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On A Sort-of Equality

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 3 Comments

I like to save “lighter” work tasks for Friday afternoons. By that time in the week, my mind is usually toast, and I have only so much cognitive power to invest in a project. And, thus, today, I decided to spend some of my Friday afternoon watching a mandatory diversity training video concerning gay people. As a gay person, I felt pretty confident I wouldn’t need to pay too close attention.

The video turned out fine. I learned what “in the closet” and “coming out” mean, and I aced the in-video quizzes that tested whether I was paying attention. And I was paying attention; I know that because a statement at the beginning of the video crawled inside my head and bounced around the rest of the afternoon.

The video began with a strong statement from the agency head about her commitment to diversity inside the agency, as well as a commitment to serving the entire public, including those in the LGBT community. Nice. Great. After waxing eloquently about the benefits of diversity and her rock-solid commitment to inclusion, she dropped the Golden Caveat that I’ve come to know and not love. She softened her tone and explained that she understood that many people have “strong feelings” about the subject, and she proceeded to reassure the audience that the goal of the video was not to “change anyone’s mind.” She then added that diversity includes diversity of opinion. It’s the sort of rhetorical move that, at first blush, sounds nice and fair and reasonable, but, upon further reflection, undercuts any proclaimed commitment to equality.

The truth is, if you do not believe gay and lesbian people are entitled to full and equal legal treatment under the law, you are wrong. Full stop. You are a bigot. And your “opinion,” “view,” or “belief” should not be respected in any way. In fact, you should be ridiculed relentlessly, not placated.

Imagine a diversity training video concerning race where the speaker announced that she understood that some people genuinely believed that African-Americans were sub-humans and that the training video was not intended to change their minds because, after all, diversity includes diversity of opinion. For certain, there are racists out there, but the vast majority of people rightfully reject any notion that such an idea must be tolerated or respected. And when affirming our commitment to racial equality, we rightfully see no need to inform the backward racists in the audience that it’s okay for them to hang on to their vile prejudice.

I spent the first twenty years of my adult life listening to politicians, ministers, talking heads, and everyone else (for that matter) discussing whether I had the right to marry the person I love, adopt a child, serve in the military, or even just hold a job because of who I am. It’s difficult to articulate how dehumanizing it is for your ability to make the most intimate, fundamental decisions one can make (or even just the desire to hold a job and be honest about who you are) to be treated as a joke, a political football, an oddity, a threat to children, and/or a destroyer of civilization as we know it. If you’re lucky, you can intellectualize the debate, maintain faith that the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice, and find strength in those that support you, but it cannot completely take away the sense that you are different and second class. Luckily, we’ve made huge strides on many fronts for the LGBT community, and, for those, I am sincerely thankful. Still, though, as I sit listening to a video, discussing how deserving of equality I am, placate those that would see me as fundamentally flawed, second class, and/or sub-human, it is a reminder that we have a long way to go.

Maybe it’s a matter of time. Just as kowtowing to racists no longer occurs, maybe in a few decades homophobes will join their ranks as undeserving of recognition. I must begrudgingly accept that reality. But, maybe too we can all speed that process along by agreeing that, when you hear stupidity, feeling a little more freedom to call people on it. It’s fine to respect someone’s religious beliefs, but it’s equally fine to say that their belief is cruel, unkind, divisive, scientifically unsound, morally indefensible, and just plain stupid. For example, “Oh Mildred, I don’t hate you, I just hate your intolerant bigotry that is completely untethered to reality in any discernible way, shape, or form and threatens the bedrock value of equality our country was founded upon.” As you walk away, you can just mutter “you bitter old bag” under your breath.

On 46 Universal Secrets

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I attended a (mandatory) leadership training today where, much to my surprise, I encountered something amazing. I was given a book that breathlessly announced it would transform my understanding of leadership. On the front and back covers, the book promised to unveil “46 universal secrets of how to step up to major challenges, create a brighter future, and produce extraordinary results.” At that point, I could only think, “if this thing irons clothes too, I may have to divorce my husband.”

