND HER!” but they just stood and watched. The more bodies in the water searching for her, meant more of a chance of finding her, I couldn’t believe they were just standing and watching. I thought to myself, “I guess that’s something that a good majority of humanity is good at, standing by and watching.” A thought that I continue to be reminded of any day I see the news, and even on the days where I walk by a piece of trash or an argument not worth having. I looked to the water and there were boats canvassing the waves. I trudged back to shore, watching the sand turn into mist under the waves from my feet. When I looked up, I saw my cousins staring into the water. I could tell, by the horrified look in their eyes, that they had found her. They covered their mouths as her body was lifted into the boat that found her. I didn’t dare look, I knew what I would be turning around to see just by the expression of their faces. I heard my mother screaming on the sands of the beach, a stranger grabbed my arm.

“Are you her son? Is that your mother?” she said, “Come here.”

The stranger pulled me over to her. She was kneeling down, her head in the sand, screaming. I never heard my mom scream like that, not ever. It was desperate and haunting. Like the sound of the bell at the grocer’s, or the smell of sunscreen from breakfast and the taste of plastic from the swimming toys, I can still hear her screams. The screams keep me awake many nights. I have to fall asleep to the television just to drown them out. My mom was screaming to God and my aunt who had died previously that year, to give her back, to give her daughter back. I knelt down beside her and tried to console her, but a child to their parent rarely knows how to do such a thing. I tried to hold her hand but she pushed me away. I laid in the sand next to her, and closed my eyes. Her screams imprinted onto the back of my eye-lids, the sound of murmuring vacationers gossiping and standing aside became white noise. I curled up into the fetal position and tried to disappear. I was brought back by a touch to my shoulder.

“Come with me. Take my cell phone and get in my car. Your uncle is in it waiting for you and your mom. GO!”

I was dumbfounded. I was a blank canvas, aching to be filled with something new, something that wasn’t this nightmare that I was in. I looked back and my mother was being escorted behind me. My aunt, a registered nurse, was trying to ask if my mom wanted her to ride in the ambulance. From whatever sanity my mother could muster, she nodded, and my aunt disappeared. We got into a strange car, my uncle at the driver’s seat, another of my cousins next to me in the back passenger seat. My mother was sat in the passenger seat up front, and it only took a click of her seat belt for my uncle to charge away from the beach. We drove through the sands, past the rusted play structure, across the grass, and right onto the rode. The ambulance was soon right in front of us, and we followed it like a shadow. The canyon was 31 miles long, but it lasted a life time. My mother wept “thank you’s” at cars as they cleared the road for us, and my uncle kept every ounce of his focus on never losing sight of the ambulance. I turned to my cousin, and recognized his face, for it resembled exactly how I felt, hopeless. The car was silent.

Midway through the canyon, amidst the horrific feeling of disappearing hope, there was a sudden change in the car. I could tell we all felt it, because we each looked around at each other the moment it happened. Calm. We felt peace that we hadn’t felt for hours, it was so palpable and sweet that we started to cry in a new way. It was a blanket of warmth, some form of comfort that came out of no where. We felt that everything was going to be okay. We mistook this feeling as some sort of good omen for the outcome of today’s events, but really it was her saying good-bye. I remember imagining this vision of all of us surrounding her hospital bed, saying, “you gave us quite a fright, Mallory. Don’t ever do that again.” But once the feeling faded, I knew that this vision would never come true. After an eternity in the canyon, we rushed down into the valley to the hospital. They put us into a tiny waiting room decorated in a supposedly comforting green wallpaper with water colorings of gardens and ponds. There was a bathroom, but it was only used to disappear into with prayer. The walls did nothing to keep the moans and screams from escaping. While we sat I finally noticed that all I had on was a swimsuit. I didn’t have shoes or a shirt, I could still feel the water from the lake. I wanted to rip it off and my skin with it, I didn’t want anything to do with that lake. The doctor came in. We fetched my mom from the bathroom, and sat around the doctor as he said, “We did everything we could…” His words landed like the pun of some awful joke. I wanted to hit him for sounding so casual. My aunt was on the phone with my dad, who was miles away. Her scream is one of the many that I can never forget. My uncle threw a chair across the room and the doctor left. It was then that I decided that I could no longer try to be a part of this world. I did not want to be hurt by it any more. I shut down and turned myself off, like a switch from human to zombie, I was a dead man walking among the living. Family members hugged me, attempted to console me, but they might as well have been talking to a statue. They allowed us to see my sister. My mother went first. While she was gone, the rest of my family showed up, my two brothers, my cousins, aunts and uncles. We filled the waiting room like we did LeBeau’s, we were locusts. My brothers looked miserable, I could tell that they wanted to know everything, but all I could offer them were what was inside of my eyes. Pain and sorrow. Eventually the doctor felt that my mother had had enough time alone with her, and he came out to retrieve one more family member to be with her. Surprisingly, my brother elected me. I turned to the hallway towards that forlorn automatic door, and walked one of the longest walks I have ever had to make. The door opened like the stone of a tomb, and the smell of sanitized death overwhelmed me. I passed many curtains, closed, guarding the secret miseries of other victims. One curtain was open, and it was the secret that was waiting for me. I looked in to see my mother, holding the hand of my sister. My sister laid there, like she was asleep. Her skin pale and ice cold. I sat beside my mother, and she gave me my sister’s hand. Her hand clenched around my own, as if she was holding it. I collapsed and fell to the floor.

