Heritage of Pride: March of the Misfits!

This past week was Gay Pride Week in New York City and many other cities across the nation. It's history stretches back to that fateful night in June 1969 when a group of gays, lesbians, drag queens, and other so-called “misfits” had enough of social injustice and police brutality and decided to stand up for themselves at the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street.

From there, has grown an annual march, and a week of education and celebration that has spread to every major city in the country, and to the world.  But, I knew nothing of the Stonewall, or of equality when I was a little boy in my small, traditional Southern town. I only knew that I was a misfit, and that misfits were easy targets.

It is not easy for a child to endure the confusing metamorphosis that is puberty. It is made even more difficult by the taunting and bullying that may accompany it. I was teased as a child. I was teased a lot. I was called “the slickster” because my hair wasn’t cool enough, and “sophisticated lady” because I was quiet and effeminate, and a slew of other derogatory terms (sissy, queer, faggot, among others) designed to tear down my self esteem and keep me in my misfit place. I was shoved, threatened, and even beaten up once or twice. There were times when it became so cruel and personal, it seemed unbearable.

I wasn’t alone. It was happening in schools all across the nation, just like mine, to children just like me.

I thought about this as I stood on Sunday, across the street from the legendary Stonewall Inn, watching the Gay Pride Parade. There was an extra electric charge in the air because just a couple of days before, New York had just become the sixth state to allow gay marriage. Couples marched with signs declaring their engagements and people dressed as brides and grooms, danced in the street and posed for photographs.It was magical.

Heritage of Pride 2011

But, what resonates with me most at these events are organizations such as Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG) who march with their signs declaring, “I Love My Gay Son/Daughter,” and the organizations who promise to look after and protect the young people, such as the It Gets Better Project and The Trevor Project.  These organizations exist because our society still has much to learn, even after all these decades.  This year, I was especially thrilled to see a group of proud children wearing t-shirts with slogans such as “Turkey Baster Baby,” marching with their misfit moms and dads.

These are the images and messages that give hope to those who are still living a life they believe will never be anything but oppressed. I love knowing that most of the people watching and marching proudly have once felt the sting of being an outsider or a misfit. There is solidarity in coming together, and in there is pride in that solidarity.

Not only are they delivering the statement that they are proud. They are sending a message to those watching that it is okay to be proud. Be proud of what makes you different, because all of us are different in some way.  Be proud of the people who have come before you, paving the way to a time that is now more accepting than their own had been. Be proud of where you’ve been, so that you may be proud of where you’re going.

Part of my personal pride lies in reality that I was able to survive that frightening period of childhood that I thought would last forever. One day, I looked in the mirror and realized that I am all the things they said I was.  My hair is slick sometimes. I am sophisticated. Sometimes, like in the show I just finished, I am a lady. So what? As I watched the colorful revelry of the Heritage of Pride parade, I thought how fortunate I am to belong to such a dynamic, versatile and resilient population. We are misfits, and we are proud.  Today, if a bully walks up to me, I’ll spit in his eye. Well, perhaps I won’t spit. That’s a bit unrefined. But, I will hit back.

Manila Luzon of Rupaul's Drag Race at Heritage of Pride 2011

Still, it saddens me that not all of the misfits are able to share in a Pride celebration. You see, there are many children who do not get to make the journey to adulthood to find that it does get better. They become victims of  our bigoted society, often at the hands of other children, like themselves. Being a certain type of person still has such a stigma in some areas that individuals are forced to either live in silence, or suffer the cruel treatment that is born of ignorance.

We should be proud of our accomplishments both socially and politically. But, we should not forget that there are still many miles to go, and so many of us to save along the way. So, whether you’re in combat boots, or running shoes, ballerina slippers or six inch sequined high heels, march on brave misfits, march on.

 Officer Livingston (NYPD) was there to serve and protect, but quickly became a crowd favorite.