Let’s step back for a moment. You didn’t misread my quote from the book. It plainly promised to unveil “46 universal secrets.” Did I mention it says that on both the front and back covers? I’m halfway to a colorable contract claim with that kind of promise!

After I took a moment to gather myself upon reading how my life was about to change, reality set in, and I realized I was, most likely, in yet another complete-waste-of-time leadership class where a super-jazzed moderator would throw platitudes at the wall for two hours and see what stuck. I wasn’t disappointed. Nearly three hours later, I emerged sore from sitting in an uncomfortable chair and confident in the knowledge that my leadership abilities were totally unchanged.

In the government world (not to mention the corporate and academic worlds), we are routinely treated to these trainings, refreshers, symposiums, continuing education classes, etc. I’m firmly convinced that all of these worlds would be far better off by eliminating every single last one of these time sucks and letting people get about the business of their jobs. For every interesting nugget of an idea, there are hours upon hours of talking heads droning on while completely uninterested attendees craft grocery shopping lists in their heads. The good doesn’t even come close to outweighing the bad.

For the people in this adult education business (and it is big business), the uncomfortable truth is that, if an adult wants to learn something, he or she will pursue it. And, if they have no interest, they’ll attend these mandatory classes, sit semi-politely, leave immediately, and never think about anything that was said ever again. In other words, it’s a business built on a premise that sounds great in theory — education, new skills! — that, practically, has little to no impact on the lives and careers of the vast majority of people that “attend” such classes.

Most importantly, when anyone tells you they are about to unveil to you “46 universal secrets,” you need to run away. Far away. Far away at a pace you’ve never run before. I’m not convinced there are 46 secrets in all of mankind, much less 46 universal secrets of leadership that until today — today! — were heretofore unknown to me and my classmates. When you think about it, it takes some real chutzpah to claim you’ve uncovered 46 universal secrets. If it were me, once I found Secret #46, I’d fear there were hundreds. I mean, why stop at 46? And, on a different tack, God only needed 10 commandments to instruct people on how to live a good life, but this dude needs to tell me 46 secrets about leadership? Really?

There comes a point in one’s life when you should just get to call BS and move on. As I stood there with the book in my hand this morning, I’m pretty sure I reached that point. And that’s no secret.

On 100 Posts

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Welcome to Post 104.

I know, doesn’t jive with the title, does it? Well, take away an introductory post, a look-back-post at Post 50, and a couple more, and I figure I’ve now posted about 100 substantive posts, be they essays, poems, or (super) short stories. Along the way, I always intended to look back after about 100 posts and take stock. And here we are.

Last August, I started this blog, with the idea to see if I could jump start some creative writing. In that regard, I think it’s been a success. The latter fifty took longer than the first fifty, given new responsibilities at work, travels, and finding new territory to mine. Still, 100 posts in eight months ain’t bad. I’m giving myself a pat on the back for that one.

In the beginning, I envisioned a more academic blog, covering literature, technology, and maybe even fashion. Hey, my own TED Talk blog! Alas, the best laid plans of mice and men rarely produce the blog they intended. Pretty quickly it became apparent to me that, in-between a job, a husband, and just life, I lacked the time, energy, and, most importantly, talent to consume and comment on enough cultural things to produce any semblance of the blog I intended. Moreover, I soon learned that mining one’s own life for topics is pretty fun. It’s a challenge to not only articulate your past in a coherent way but also to universalize it where it may have meaning for others. Absent the latter, you end up with a therapy blog that no one cares about. I hope I’ve avoided that.

The most important lesson I’ve learned after 100 posts is this: writing is difficult. Simple, huh? It’s one thing to think you can do it, to understand subject/verb agreement, and to string a few sentences together. It’s another to craft a piece in such a way as to be clear, coherent, substantive, and entertaining — the latter being perhaps the most important. Sure, you think that embarrassing moment in junior high is entertaining, but try writing about it. Suddenly, it’s not so easy.