Pieces of the story of how my sister’s life was tragically ended came together, like pieces of a puzzle that you don’t want to see the picture of. Family offered it to us like sacrifices, offerings that part of us wanted, but the other part wanted nothing to do with. In the end, my sister was a hero of sorts. When the winds of the lake front got too powerful, the raft got away from my sister and our youngest cousin, and in the struggle to stay afloat, my sister chose my cousin’s life over her own, keeping her above water with her own strength until she couldn’t give anymore. I will forever hold Mallory as my role model for her effort to put the needs of others above her own. Mind you, she had normal human being tendencies, like that of pestering her younger brother. But her true character is reflected in her final act. In hindsight, knowing she struggled to save another life comforts me, but never enough to remember that there is a place setting that will never be filled, or a phone call for advice that I will never be able to make. But she, along with an infinite amount of possibilities, a realm of choices and stories, was snuffed out. 

I could go on about how the rest of that night went on. How I tried to console the mass of texts from friends swarming us for the latest gossip on what had happened, instead of respecting the news for what it was and offering respected silence. The curtain of that horrific room slid back and forth so many times that it became a song, a lament of family and friends offering their condolences, their religious philosophies, and yes, even unwelcome advice. But eventually we had to leave, and so we packed up and piled into the very same car I had driven with my sister the day before. 24 hours was all it took for me to lose my sister, and have my life altered in ways that are too countless to even fathom. But as I sat down, anxious to close my eyes and dismiss this day as a nightmare, I read a little plaque that hung above the nightstand of wherever it was that I slept that night, and it read,

“In the end, all that matters is family.”

So that is the cautionary tale of this post, of this narrative to solely the worst day of my life. Not a day goes by where I don’t wish I could have told my sister that I loved her, just one more time. Maybe if I had kicked the sand in her face while she was sunbathing, maybe she would have gotten angry and chased me, maybe she wouldn’t have been in a mood to take my cousins out onto that damned raft. Regardless of the could have, should have’s, I learned a very valuable lesson. You can not wait for regret to knock on your door, before you act on the goodwill of your heart. That in the end, family really is all that matters. A collection of people that care for you, that surround you with their presence and their love. Whether that be in kinship or in friendship, surround yourselves and surround others with all that you are. Do not wait another second. Tell someone that you love them. Don’t be like the people on the beach, watching in horror as it passes by. Take action, run towards what brings you happiness and what brings on the greater good. Stop living in fear and run after the betterment of your own life and that of others. Don’t coast on the coattails of something easy, because once you arrive at the edge of that breeze, the rest of the hurricane waits to swallow you up. Religious, political, however you interpret my message, take it with a grain of salt and make this world less of a nightmare and more of the dream that it could be. Stop offering advice or your opinion of what can and should be, because to those that are grieving it is only a conceded gift, some lamentable pacifier looking to remedy a situation that requires nothing but love and understanding. Because when deep in the heart of darkness, all that is needed is someONE not someTHING. 24 hours from now is the anniversary of my sister’s death. She spent her life watching over the little one’s, making them smile, and in the end saving them. Tomorrow, I plan on honoring what brought her joy, and making at least one person smile. You can make a lot happen within 24 hours.

Blank Slate

There was one moment in my life where I honestly felt the hope for a blank slate. I had just come out of one of the roughest years of my life, discovering myself whilst dealing with physical health issues, romantic deprivation and spiritual struggle. But right now I don’t want to focus on all the negative of that year, but in it’s summation and ultimate conquering of that monster.

I stood in Time Square, surrounded by thousands, if not millions of strangers, on the Eve of New Year’s. We all looked to the Times Square ball with an odd desperation, like a moth to the flame. It was attractive and exciting, and it meant more than just a few LED lights and a systematically timed ball sliding down a pole. Once that ball hit the bottom, it meant that a new year was going to begin. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized the significance of the term “New” year. Like baptism, January 1st was a chance to take the road traveled and face a new road. It was a chance to choose a road less traveled, or to continue on the same road with a new hope and determination. To make mistakes and learn, to grow, to love and laugh more, and to enjoy it. To surround yourself with the people who matter, the ones who make your heart lighter and life more beautiful. To seek out those who make conversations exciting and brilliant, those who make the steps of life more appealing to take, to create a will to walk.

And so as I stood there amongst strangers, as I watched this monumental ball reach its journey’s end, I realized the beauty of what moment I was about to experience.

10

I closed my eyes as the countdown began, and I remembered all the good of the year as I vowed to repeat it.

9

I remembered all the cruelty and depression as I promised to fight it.

8

I remembered the smiles i created, and every smile I had with friends and family and made a list of all those who gave me love in a dark time.