Do...Re...Mi

America’s got glee, talent, idols and a special “X” factor. Everybody loves or wants to be a singing sensation. Why not? It’s fun. There seems to be an onslaught of reality contests, shows and movies geared toward music.  That’s because we’re interested again.

In the last decade, the shift in supply and demand for musical entertainment is evidenced by the popularity of such shows as Glee and American Idol.  Even those who scorn pop music have an outlet in television shows like Rock Star, and country fans can root for or aspire to become a Nashville Star.

While the popularity of karaoke declined in previous years, the recent resurgence suggests that people once again have something to sing about. Those who prefer to rock out in anonymity have the option of becoming a Guitar Hero in the privacy of their very own home arenas.

All this singing and dancing is good for us.  Scientists are studying the effect music has on mental health and immunity (http://www.sciencedaily.com/), while we are searching for ways to satisfy our inner Gleeks.  I’m not suggesting that you break into a musical number in the steam room at your gym or at the elevator at work (oh, golly gee but that would be swell), but wasn’t it a kinder, gentler world that clamored for new cinematic releases filled with stars singing and dancing through story lines?  Yes, the movie musical is also making a not so stealthy comeback with hearty receptions for films like Chicago, Rent and Hairspray.  This year, movie makers made a pointe of appealing to dance enthusiasts with Black Swan.

As we spill out of the sheet music closet and into the streets, it becomes contagious.  Groups actually do break into song in unexpected places around New York City like museums, shopping centers and even Time Square (http://www.breakintosong.com/). Maybe that steam room number isn’t such a bad idea after all.

(Promo shot for Plan 9 From Outer Space by Frank Cwiklik www.dm-theatrics.com)

When I was a little boy, I dreamed of being on Star Search.  Alas, that dream never came true.  But I still have a song in my heart and a spring in my step because I know I can be a rock star at a neighborhood karaoke bar any day of the week. I hope I see you there.

Cheers,

Ceddy



The Bright, Optimistic Young Man

There was once a bright, optimistic young man who lived a life of excitement in a grand metropolis. One morning, he stood on the vibrant platform of a subway station, awaiting the train that would speed him onward to the adventures of the day. Suddenly, as the speeding train approached, he felt himself heave forward, onto the perilous rails of the train track. He reached desperately for the friend that had been standing beside him on the platform, but to no avail.  He simply could not reach.

At the last possible moment he hoisted himself onto the platform.  “This is a dangerous situation,” he thought to himself. “I’m going to have to leave this city if I want to survive.” And he did.

One afternoon, the bright, optimistic young man was enjoying a walk through a quiet village town.  He came upon a bridge built above a rapidly rolling river. Crossing the bridge, he enjoyed the sound of the surging water. Suddenly, he lost his balance and sailed over the railing of the bridge into the water below.  As he fought against being swallowed by the waves, he reached for his friend, who still stood on the bridge above, but to no avail.  He simply could not reach.

Finally, he grabbed on to a nearby branch and pulled himself to the safety of the shore. As he struggled to regain his breath, he thought, “This situation is as dangerous as the last.  I’m going to have to leave this village if I want to survive.” And he did.

Determined to survive, the bright, optimistic young man climbed high into the serene mountains. Early in the evening, he stood on the edge of a cliff to take in the awesome view that spread before him. As suddenly as before, he lost his footing and slipped from the edge of the cliff.  He caught himself before falling to the jagged rocks below. As he hung helplessly, high above the world, he reached for the friend who had been standing on the cliff beside him, but to no avail. He simply could not reach. 

“Why doesn’t my friend reach out to me?” He thought to himself desperately.  He remembered that each time he had fallen he had pulled himself to safety while his friend stood idly by. The dazzling city, the bucolic village and the majestic mountains had not betrayed him.  They had been constant and true to their natures…but the friend had not. He realized that, each time he had fallen, he had been pushed.

