Was She or Wasn't She?

O' to be of the age where your friends and icons begin to leave earth en masse. Of course we've been through this before, us boys of an era; now it's just time.

The Lady wasn't always a delightful grande dame, it took years of devotion to the arts of etiquette and charm. But once upon a time even I was a young, and if I may say rather handsome, lad with the usual dose of mischief and cockiness, and I carry those adventures with me as lovely if not sardonic memories.

A real Lady remains discreet, at least when it comes to Lindsey Graham. Was she or wasn't she? I'll never tell, but I will share a story.

It's true, I was a child once and for today's sake anyway (we'll see who dies next and where they grew up) I was that child in South Carolina. I attended Corinth Baptist Church

For the sake of our tale, let us pretend a certain eventual-to-be Senator was also an attendee of that congregation. We were both in the choir, and she had a heavenly voice. Touched, if I may. Over the years we might walk together in idle conversation, our families getting farther and farther ahead of us as those years passed.

A second tradition would soon take root; in addition to our choral duties, we would end up near each other at the end of the service as well, in response to the invitation of the altar call. I can't speak for her; I know I never divulged the urges leading me there. I only hoped whatever response the pastor offered would have a broad and thorough cure of what ailed me.

Whether that pastor ever heard from her what she and I knew, or whether anyone ever heard it I'll never know; we would each move on to separate worlds. Clearly whatever powers the gods offered had no effect on me. But the drive back from a lingering and fruitful trek to the desert was a quiet one to be sure, with lots of sadness...

...for this unfortunate thing we've built, society.

We're a species that has evolved to entertain infinite possibility and, with exception, we seem to keep cycling through our lowest common denominators. We are so wowed by the toys of civil achievement we fail to see our truly archaic and crude reality.

My stories are dying, but I don't mourn this one. My heart and soul are forever aching for the self hating boys who love boys. My heart and soul are forever aching for the hate they and everyone else flings at the brave.

Anytime, children, you think stepping into your queerness is a necessary no-brainer, look again at the ones who could not. Worse, at the one's who hate themselves for it so hard they do everything they can to take your life, your love, your joy away. They live in Glendale, they live in Washington, they live all points between and beyond. "Live."