7

I recounted how many times I said “I love you” and made myself promise to say it more.

6

I gathered all the hate I collected over the year, and shook my head at it. I shook my entire being, and rid myself of all the bad. I exercised the thought of perpetually being in a shake from evil, and laughed at the thought of always playing cat and mouse from hurt.

5

I remembered the ones i had lost, in life and death, and made plans to honor them in my actions, and bring those I’d neglected back into my heart with the song of my own.

4

All that i had experienced in the last year was a blessing, both struggle and play, and my gratitude would be on me like a parrot, squawking loud and proud, banishing any chips from my shoulder.

3

Music would be more a part of my life. Song has always moved my heart to grander and brighter things, and whether okayed by my own hand at the piano, or listened to by all the artists whose hearts are shared in their lyrics, I would be guided by the beauty of music.

2

Laughter has always been how I felt I can contribute to the betterment of others. Whether an audience of hundreds, or the companionship of a friend or family member, making laughter has been the song of my own life, and this year would be my ninth symphony.

1

Dance like no one is watching, sing like no one is listening, laugh like a fool, love like the sun, and live like there is no tomorrow.

The ball reached its end, and the cool night air rained rainbow confetti and thundered with the cheer of millions of voices. I could never truly describe the atmosphere of that moment, but it was truly as if the weight of all my fear and pain had been lifted, and as I raised my head to the sky and took in the mixture of stars and streamers, I could not help but smile. The world slowed and I radiated through the entire square. I held my brother next to me and knew that this year would be different, this year would be the beginning of more brilliant and more grand years to come. Love would be my North Star, laughter the wind and waves to carry me home, and my actions and choices the ship to be my vessel.

Years have passed since I experienced this blank slate, and I have experienced many more blank slates. I’ve had my screw ups, and I’ve made mistakes, but I keep moving forward. Things got harder as I went home and struggled to make the mundane magnificent. But every morning, as I rode the rail into the city, I would plug in my ipod, to a tune that would remold my heart to embrace the day, I would close my eyes as I had done in Times Square. We entered the tunnel and all would become dark. The end of the tunnel would come, and on the other side I knew there would be a new day waiting for me. And when I saw that light at the end of the tunnel I would count down.

10

The Good, cling to it.

9

The Bad, wash it away.

8

Smile and make smiles

7

I love you

6

It’s all a chase, shake the devil constantly

5

Find the lost, and love for the ones who are gone

4

Seek the blessings in disguise

3

Sing and play the music for your soul and heart

2

Laugh

1

Live

Fear

Fear is the fuel for more than we realize.

Fear drives us to judge other people – we look down at other people and think to ourselves that at least we are better than them. Deny it all you want, but it’s true for the good majority of us who are human. While we may be imperfect, even bad, we look at others and compare. We create scales, rubrics, and ratings on people because we need to feel better about ourselves. Why do we need to feel better? Why do we need to reassure ourselves of being people that we should and could be, instead of celebrating in the people that we are? Fear of not being good enough for a higher power, for our parents, for our peers and colleagues, for our audiences and friends, being afraid of what we are not and trying to be better people kills the opportunity for us to be proud of ourselves and who we are. If we are always trying to be better, where is the rest? Where is the joy and transcendence of realizing we are all different, and that in and of itself is beautiful. Why do people sit in church and allow their eyes to wander and play iSpy the sinner? Fear. Why is sitting on a park bench and people-watching so appealing? Inevitably it is because of fear. We are hardwired to reach for perfection, and to find relief in our imperfections in the failures and misguidances of others. Is that not wrong?

Fear fuels hate – much like judgement, hate comes from the lack of understanding. There are always two sides to a coin, and there are over 6 billion coins in this world. We are scared to admit when we are wrong, we are scared of being wrong. We fear change, we are deathly afraid of the challenge of facing our demons, and we dread the act of looking our beliefs and traditions in the eye and realizing that they really do need to change. Time changes all things, deserts change, rivers deepen, oceans rise and fall, the world around us changes and so should we. Wars, genocide, abuse, terrorism, fights, and pain are all caused by two different sides of the coin refusing to see eye to eye. Each side denies the truth in each other, and its because we are afraid of the change in our hearts. We hate being wrong, we fight being wrong, and to what end? Why does one side have to be right, and one to be wrong? Why does there need to be order? Does the world need order or can we accept the chaotic race that we are and join our world in the natural way of things? We hurt each other because of our fears. We deny other people our hearts and the joy of acceptance by not listening to and accepting the masterpiece that is “the other side.” We deny ourselves the chance to grow, to love more, to feel, learn and know more than we could ever possibly imagine by closing off ourselves, by building the walls of right and wrong, good and bad, and its all in fear.