You see, not all relationships and situations are beneficial to our well being. Some are destructive. We must be able to recognize when we are being taken advantage of and when we are being abused. Too often we allow this behavior to happen because we are blinded by friendship and love. We try to justify the other person’s behavior because, in our hearts, we truly believe the situation will change. In our minds, however, we know that it will not. We all have the ability to accept, to love and to forgive. We forget that we also have the ability to walk away.

Finally, the bright, optimistic young man mustered enough strength to pull himself back onto the cliff.  He dusted himself off and he walked away, leaving his friend behind. 

“I’m going to have to find some new friends if I want to survive,” he thought to himself. And he did.

Cheers,

Ceddy

Take Me To Your Leader

NASA/courtesy of nasaimages.org

I finally got around to watching Avatar and I can see what the hype was about.  James Cameron accomplished what he set out to do in terms of action, special effects and theme.  By the closing credits, I found myself entertained, exhilarated …and totally ticked off. This wasn’t just a foray into the world of science fiction and mythology. It was too accurate a portrayal of mankind’s historical tendency to destroy in the guise of progress.

Astronomers have recently announced the discovery of yet another cluster of planets orbiting a sun like star.  It is inconclusive whether or not any of these planets, including a small earth like orb, are life sustainable. The quest continues.

We are one step closer to actually making the fantasy of discovering life on other planets a reality. This may not be a good thing.  I suppose it depends on how we choose to explore the Final Frontier.  I wonder if we’ll play nice.  But, as history shows, just because we play nice doesn’t mean we don’t take a few toys that don’t belong to us at the end of the day.  After all, humankind has mistreated a few playmates right here on Third Rock.

In real life, many indigenous people did not rise to conquer as the Na'vi tribe of Avatar.  The indigenous tribes of the Americas, for example, did not welcome the new settlers, nor make a willing gift of their ancestral lands. In real life, they did not live long, and they did not prosper.  We have enslaved millions, and attempted to eradicate entire races and cultures, using religion, science and prejudice to fuel mass hysteria to legitimize and justify our behavior. At the end of the day, the actors in our science fiction fantasies have a chance to go home. The people in our history books did not.

Human beings have long had a nasty habit of discovering places that are already long inhabited and destroying others in favor of our own gain.  In our quest for greatness, we just Manifest Destiny all over the place.  Survival of the fittest long ago disintegrated into ruthless aggression and greed.  We are a smart species, and have learned appreciation of the varying cultures of our world, and to respect and treat ethically our fellow human beings.  Meanwhile, as someone recently reminded me, ongoing skirmishes and military activity across the globe indicate that we have simply learned how to mask our intentions, but the intentions remain the same. Like children, jealous of a neighbor’s toys, the ruthlessness prevails. 

But, I subscribe to optimism. It is sometimes our greatest weapon against repeating the sins of the past.  We must maintain the hope that, as we move toward exploring Terra Incognita, we boldly go as we have not gone before—with genuine peace and reverence.

How will we approach our new neighbors? Will we board the Enterprise bearing welcome baskets and home baked pies; or will they arrive first in a shiny Trojan horse filled with shiny beads, pretty blankets and promises of brotherhood.  Whose destiny will manifest first. Will life imitate art imitate life?  

Maybe Avatar is a veiled warning against repeating one’s history. Maybe it’s just entertainment. The questions linger, and we are still light years away from knowing.

Cheers,
-Ceddy

Beam Me Up...

My friend Magen and I are excited about the invention of 3D TV. Actually, I’m slightly nervous about inadvertently creating a Nightmare on Ninth Avenue by switching on a Freddy Krueger movie and Magen’s excited at the thought of how amazing 3D porn must be on 3D TV. Let’s face it, it’s probably very amazing!

Doesn’t the new invention usually trump the predecessor?  We lost interest in centerfolds when we discovered video.  We stopped stashing video when we discovered we could log on to get off.  Naturally, 3D would be the bigger, better, autostereoscopic deal. Right? Such is the evolution of technology.