Hand in hand with “writing is difficult,” I’ve humbly learned my limits. Under the time constraints I enforced on myself, I can occasionally produce a piece on par with a decent high school essay. Occasionally. Often, they just don’t work, and more often than that I’m not creative enough to really produce something (fairly) unique and attention-catching. Then again, even the masters didn’t write masterpieces in an hour, my typical time. My hour-long limit was realistic for my goal of writing something; it wasn’t realistic for necessarily writing well.

That said, looking back on 100 posts, a few personal essays stand out to me as those that, despite the time limitation, stand strongly on their own: “On My Grandfather’s Ghosts,” “On the Danger of Terrariums,” “On What’s Unsaid,” “On Fading Music,” “On the Boy With Three Donkeys,” “On Belonging,” “On an Audience of Sandwiches,” “On the Ineffable Delicacy of Souls,” and “On a Driveway Moment.” Most of those are fairly personal but pretty effectively universalize the point. None are perfect, and all could use editing and further reflection, but I’d put those forward as solid, good work.

The most surprising turn of the blog, for me, was my strong desire to write poetry and a little fiction. As far as the non-poetic, the Axton Village stories were all fun to write, and I enjoyed writing them just to have fun. On the more serious side, “On a Lost Son” and “On an Annual Goodbye” were effective, again remembering they were written in a very short time. I would enjoy taking them, breaking them down, re-writing them, and giving them added depth, texture. The stories are straightforward, but I enjoyed exploring the soul twisting impact of pain. The isolation and the lives set in amber. It’s a phenomenon that’s not rare, even in my own extended family. “On a Letter To Your Pain” explores that a bit. The piece isn’t fiction, but it’s not personal either. As far as the rhythm of my pieces, that one is probably my favorite.

As far as the poetry goes, I learned a word as I wrote the first 100 posts: poetaster. A poetaster is a person that writes bad poetry, and that’s me! As much as I learned that writing short essays or commentaries is difficult, writing serious poetry is even more difficult. Rhyme, rhythm, word choice, syntax, structure, themes, symbolism, realism — you name it, there are dozens of ideas, concepts, and choices to consider in writing what is, honestly, a few words. Most of the poems I wrote had, maybe, one interesting idea in them, or perhaps I was just trying to play around with a rhyme scheme. Only a few succeeded. “On an Anticipated Son” may be a hair too sweet, but it remains one of the entries that speaks to me. I can’t say it accurately reflects my inner life as we wait for our adoption to materialize, but it does reflect broad themes in a meaningful, beautiful way. I’m proud of it. Almost infinitely less sweet, “On Knotted Knives of Lust and Lies” is probably the most sophisticated, most artistic blog post I’ve written to date. Of the first 100 posts, I’d enter that in a writing competition. Stripped of almost all pretense, with a strict poetic meter, that poem probably comes closest to achieving some semblance of authenticity. Along those lines, I’d give consolation prizes to “On a Small River Town” and “On My Orderly Soul.”

So, from here? Well, I’m going to keep writing, but I’m going to free myself, to the extent I can, from the expectation to post as frequently. I want to write as much, but I want to give myself permission to take longer to write something, to post only those things that I am truly proud of (or at least pretty proud of). To take my time. To write something and then sleep on it. I think I’ve proven to myself that I can do it, now I want to see if I can do it well.

On A Cookie in the Queen’s Kitchen

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Hubby and I just completed a wonderful tour of London and Paris. We stayed in beautiful hotels, toured castles and palaces, and came face to face with works of art and architecture that reflect no less than the pinnacle of human creativity and genius. So, after ten days spent touring the height of culture, what’s the moment that my mind keeps returning to? But of course, eating a cookie on a wooden bench.