Fear blinds and binds – the unknown scares the living daylights out of us. Equality in gender, race and sexual preference, science, human rights, violence, poverty, global disasters whether man-made or natural, are all issues, conflicts, and topics that we either turn a blind eye to, ignore, or fight against with a ridiculously burning passion. Church groups protest outside of churches and funerals, terrorists attack buildings and rally, people bicker and fight with one another because of this blinding fear. Does God really hate a specific race or a homosexual? Are lives worth sacrificing to make a point or steal a spotlight? Does one Bible bash or Facebook stream of comments/backlash really set the bar for “doing the right thing?” I neither condone, nor am I against the acts of others, but I ask these question to truly and simply just ask them. We are all humans, created, evolved, and living under one roof. Humanity is a glass ball that we are all a part of. At one point this glass ball was shattered, and all the pieces scattered. Each of us is a piece of this glass ball. We are jagged, broken, incomplete, and beautiful. Can we not accept each other for our edges, for our imperfections? Can we not all reach for the bliss of perfection together in the realization that all of us together make it so? Why on earth would we deny a friendship because someone had sex before marriage? Why would we shun a family member because they made a choice different to that of your own? Why do we avoid glances or refuse to smile at others just based on the fact that one decides to use darker eye-liner and wear all black? We are all different, and why do we as humans choose not to accept and evolve with one another? Fear. Fear guides us, he cradles us and raises us to be closed-off, insecure, judgmental and hurt. We hurt ourselves and others by living in fear and allowing him to guide our actions.

Why give in to this fear? The hate, pain, war, and conflict that lives in this world starts in our hearts. The world changes everyday, and lives are hurt, lost, and destroyed by allowing fear, pride, and ignorance to the hearts and minds of others to fester in our own lives.

The following is personal and contains religious opinions:

I am a sinner. I am an imperfect human being. I have done terrible things, and I have made choices that others may view as wrong. But I am not a bad person. I am a really good person, in fact, I need to accept the fact that I am an awesome person. I have lived every second of my life in fear. I am afraid of not being good enough for a God I’ve been taught to fear. I am scared of not being liked because of opinions I may or may not have that are contradictory to the majority. I dread ending up alone because I live in fear of losing my family because of how I live.

But that ends now. That ends today.

I am a human. I am a Christian. I am an individual in a evolution and revolution of the species of my religion. I believe in Christ. I believe His words and I believe Him when He says “love one another as I have loved you.” I don’t believe in a God who would deny paradise and eternity to a people who he had sent His Son to atone for. I believe that if I am a good person, yea even the best version of ME despite my choices, I can and will make it to a Heaven where I can be with my family forever. I don’t believe that a choice which is my own will lead me to Hell. I only believe that when I deny the good things, when I refuse to be a person who would do anything for anyone, when I judge and smite others with my closed heart and mind, that I will find myself in Hell. I am one who believes in marriage equality. I believe God created love, He created our hearts, and He created our bodies. I don’t believe an adversary, a devil would create the love between two men or two women, neither do I believe that God frowns upon same-sex love and still allows it to happen, that He would allow it to enter the hearts of so many. Love is love, and it is in the heart, mind, and spirit that the confirmation of “right” and “wrong” occurs. While I believe in the Bible, I also believe that it is written by man’s interpretation. We will never understand God, neither should we, and in His complexity I believe there is an understanding and acceptance that we as humans need to understand and see. Love one another. Fear blocks love. Fear destroys love. Fear burns bridges and prevents truth and joy to enter into our hearts and lives. Why do we push people away when they make choices that aren’t up to our own standards. THEY ARE OUR OWN STANDARDS!!! Why should their standards be our’s? Why should standards even exist??? I believe a high power loves me for who I am. He celebrates in my victories and in my goodness. I honestly believe that the only time I ever disappoint this power is when I refuse to see Him in my life. I believe, I know of His unconditional love. If we should strive to be like God, should we not strive for the love without condition, for ourselves and for everyone around us.

I never make a choice out of a place of evil. Every choice I have made in my life has been with my heart, and has never been with malcontent. Any and everything I do is because I have a heart that wants to grow and love beyond what I think I am capable of. I truly hope and wish others in my life see and believe me when I say that, and that I live by it not just for myself, but for them as well. I am a good person. I hope to change today, to drive away fear and live life to its fullest. I hope others will also see that I am a good person, that despite my choices I am good and worth loving, that their fear will not blind them to my heart and the joy we both can have together. Fear are the feet that guide us to a path of inevitable pain and destruction. Fear alienates and shuns the ones we love. Don’t allow fear to fuel the push to pain and suffering. Stop fear and open your mind and your heart. Evil, wrong-doing, sin, are all perceptions and interpretations, please see and practice love instead of fear.

Trust

It has been quite a while since I had the chance to sit down and write something, and whether it be about availability or motivation, writing something is long overdue. In today’s case, I feel that my writing is primarily directed by a motivation. It has come to my attention that there is some bad blood in a world I live in with which I thought was not possible. Rivalry, contempt, and bitterness are flowing through a river that I had once believed to be pure and understanding of all walks of life, and today I feel I have something to say about it. But first a little background.