Each day, ruins of ancient civilizations are newly uncovered to reveal how they lived and what tools and technology were at their disposal.  It’s a constant reminder of how we were able to drag ourselves up from our primitive beginnings to walk, to run, to drive, to fly.  From the crank of a Victrola to the download of an mp3, each new invention piggybacks off of an older, less sophisticated one.  I might not be typing this article today without the development of the typewriter in the 1800s.

CREDIT: "Alexander Graham Bell at the opening of the long-distance line from New York to Chicago," 1892. Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress. Reproduction Number LC-G9-Z2-28608-B.

I’m lucky enough to have witnessed the launch of a few of our civilization’s most recent great inventions.  I was born in the 70s, raised in the 80s and entered adulthood in the 90s. Thus, I lived in a world without cell phones, DVD players and home computers. The only tablet was my Etch-A-Sketch, and I found hours of enjoyment listening to radio mix tapes on my cassette Walkman.

I fondly remember the flashing green letters against the infinite darkness of the computer screen , the exciting beep of my pager and, despite having been there from the beginning, I’m still a terrible video game player.

The twenty year old Assistant at my day job has never seen a real, live answering machine.  In her, such things may as well belong to a lost civilization, like eight track players, rotary phones and, soon to be (deep sigh of regret) books.

I fully embrace advancement. I do.  Some things, however, are irreplaceable.  Searching the World Wide Web from the palm of my hand is truly amazing. But, the crackle of a needle placed into the groove of a record, and the musty smell of pages that have been on a book shelf for far too long, make me melt.

Another unsettling realization is that while our technological advancements enhance our lives, they also increase our capacity to destroy.  The same types of inventions that allow us to reach out to one another in social camaraderie across vast distances, also make it possible to eliminate entire nations with the press of a button. We must be wise in our knowledge.  The future, if we’re careful, could be an amazing place to live.

I’m excited to see what the techno geniuses will come up with next.  I’m actually waiting for someone to fully develop Holodeck technology.  In the meantime, I’m off to find someone with a 3D TV to watch 3D porn with.

Cheers,

-Ceddy



Uniforms

A few weeks ago, while doing background work for the film Tower Heist, quite a few of us were caught in the trap of constantly forgetting that the NYPD officers in charge of crowd control were not actually officers in charge of crowd control.  They were actors.  Not only were they extras like ourselves, but admittedly, we were more dependent on them than common sense dictates.  Why would police officers have answers to questions like, “when are we breaking for lunch?”

It was the uniform.  We were subconsciously drawn to it, and we gave them more responsibility. In the spirit of make-believe, they accepted. We do this everyday.

A businessman walks into a board room wearing a business suit because that is universally recognized as professional attire.  Immediately the people around him know that he means business.  It is up to him to continue that impression once the meeting is in session.  Were he to attend in a clown suit, it would be a different type of meeting altogether. 

How we present ourselves to the world, is how we are accepted.  Let’s face it, if you dress like a slob, you will be treated like a slob. Many people subscribe to the belief that “what you see is what you get.” Like those actors, you may be mistaken for something you’re not, and assigned a role you do not wish to play.   

For all of our virtuous insistence about judging what’s inside vs. judging what’s outside, we are constantly judging books by their covers- on the subway, in the grocery store, as we’re walking down the street. We first respond to what we see.

Despite the pressure, be true to yourself. What you put on will not change who you are.  Dressing up like a lion will not make you a lion when you’re really an armadillo at heart. Wearing that tiara to Duane Reade will not make you royalty, no matter how shiny. Trust me on that one. It’s not about designer labels or sewing your paycheck to your bum. But a neat and clean appearance– whatever your personal style, will make a better impression when you present yourself to the world. If you’re an armadillo, be a well groomed armadillo.

Our police friends were acting; playing dress up. We must play dress up everyday.  We wear uniforms to work, and black tie to the opera; sweats to the gym, and jerseys to games. We dress up for occasions, and we dress down for leisure.