At Hampton Court Palace — most famously one of the royal residences of Henry VIII — Queen Elizabeth I’s kitchen has been converted into a public tea room. I’m not sure how she would take such commoners, but after hours of standing in portrait galleries and walking through the palace, the simple wooden benches felt blissfully soft to this member of the hoi polloi.  The red-eye flight over the pond, followed by several days of touring had taken their toll. London had enchanted me, but, at this point, my aching back and feet yanked my head out of the clouds and cried out for a pause that refreshes.

I grabbed a cookie and a hot chocolate from the kitchen, and sat across the table from Hubby to enjoy a few moments of peace, quiet, and rest. Then, a funny thing happened. I nibbled on my cookie, and my shoulders began to drop. My back and feet felt better. My peripheral vision came back. Untethered from the responsibilities of work and normal life, my mind came to rest on the very real fact that I was sitting in a 500 year old palace, across a table from the love of my life, eating a tasty cookie. I was on a quite grand adventure, inconceivable and inaccessible to most through history, but there I was, surely with the remnant of a chocolate chip smudged on the corner of my mouth. An unremarkable moment where life just feels unassailably profound and good and uncomplicated.

It’s one of those moments where all the tumblers of your soul fall into place, a bookmark moment in your life, seemingly banal but extraordinary in the millions of choices and chances that brought you to that point. I smiled at Hubby and watched him eat his treat, knowing he had no idea I had just dropped a psychic anchor in that moment.

Those moments of clarity never happen when you think they might. It’s not during the graduation ceremony or the religious service; rather, it’s when you pick up the baked beans from the grocery shelf or fold the underwear from the laundry. You’re yanked out of the mundanity of the moment and locked into a deeper conversation with yourself, a personal inventory of your trials and triumphs, scars and scores. Suddenly, everything makes sense, the prose becomes a little more poetic, and we momentarily grab the live wire of life. You can’t plan it, you can’t force it, you just enjoy it when you’re lucky enough to experience it.

Over ten days, I encountered beauty in almost every conceivable form. I encountered great wealth, great power, and great achievement. I marveled at two world-class cities, and humbled myself before works of indescribable exquisiteness. But none matched that cookie on that wooden bench across from my husband. That’s the moment I’ll remember.

On a Note to Remember

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I received a small note in the mail three days ago. Adorned with a super hero stamp, the card  was a picture of a Georgia O’Keefe painting, and the message inside was a kind inscription, wishing me a happy birthday. The writer wished me as wonderful a celebration as I had arranged for him on his 40th birthday over a decade ago.

The note was from my former partner, and reading it was one of those moments where time slows down and everything else slips into your peripheral vision. The note didn’t bring back any rush of affection or love. Rather, it gave me pause to consider my own generousness, my own capacity for forgiveness.

When most relationships end, it’s messy. Lots of hurt feelings, maybe some bitter words, yelling, and slammed doors. My seven year relationship didn’t end like that. After my partner admitted a months-long infidelity, our relationship began a death spiral almost imperceptible at first, but undeniable at last. I can’t remember yelling or screaming or gnashing my teeth, but I can remember the sad dawning of realizations that Humpty Dumpty could not be put back together. It was a long, quiet, torturous goodbye.

Throughout it all, I was pretty remarkably stoic, and I’ve written previously how, to a large extent, I probably just couldn’t process the awfulness of it. As the relationship ended, as I caught my breath, and as I just happened to meet someone amazingly wonderful the following year, I found myself growing in understanding as to what had transpired, and, rather than reaching a peace about it all, I became more indignant, more self-righteous, and, for lack of a better word, more angry. I didn’t lose sleep, but I no longer cast the ending of the relationship in my mind as something poetic and sad. Now, I understood how shabbily I had been treated, and grew to appreciate how moving on had been the right choice. At the same time, I was enjoying a maturing, deepening love (with Hubby), and hindsight allowed me to see all that had been missing from the prior relationship.