Within the last year I have discovered and been welcomed into a community that accepts me for the weird dork that I am. Approximately a year ago I took a class for Improvisational Acting. For those of you who do not know what this is, it is the art of acting without a script, a form that grants actors the opportunity to create characters and scenes, stories and songs directly on the spot. As much as it pains me to make this correlation, its very much the same as that of what they do on the show “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” But upon taking this class at my University, I learned something so much more to this kind of entertainment that truly blew my mind. What once I had thought I understood, something I kept in the parameters of a box, suddenly grew to be something so much more. My understanding of Improv expanded and grew from something contained into something infinite and constantly growing. When entering the class, I had some Comedic Improv experience under my belt, but I knew that I could learn more. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have traded any of my previous experiences for anything because they were wonderful and they were the stepping stones that led me to this point today, bringing me great memories and truly amazing friends. But the experience I had before this class was only the beginning of my journey into this world of Improv.

The class was full of a wide variety of people, but they all had one thing in common, they all wanted to get away from the crack-and-whip of their courses and jobs, and settle into this class for relief and laughs. I don’t think any of us really knew of the potential and opportunities this class would bring. The class was taught by three people. The designated teacher was a man with experience and heart that goes beyond the capability of words. This man was not only a well seasoned actor, but a man with a heart bigger than anything I have ever felt. He was not only a gifted character actor, but he had the ability to bring together a group of random kids and show them that they could do something wonderful. We bonded, we played, and we shared Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekend shows with each other and found a connection that, in my opinion, will last a lifetime. The teacher’s aid was a man who had a gift for making everyone belong, and bringing us together in many warm-ups that made us laugh, made us cry, and made us realize how dehydrated we really were. The third teacher was a woman who I cannot even begin to describe. One second with her and your life will be changed forever, and I am blessed enough to say that she still influences my life. A brilliant improvisor, an infinite well of creativity and beauty, and a heart as big as her father (who just so happened to be our teacher). She taught us many things, but mostly she brought us all together and helped us to create, as cheesy as it sounds, something magical.

One class with these amazing people, and my mind was instantly blown. I was humbled and made thirsty for the world of Improv. My understanding of it grew, as it continues to grow and as I hope it will continue to grow for the rest of my days. I always found my self to be a mixture of characters, a world of wacky accents, stories, and jokes bottled up and anxious to be released, and these teachers, students, and even the Improv community itself opened up their arms and allowed for me to be who I am. I found a place where I belong, a calling if you will. I had something to smile about, something that gave me purpose and relief, and it made me feel great! I felt/feel like I am on top of the highest mountain, and my fingertips can touch the stars and that I am dancing with the heavens when I am onstage as an improvisational actor. It is one of the biggest highs of my life and I owe it all to this community of fantastic people that I have had the pleasure of getting to know and perform with. During the course of the class I was asked to sit in on rehearsals for a professional troupe of Improv players, and eventually for the main company of players who are of the theater of which they all perform. This theater, and its many shows and troupes, are a beautiful collective works, a tapestry if you will, of the world of Improv. Each and every single individual has taught me something invaluable, and I am eternally grateful for their lessons and their friendship. They are a community of people who create characters, scenes, and inevitably laughter and entertainment for audiences who are thirsty and drawn to the fantastical theater that they provide. It is truly an awe-inspiring experience for all, and I am blessed to have been a part of it thus far.

Each person, every show, and every lesson I have learned can be traced down to one ultimate lesson- trust. When on stage, one must share an experience/scene with a partner (or set of partners) and banish all feelings of resentment or pre-conditioned emotion and simply live in the reality given by either yourself or your partners. This requires trust. I have learned that one should never engage in improv if you can not trust your partner. Even the audience requires a mutual trust and understanding. It goes without saying that this Improv community has shocked me with how accepting every one is. Each actor I have had the blessing of performing with has shared with me a piece of themselves and whether physically or metaphorically given me a warm embrace. If I’m not making sense it’s because I am so wrapped up in this world, so involved and in love with this art, that I really have no words. Its like being in love, finding someone to belong to. Trust is the foundation, it is the walls, it is the air and the sun to which Improv grows and flourishes. I trust everyone I have met in the Improv community, they are my second family. Even more surprising is to see how other Improv troupes interact with one another. I have seen and participated in a few competitions and collaborated shows, and it melts my heart to see each and every single person embrace one another, as if at a long awaited family reunion, and come together to create laughter and joy for audiences all over. No one is better than anyone else, they are a community of diverse people coming together regardless of all odds to escape from reality and into a world of pure enjoyment. And so I have experienced that the Improv community is a family, of trust and of understanding, of acceptance and a shared passion for the art that is Improvisational Acting.