No matter what you wear on it, be comfortable in your own skin. That’s the most important uniform of all, because being who you are is the most important role you’ll play.

Cheers!

-Ceddy

Weekend in Savannah

In the season of barren trees, coming from snow laden New York City to a land filled with pockets of greenery in manicured squares, streets lined with palm trees and dripping with Spanish moss was a January delight.  That’s what we found over MLK weekend when my friend Jermaine and I decided to visit The Coastal Empire, the Garden City: Savannah, Georgia.

She was founded in the 1700s, out of the marsh and wilderness of rural Georgia by a British General (James Oglethorpe) and an Indian Chief (Tomochichi, leader of the Yamacraw tribe) – a diamond in the rough.  The Downtown Landmark Historic District is made up of twenty two squares, each named for historical figures and contributors to the development of Georgia and Savannah. We decided to take them in the day after our arrival, when the temperature reached fifty three degrees, a vacation in itself.

One attraction of interest to Jermaine was The Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, so we turned our steps in that direction.  Along the way, we came across Colonial park, Savannah’s original cemetery, containing markers dating from 1750 to 1853, when it closed as a cemetery due to overcrowding.

In later years, the city would remove most of the walls surrounding the cemetery and convert it into a park commemorating those buried there – Savannah’s original citizens. I found the tombstones that were attached to remaining wall interesting.  I learned that these orphan stones were displaced during renovations and now, to me, seemed to hold a special place in the park. We continued on down walkways with sea shells mixed into the concrete like nuts into brownies and eventually reached our destination.

The Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, the oldest Roman Catholic Church in Georgia, was established in the late 1700s by Catholic French settlers and has been built and rebuilt over the centuries into the wonderfully ornate landmark it is today. I was particularly drawn to the elaborate statues depicting the Stations of the Cross, beginning with the condemnation of Jesus Christ at the hands of Pontius Pilate, and ending with his being laid to rest in a tomb.  Here, Jermaine discovered the panoramic feature of his camera, which allowed him to better capture the scope of the church’s majesty.  Was it divine intervention? Perhaps.

Cathedral photograph by Jermaine Evans

We continued our exploration of the historic district, pausing in this square or that to listen to the chatter of squirrels, and the occasional wail of a Jazz musician on saxophone.

“What are you folks trying to find?” a helpful native stopped to ask.  “A little of everything,” I answered.  “Well,” he said, “Don’t miss Forsyth Park. Go up one more square and make a left.  Careful, if you go too far up, you’ll miss it.  Have a good day!”

The people there were as charming as the architecture.  There was something deeply genuine about their helpfulness and concern that extended far beyond the hospitality of people like Jennifer at the hotel front desk. You could argue that she was paid to be courteous.  But everyone else seemed to also say, “Welcome to my town. Let me show it off for you.”

Jermaine and I separated for a while, and I headed toward the Park. When I veered away from my path into an even more residential area, I was struck by the serenity. Where were the people who lived in these beautiful homes? Where was the bustle? From far away, I could hear the tinkling of wind chimes and, what could only be, the steady up and down creaking of a seesaw. Although the buildings became less ornate, there was still neatness to the structures and their relationship to one another that made them belong.

Under the warmth of the sun, the cold melted into what seemed like a beautiful spring day in January as I reached the park. In a city devoted to memorial parks, Forsyth Park is Savannah’s Grand Dame, spreading from the Victorian District all the way to the Historic District.  Forsyth Park was originally named Forsyth Place for former Governor John Forsyth, the 33^rd Governor of Georgia in the 1840s. 

I entered at the north entrance, and was greeted by the popular Forsyth Fountain.  People and pets peppered the great lawn of the park. I came across a wedding party, taking post nuptial photographs around the fountain.  They’d chosen a perfect day. The sunlight played in the folds of the bridesmaid’s bright canary wraps. They were abuzz with excitement.  I wanted to get close enough to snap photos of my own, but I wasn’t brave enough to intrude. Instead, I took shots of the fountain itself, and my other surroundings.