In that process, my heart hardened toward my former partner. We did not communicate regularly or see each other, so it was very much an internal process, but it happened nonetheless. No “Happy Birthday,” no “hope your move goes well,” no anything. We tend to cast the people in our lives into character roles, and he had been sent to the “villain” line in central casting. I’m sure most people would just call this “moving on,” but I know that my feelings were not true to who I am. It wasn’t just moving on; it was taking cherished memories and a decent soul and rewriting them out of existence.

And, then, one day, you find yourself standing in your office, holding a birthday card harkening back to a wonderful trip to New Mexico and reading a kind inscription, and you understand that the inner turmoil, the judgmental posturing, it was all just an indictment of yourself and no one else. And you reflect that we are all screwed up, flawed, inconsistent, hurting, wonderful beasts, and you know that nothing and no one is ever all bad or all good, and you remind yourself to see and embrace nuance, and you…well, you just exhale.

A thoughtful card doesn’t erase the past. And it doesn’t make up for transgressions. But that’s not the point. I think the secret is learning to let go of all the hurts and all the pain, and to keep opening yourself up to love and kindness. And to loving and being kind. Ultimately, nothing else really works.

Since starting this blog, I’ve continually written and rewritten a post on forgiveness, and it never works out. Something is always off. But, standing with the note in my hand, with a little paper reminder that life’s kindnesses come in many different shapes and forms, I think I found some forgiveness.

On a Bad Gift

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I hate to be impolite. And I don’t want to be ungracious. And I know that, if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all. Still, I just can’t keep silent anymore: I received a bad gift this weekend.

Complaining about a bad gift falls into the category of asking someone how much they weigh, telling a woman her dress is unflattering, and mistaking someone’s pregnancy status. Come to think of it, maybe a bad gift is somehow related to weight? I digress. The point is: you’re taught from an early age that you don’t complain about gifts. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Well, I have to complain.

I headed to Richmond, Virginia this weekend for a weekend of shopping, eating, and relaxing with Hubby, my mother-in-law, and my aunt. Food, family, and furniture shopping; it’s a good recipe. Unexpectedly, as we arrived for dinner Saturday evening, my mother-in-law and aunt pulled birthday gifts out of the car for me. Ahh, how sweet! The great weekend just got even better!

We sat down to dinner at a moderately priced steak house at a high-end mall, and, upon greeting us, our waitress asked if someone was celebrating that evening, noting the presents at the table. My family kindly informed the waitress that we were celebrating my birthday, and we were all smiles. Now, I certainly did not expect to receive gifts during dinner, and I certainly did not expect the waitress to take note. But…since she did…I could not help but wonder if I had just stumbled upon yet another gift. Maybe a cute cupcake with a lit candle…on the house. Or maybe a nice piece of pie…on the house. Or, still even better, a large piece of chocolate cake, with “Happy Birthday” written in dark, decadent chocolate syrup…on the house. I saddled back in my chair, momentarily considered loosening my belt, and decided to dig on in to this wonderful birthday dinner.

As I could have predicted, the dinner was terrific. The salad was tasty. My meatloaf was a homey, inspired choice, and my cosmopolitans made everything go down easier. As our waitress cleared the table, I smiled with the smug satisfaction of knowing there was definitely room for dessert…on the house. And, thus, when she set the dessert menu down on the table, I knew it was really for everyone else. Surely. Still, as a man that doesn’t count his cake before it’s baked, I agreed to take a few bites of the chocolate cake the rest of the table was ordering. After all, I didn’t want to flaunt my good fortune. I had enjoyed a great meal, loved lively conversation, and received wonderful, thoughtful gifts from my family. One must remain humble.