AND NOW MY POINT!!! The reason I write this today is because I have recently learned of a hostility, a tumor amidst the community of such wonder, and it truly sickens me. In a world based on trust and understanding, acceptance and passion, a family bonded by creativity, how dare their be any sense of rivalry. I say accept one another. I say build your walls with trust and not with hostility. In Improv it is bad to block, or say “no” to one another, it is a sign of rejection. And this group has decided to declare war with their “no’s” and their false sense of entitlement. How dare they??? How dare they?!? Make love, not war. Be a peace-builder. Take whatever we learned as children, and apply it in adulthood. Hold hands and bring peace, don’t fling your poop at one another. My heart dies just thinking about it, especially after the journey I have been blessed to be a part of in the last year. My teacher, who has traveled the world and experienced first hand the GLOBAL acceptance of one another in competitions and performances, a woman who has experienced the magic of TRUST between those who have every right to shut her out, has seen that acceptance, trust, understanding, love, joy, and a goal for the betterment of mankind through laughter are more important than some childish war of who is funnier on stage. That is not what Improv is about. Shame on anyone who thinks that Improv is about the accumulation of jokes. It is about what is behind the laughter, the goal to bring the hearts of the many into an alliance of that laughter, a relief to the pressures and thorns of this world, and the beauty of the smile in our hearts, on our faces, and in our everyday dealings with man.

Come together to make joy, trust each other. I feel sorry for anyone who hasn’t seen what I have seen in the last year, and I pity anyone who refuses to see the error of being competitive. We should all welcome each other no matter what, embrace each other and make the community and art form of Improv even more amazing and strong. This community, this world has rocked me to my core, and it would be a shame to have one silly little rivalry bring it down for everyone else because they think they have something to prove.

That’s my opinion, anyways.

Stranger

The following is a work in progress:

I gaze at my home, still and quite, and know it is where I belong. Yet as I stand apart from it, I know it is changing. Time climbs, and change slithers through it’s halls, and I know that my home is growing away from me. I am right on the edge of its foundation, and yet I know that my own is evolving away. Afraid and scared of being alone, I run to the front door.

My hands clasp the handle, familiar and warm, and the door swings open effortlessly as it always has. But I now see my home as a stranger, forlorn and desolate to my heart. The stairs that rise lead to surprise, and the doors are curtains to secrets I no longer keep. The floor floats, stepping stones that guide me to rooms lost and re-made. The walls are repainted with memories that are no longer mine. Pictures hang and show shadows of remnant dreams, on the verge of remembrance but dancing away. The smells of my home have fallen to the aromas of the next. Must, wood and metal, sweet renewal and yet stale solace keep the air and my breath shutters. An attack to my heart’s lungs, I search for familiarity. I breath no air of mine, but of another. The air is not my own. The colors are not my own. The sight and touch of every essence of my beloved home escapes me and I am lost standing still amongst a modern ruin. My home has become a stranger.

I climb the stairs. Each step the world changes. Memories fade, walls crumble, pleasure rusts and the journey becomes my plague. Everything from the warmth of whispering walls to the comfort of the carpet creeps into an inevitable black. My eyes twinge with a desire to shut and remember my home as it once was, but they remain open. Seeing change that sinks my heart, I sail on in my steps as the depths of time rise over me. Change, ever strange and cruel, washes over me and I drown in its hold.

I reach my room. The door a plunge into inner darkness. I step through it afraid to disappear alongside the artifacts that once exhaled my life. The door swings to the window, and I am carried on the tide to the outer sky and the setting sun. The celestial star that gave birth to so much life in this house bows it’s head below the horizon. Slumbering below my sight, resting and taking its soft whispers with it, the sun runs away and I am left with darkness. Utter darkness. I turn and turn and can not find my way. All that resides is a candle stick and a match. The darkness rises and I am hopeless. I collapse amongst the company of strangers, and cry into my knees, begging for the home I once knew. My heart stretches, searching for the lighthouse call of my home, painful and hopeless. A ship lost at sea, a light lost in a cavern of intimidating dusk, I cry in the walls of this stranger.

Where was the laughter that supported the walls? Where was the memory that painted the ceiling? Where was home? Where was the light? Desperate and in tears, I scrape the match to life. A small, warm light glowed from the end of the match stick as it called to the candle. Anxious and eager for the life of the match stick, the candle guided my hand to its lover. My heart and the candle were one as they ignited in light. Encased in a bubble of glow, I crawled on the floor desperate to find more light. As I searched I discovered that the light of the candle gave life to whatever it touched. Its reaches only small, I was granted sight into the room I had lost. My bed, its pillows, the red of the walls, the pictures and posters, the smells and sounds of my home rose out of darkness and into the candle. A beacon calling my home to return, the candle led me forward. I traced the walls with its light and found home again. The laughter of the walls and the memory of the ceiling rose from the ashes. The must of the air washed away as the light of the candle fused the air with the smell of many green, exciting summer nights and the homely, chilled winter afternoons. As I passed the windows, chimes dancing on the wind rang through my heart’s ears.

A candle granted me access to the home I knew where I belonged. Limited and aging, the candle guided me. Lost and it found me. Sad and it brought me joy. While the sun had gone away, it was in the small light of this candle that I found sight. While twilight consumed the world around me, the light brought me summer. My home was in the light, and though limited in reach, it took the smaller things to help me see. Soon the sun would rise, and light would bath and give life back to my home. But for now, amidst the shade of time, it was in this candle that my heart found joy.

Every night, in the darkness of my heart, I will light this candle and remember the small things. The details of time passed, and the stitches of joy since made, reside in the strikes I make and the choice I have in making the light. My friend, the candle, only lives if I give it life, and I choose to always remember and bring reality to the dreams of home.