While I am a loyal subject of New York City’s much larger Central Park, I am respectful of Forsyth’s place in the city’s history.  Many of the areas that make up the park were once military training grounds. It is one of the more popular attractions for Savannah tourists.  I was very grateful to that native for sharing with me his pride and joy.  After a few more photographs of the beautiful surroundings, I retired to the hotel while Jermaine attended evening Mass at St. John’s.

We were blessed with a glorious view overlooking the Savannah River. We had arrived the evening before and, after checking in, headed down the rough cobblestone walkways to nearby River Street.

Our main objective was to catch the show at Club One, famous for its regular performer, and star of the film Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, the Lady Chablis. Although we were aware that she wouldn’t be performing this weekend, we were sure the cabaret show would be top notch.  We had time to kill, and we made a brief stop at Wet Willies, before we came across Chuck’s Bar, partially tucked into an alley on River Street.

The crowd was a mix of different ages and races, straight and gay alike.  It was divey in that good way a place can be divey –comfortable, neighborly and lived-in, without pretension. 

The bartender was lively and talkative. “Honey, that show is tired,” she confided to us when asked what time the cabaret at Club One started. She dished about the decline in local nightlife entertainment, and shared that she didn’t understand the fuss over “that falling down coke whore” that was the main attraction. Priceless. Furthermore, she’d had an altercation at the door years ago, and refused to go back.  She said we were welcome to waste our time if we wanted to.  Show time was at Midnight. Once again, we made our way over the cobblestone and up the very steep stone stairs to find our way to Jefferson Street and Club One. 

I was with Kitty LeClaw’s Road Kill Tour the last time I visited Savannah.  We performed at Club One during that visit to a crowd eager for outside entertainment. When we arrived this time, it was suspiciously quiet for a Friday night.  What was even more disappointing was that it stayed that way.

True to the earlier review, the show was a bit lackluster.  It offered nothing new in drag entertainment.  Those were the same routines I’d been seeing for years.  In the Kitty Le Claw show, years before, one of the drag queens would strip off most of her costume while lip syncing to “Man I Feel Like a Woman.”  By the end of the number, she looked like something from mythology – a man/drag amalgamation. So, it didn’t impress me when one of the drag queens in Friday night’s show did the exact same thing to a different country song.  Had she caught our act all those years ago?

The show ended just as we decided to check out the dance floor.  Downstairs, two tragic go-go boys were slung atop boxes, grinding for all their worth in their disco Underoos.  Bless their hearts. The crowd was so sparse; they were trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents.  We didn’t stay long. 

Saturday night was different.  Jermaine and I ran into friends of his from Charlotte, NC and we ducked into Venus de Milo’s, where they were having their Trailer Trash Party. We passed boys in mullet wigs and girls in plaid as we headed to the upstairs lounge area.  Being a New Yorker during a bed bug epidemic, I was a bit wary of the comfy sofas that awaited us in the dimly lit area. But, I relaxed and remembered that I wasn’t in New York, and I settled in to converse with two graphic artists, a couple, visiting from Florida.  He’d once lived in Williamsburg, and she’d once lived in Atlanta, so we made an instant connection. Later, we returned to River Street to say our good-byes to Chuck’s Bar before retiring to rest up for the long journey home.

They say that when General Sherman destroyed Georgia during the Civil War, he spared Savannah for her intoxicating beauty. Others say it’s simply because the city surrendered.  Whatever the answer to the debate, the city has been able to maintain so much of its historical beauty and structure. It was a charming place to visit, and a much needed respite from my snowy everyday life.  Next time, I’ll have to take in a tour of the haunted places and mansions.

Oh! Did I mention there are no open container laws on River Street?  I’ll come back y’all, ya hear?

Cheers!

-Ceddy