Maintaining my emotional equipoise was challenged, however, as our waitress delivered the chocolate cake ordered by everyone else with nary a birthday cupcake, slice of pie, or tower of cake in sight. After pausing for just a moment, allowing for the large group of singing waiters and waitresses to serenade me and deliver my birthday cake, it sadly dawned on me that there would be no recognition of my birthday from the restaurant. What had started so promising, with such beauty and charm, had been nothing but a birthday gift mirage. I consoled myself with bites from the family’s chocolate cake and moved on. I had faced bigger disappointments in life.

But, then, it happened.

My gift arrived.

The waitress approached our table with the bill, looked at me, and explained, “Here at [restaurant name redacted to protect the cheap], we don’t do birthday cake, we do birthday cards!” She handed me a card that, indeed, correctly read “Happy Birthday.” When you flipped the card over, approximately ten members of the waitstaff had signed their first names: Steve, Lucy, Mark, Tom, Betty, etc. I looked at the waitress and summoning every ounce of my Southern hospitality roots, gave her a sweet Kentucky “Thank you so much! How nice!”

After my waitress had taken approximately three steps away from the table, I realized I had just received one of the worst “gifts” ever. Now, I know a card is different from a gift…and, trust me, I was keenly aware there was no real gift here…but, still, when you anticipate a gift of dessert…on the house…a card in its place constitutes a bad gift. It may have been slightly better had I been swell chums with the ten members of the waitstaff that signed my card, but I didn’t know any of them. Complete strangers. You could have signed the card “Zurla, Queen of the Amazons,” and I would have accepted that Zurla worked there. I do not know these people!

The birthday card was that rare gift that made you feel worse for having received it. Even with a bad gift from a loved one, you can fall back on the fact that, truly, it is the thought that counts. But, here, it was painfully obvious that the only thought that had occurred was, “How can we avoid giving anyone anything of value when they spend their hard-earned dollars to celebrate with us?” It is 100% scientifically accurate to report that, had the restaurant not given me the card, I would have felt better. That’s a true gift fail. Not a bad guess at my shirt size. Not an earnest attempt to acknowledge a hobby that I no longer enjoy. Nope, just total failure.

I quickly bounced back from my bad gift, and it did provide me a chuckle or four the next few days. In the end, though, it did remind me that, if you want to give someone a gift, or even if you just want to acknowledge them, a little thought goes a long, long way.

And, speaking of thought, I did have a thought before leaving the restaurant. As we stood up from the table, gathered our belongings, and walked away, I left my birthday card on the table. After all, I cared as much about their card as they did my birthday.

On Feeling Forty

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I have 12 days left in my 30s.

I’ve noticed that a common response when confronted with the fact of aging is to say, “I don’t feel 40!” “I don’t feel like I’m 65, I still feel like a teenager.” I guess I can understand that. Whatever our age, our sense of self — dare I say soul — remains constant, ever as present and weighty as the year before.

That said, in 12 days, I won’t be proclaiming that I don’t feel 40. The truth is, I do. My 30s have been a decade-long realization that, physically, I no longer enjoy the invulnerability of youth. I don’t bounce back from injuries as fast. I seem to fall out of shape more easily, and I struggle more mightily to regain some semblance of form. I avoid sports that I formerly dove into with abandon. Now, I think, “That would probably hurt.” More than invulnerability, I simply wish I could again feel that surge of strength and energy that, in my younger years, I simply took for granted. I believe I’m about to lapse into an infomercial for testosterone, but opening the childproof seal on the ibuprofen bottle is clear and convincing evidence for me that “she ain’t what she used to be.”

And it’s not just in my head. In the morning, I look into the mirror to see post-surgery scars cover my right shoulder, and, as I lean in to examine them more closely, I’m reminded that my right knee was reconstructed with the help of four titanium screws. Sure, I still run miles every week, but only with the arch-supporting aid of orthotics. Moreover, as the air whips through my hair, it stays anchored with the aid of hair loss medication that I dutifully quarter and take every morning. And that’s after I lather my skin with lotion, given that time has robbed me of adequate dermal moisture.

No one ever said aging was pretty.