Surviving

I have not written anything for a long while, and I think it is well over due. When I write, I feel as though every strand of my heart is reaching out. I don’t know where, or to whom it reaches, but the words I type overwhelm my own heart as I relay them from my mind.

Today I want to write about surviving. Which is perfect considering that tomorrow is Portland’s Race for the Cure. For those who do not know, the Race for the Cure is an event put on by the Susan G. Komen foundation, as well as other contributors, that help raise awareness and funds for fighting Breast cancer. This race has been a tradition in my family for almost 16 years. We have done it year after year because it is with each year that we celebrate the strength, courage and faith of one of my biggest heroes; my mother.

It was 16 years ago that she faced being diagnosed, and she has yet to face a single year without any trial or tribulation. We have lost countless loved ones, we have faced the judgement of so many, and we have struggled with many other trials within our own family. And it is in my mom that I see the glue, the very molecular mold that keeps us all together. She has survived. She has lived and endured, and she remains strong and endearing to her children, her family, and her friends. She does so much without the proper appreciation, receiving nothing in return. She is a mother, she is a good friend, she is a teacher, a wife, she has been an employee, a secretary, a coordinator, a student, a banker, a scheduler, a chauffeur, a seamstress, a coach, and so many other things. And because she has gone through so much, because she has faced so many demons and received slim to none recognition for all that she has done, she believes that she is not good enough. But since I am talking about survival, I can think of no better example of someone who has exemplified enduring until the end with such grace and adoration than my mother. I want her to know that she is good enough. She has been and always will be the shining example of everything that is good. I am only a fraction of what she is, and I am proud to call her my mother. I love her with all that I am and she deserves to be crowned as a queen. She has endured poisons, both medically and socially, and yet she stands ready and willing to face each day. Why does no one see how incredible she is??? She lost her own child, and yet she still smiles for the rest of us. You are my hero, mom. And I hope you know that I look up to you everyday because you are still there for me.

Tomorrow is one of 364 other days where I should celebrate her. Tomorrow I celebrate the fact that she fought and won. So many have lost this battle and to those who have passed because of cancer, I commend them for their strength and in their legacy. I do not know a single person who has passed on who has not left an incredible legacy in their children and in their loved ones. Their light lives on, and their life survives in the works of those that surrounded them. And so while I may be able to walk hand in hand with my mother tomorrow, I also walk with the hands of many other on my heart. Enduring is so much more than coasting through each day. There are 365 days in a year. Tomorrow I get to celebrate the survival of one of my loved ones. But there are still 364 more days. It is with each of those days that I pledge to celebrate the strength, courage and faith of the countless others who have influenced me for the better. Do not allow for one day to slip by where you don’t tell someone exactly how much they mean to you. Because many of us only survive for so long, and it may just be the strength of our actions, the courage of our words, and the faith of our hearts that could possibly allow for that survival to stretch further beyond. We are all survivors of this life, whether we are battling disease, famine, or our own personal demons. I appreciate and applaud you, for not only getting through this seemingly ridiculous message, but also for being you. Whether you know me or not, I love you, and I am here for you in any way I can be. Each day is a struggle, but each hand is a blessing, and there are always hands ready to catch you. Endure until the end.

I love you, Mom.

Heroes

It goes without saying that today is dedicated to the memory of those who have served and given their lives to the betterment of mankind. However seemingly insignificant a role is, a person is great in their birth and contribution to this life. A smile, a high-five, one simple conversation, the acknowledgment and revitalization of another soul by the means of another can all be attributed to each and every single one of us, and can be compared to even the greatest acts of valor. I have many heroes in my life. I am surrounded by them, reminded by them to be better, to do better. They are wonderful, great friends and family. These heroes are stars in the night, guiding many. Though they do not drown the dark with their light, they are there, shining. Simple. And yet so brilliant and fantastic that their greatness expands and travels thousands and millions of lightyears just to reach us.

Today I remember and pay memorial to heroes that are particularly close to me. Those heroes are my family. The brightest star that shines in my darkness is that of my sister. In life she gave without condition. Her smile brightened the hallways at school and in the studios where she danced. Her laughter lifted every fog, and made the Winter of a room bloom into an abundant Spring. Her younger cousins, and any kid really, fled to her when she was around because they knew she cared. She respected them and paid them mind when no one else would. She played. She danced. She inspired and she cared. She loved. Unfortunately in life, this kind of heroism goes unnoticed, unacknowledged. My incredible baby sister and her unconditional love, her talent, her acts of bravery and true heroism were overlooked. She was a hero trapped in her own reflection, waiting for someone or something to shatter the glass, to see her and all her beauty. Even I, her own brother, neglected to see and be with her in the awesome grandeur of her flight here on Earth. Don’t get me wrong, she was human and had her moments of being a brat. But she is and will always be my hero. In her last moment, my sister was able to commit an act so brave, so heroic, so unconditional and loving that it took all that she was and ever will be. It finished her, but allowed for another life to go on. My sister gave her life for that of another. Heroes exist in books and fairy tales. They fight in wars and fly in films. Heroes are the painters of masterpieces that give us hope, they fill the galleries of our lives that give us hope and safety. One of those painters is my sister. Her pieces fill many galleries, they dance and fly through my heart and the hearts of many others. She is my hero. Today, and everyday, I remember her. I hope you all take a part of your day to remember those who are still around in your lives. The people who make you feel lighter, the people who inspire you. Love them as they love you. Admire them, and take their example and be all that you can for everyone else around you.

My family is my hero. My Mom. Her undying strength to continue life, her commitment to her friends and groups, her love, the very same love that she passed on to my sister and my brothers, all are a part of her painting of heroism. My Dad. His strength and commitment to our family, to providing the best life for his family, his brave strife in making life better for everyone, the sweat and hardship of molding the world for himself and his loved ones is a painting that shames even the greatest of works. My younger brother, and his persistent optimism and his brilliant creativity is an inspiration. And my twin brother. My best friend and my person. I will always look to him, I will always go to him. He will always be one of the greatest gifts God has ever given me. My family is my hero.

Right Now

Its incredible how much the past can define us. In fact, for me, the past has ruled an obnoxiously large portion of my life. Decisions I have made, choices that have led me to open one door after the next, regret after regret, blessing after blessing, the past is a defining and yet hurtful friend that I have never really had the courage to say good-bye to. Recently in my life, I made a series of choices, rather careless choices that have cornered me into realizing the next choice I need to make. Do I ignore what is right in front of me, or do I embrace it for the gift that it is? And I believe that I will embrace it. The past is what has made me into who I am today, but it does not define my future. So I choose to embrace the right now. If I am going to be controlled by an element of my life, it will not be the regrets I have or the ghosts of my past, it will not be the supposed filth I have laid on myself, but it WILL be the glory of the moment, of the present. I will allow for the excitement of the next moment to pass through me and overwhelm me to the point of pure ecstasy  rather than falling into the endless pit of some mistake I made that makes me blush with pure embarrassment.

I met someone recently, an amazing woman. She is the perfect example of how I will not allow for the past to define my future. In the past I was scared, I was prideful, I was lost and afraid of being wrong. I was a completely different person. And when I knew her in the past, so was she. But we have both changed. We have both had our worlds flooded and washed of everything we knew, and now that the storm has passed, that the waters have cleared, and that the sun is coming out, there is no one I would rather be standing on that empty shore with than with her. My best friend. The one I have never lied to. The one who knows me, who knows my imperfections, and yet still remains. The old me would have let the storm wash me away. But now that I stand here, I feel this new urge to move forward, to take that next step and embrace the unknown. I want to experience every sensation of the next moment of my life. I want to taste the wind as it rushes past me. I want to smell the pine or the lively spring as I step forward. I want to feel the sun, the whisper of it’s rise and the kiss of its rays as it sets. I see so much more now, I want to engulf all the world and its beauty, the good and the bad, to soak it in like a sponge and absorb it all. Right now. Right now is good. And the next right now, and the now after that, and the now after that. I want to live for the now. To feel it all and to live vicariously through it into the future. I made the promise with this woman to always live for the now, and I want her to know that I do not let my past define me anymore, and that I refuse to let it define us.

I get to wake up every morning knowing that I will get to see my family. I get to walk through the front door of my family’s home and say “hello” and “I love you” to them almost everyday. I am extremely lucky! Right now is good! I have friends in my life who I admire and appreciate beyond anything in this whole world. Friends who care, who are there. People who know who I am, who know my imperfections and my quirks, and are in my life all the same. I do not deserve such incredible gifts, but they are alive and well in my life, reminding me how incredibly lucky I am. I have people who believe in me, who see things in me that I would not see myself, and I am incredulous at how kind their words are. Shit happens, and I have seen my fair share of it this Spring. (All by my own doing) But like stars, friends and family have popped out of the darkness to help me realize that it is never too late to crawl out of the hole. Many hands have reached out, many hearts have touched my life, and I cannot even begin to describe my elation or gratitude towards you all for being such wonderful people. Right now is great.

We all make mistakes. We’re human. But if we all staid down after we fell, the world would be full of people crawling around on the ground. When we physically fall down we don’t stay down, we get back up!!! And I am choosing to get back up and move forward! Today was an amazing day! I saw friends that I have been deprived of for a few weeks, and to be a part of their energy was spectacular! I have a brother, who I get to see in a few days, and we are going to have so many summer adventures that it will make   Bill and Ted’s Adventures look not-so-excellent. I have a genius brother who constantly amazes me with his computer savvy and unwavering optimism. (At least when I’m agreeable about playing Minecraft with him) I have parents who care about me, and see the promise of my future even when I am blind to it myself. They have all given me the world, and instead of allowing for all of that to pass me by, I am going to embrace it. I am going to love it. I am going to live in the right now, and hug the crap out of it and never let go! I choose the now!

This seems to be a really random entry, but I haven’t written in a while, and I figured why not now.