All that said, when February 28 comes around, I won’t be sad. I won’t pretend like I’m not a year older. I will be. I’ll be 40. I’ll embrace it, love it even. For all the aches and pain that will surely only accumulate as the years tumble on, I wouldn’t trade where I am now. Sure, maybe I’d love my 20-year-old body and the keenness of my 30-year-old mind, but I’ll take the whole package at 40. I think I’m getting the wiser part of “older and wiser,” even if I’m taking my own sweet time.

I’ve lost that invulnerability, that feeling that I can do anything, be anything, conquer it all. Life’s lumps have a way of humbling you. The daydreams of setting the world on fire are fewer and far between now, replaced by the growing understanding and acceptance of my insignificance. Not a melancholy insignificance, but a properly respected appreciation of the order of the cosmos, the way of things, a right-sized smallness in an awe-inspiring world. There’s a peace in that; delusions of greatness are, after all, quite the burden.

Lately, on many evenings, as I sit by the fire and read a good book, I’ll look up to see my husband reading too or toiling away on his laptop. It will be warm and quiet and peaceful. I’ll think about all of our adventures, and I think about the even more exciting exploits that lie ahead. I’ll consider the green stuffed monkey waiting on our bureau, and the trips to new places, and the comforting expanse of an unknown destination called life, and I know that this is a good place, this is where I was meant to be. It’s the moment to understand that what you’ve gained mightily outweighs what you’ve lost.

This is 40, and it’s worth the aches and pains.

 

On Nino and Me

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I first encountered the writing of United States Supreme Court Justice Antonin “Nino” Scalia in a college constitutional law class. I can’t remember the case or whether his opinion was in the majority or (more likely) the minority, but, in his opinion, I remember encountering this fierce roiling and tumbling of words and concepts that set the government major in me afire. His writing was poetry in a world of prose, and, love it or hate it, you instantly recognized it as singular, illuminating, and powerful. It was the brilliant, beautiful, awful wreck from which one cannot turn away.

I was headed to law school before I became well acquainted with Justice Scalia, but his writing didn’t hurt. Even before I read his jurisprudence on cases that personally touched my life, I knew we were on opposite sides of the political and legal worlds, but, in many respects, Justice Scalia and his pugnacious parries at his intellectual foils held out for me the promise of an advocacy that was thrilling and challenging. To the extent there is such a thing, Scalia was the bad boy on the bench.

As I made my way through law school and spent more time reading legal opinions, understanding competing legal interpretation theories, and learning the scope (and limits) of the law, the shine on Scalia’s opinions faded. This dulling coincided with my growth into a more self-aware gay man and a concomitant understanding of my status as a second-class citizen, legally speaking. I could not marry the person I loved or even expect any sort of legal benefit or protections. I could not serve in the military without lying about who I was as a man. I could be fired for no other reason than whom I loved, not my ability to do the job. I could be denied public accommodations, I could be denied the opportunity to see a loved one in a hospital, I could be imprisoned in many states, the list goes on and on and sadly on. Hell, I couldn’t even donate blood!

Armed (or burdened, if you will) with that understanding, I found myself reading Justice Scalia’s pronouncements that laws aimed at providing me rights equal to those of my friends and fellow Americans were part of a larger and nefarious “homosexual agenda.” More gallingly, he compared me to drug addicts, prostitutes, and those who engage in incest and bestiality. He not-so-subtly mocked the idea that I could love someone to a degree worthy of marriage, and he hid behind the alleged enormity of the change to the definition of marriage, stating that such monumental shifts should come at the hands of the voters, not the courts. It was, and still is, a thunderously naive statement coming from someone who never had his rights, freedoms, or liberties questioned, denied, or put up for a vote.

The salutes to Justice Scalia’s brilliance are rolling in, and, indeed, he was brilliant. It is right and proper that many kind words should be said about him; after all, we don’t speak ill of the dead. And I’ve been surprised to read a gay lawyer/journalist or two forgive Scalia his prejudices and, instead, focus on the fierceness of his intellectual discipline, the soaring and slumming nature of his writing, and his importance to the history of the Court. I’m sure such writers will be praised for their magnanimity, for their ability to look past this obvious blindspot in Justice Scalia’s jurisprudence. I will not be one of them.

My evolution on Scalia was not one of a fallen hero. It was not the dawning recognition that an idol was not perfect. Rather, I came to understand that, for all his bluster, for all his brilliance, for all the big words and fancy phrases and legal argle-bargle, his approach to the law lacked heart. Plain human compassion. He lacked the capacity to look beyond himself, to understand that the Constitution and its promise of liberty and equality was reality for some, but remains an unfulfilled promise to others in our country. And, for those people, it is not enough to say that they are subject to the tyranny of the majority. It is not enough to say that they must beg and plead with their fellow citizens to recognize their fundamental rights. The promise of our Constitution must be greater than that. I’m no constitutional scholar, but I’m pretty sure our founding fathers would want it that way.

I’ll miss his outsized personality, and he was always entertaining. And I’ll always give him his due as a brilliant jurist with a definite point of view. He forgot more about the law than I’ll ever know. But I won’t miss a voice on the Court that attempted to deny to me basic rights he enjoyed without a second thought. There are sins that are simply unforgivable, and I’m quite certain that Nino would love a statement of such moral certitude.

On Getting Compassion Right

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

I work with a woman, Sarah, who has several severe physical challenges. She walks with a pronounced limp and cane, and she speaks with slightly slurred speech. I do not know the reason for her physical problems — stroke, accident, something else — and it is absolutely none of my business. More importantly, her challenges are overshadowed by her beaming smile, positive attitude, and work ethic. I smile every time I see her.

Earlier this week, we left work at the same time. As we reached the end of the elevator lobby, I held the door for her and watched as she walked through the doorway into the main lobby. I silently marveled at her resiliency, and I felt that momentary high of witnessing the essential goodness and spirit of another person.

This isn’t new for me.

One of my earliest childhood memories is attending a Special Olympics event with my mother. She was a special education teacher for the first decade or so of her teaching career, and, for several years, she actually taught out of a trailer behind the school. (By the way, when you look up “hero” in the dictionary, a special education teacher toiling away in a trailer is pretty damn high up there.) Although the specifics are pretty fuzzy at this point, even at that young age I can remember the strangeness of the experience. The exposure to people with mental and physical handicaps made me uncomfortable. I especially remember seeing an amputee with numerous warts on his arms. I’m sure my childhood brain couldn’t process the reality before me, but, while it was challenging, I also remember the sheer excitement around the event. I recall the pure love and energy that friends and family poured out as they watched their loved ones compete. To see those with such limitations persevere was, and still is, perhaps the most emotionally intoxicating thing I’ve ever seen.

For as long as I can remember, show me a Special Olympics commercial, and I’m in tears. If a story about a handicap person comes on television, the waterworks come on. I can’t control it. The triumph of the will seems so pure, so real. It is unfettered joy, it is a soul devoid of mortal corruption. It touches me on some profound level that I cannot explain.

A funny thing happened, though, as I watched Sarah walk away from me through the lobby. A voice inside my head asked, “If you admire her so much for overcoming the obstacles you can see, why don’t you give everyone credit for overcoming the obstacles you can’t see?”

I had never considered that angle before. As I’ve gotten older, I understand that my reaction to the handicapped is actually a bit patronizing. The handicapped aren’t angels sent to Earth to reminder us of how lucky we are. When we think like that, we actually dehumanize them. No, the disabled among us can be every bit the asses we all are. They aren’t some sugary sweet Hallmark card or some inspirational poster that we ponder for a few moments before moving on with our lives. I think the best way to respect a disabled person is to respect them as a person. Not a disabled person, but a person.

On the flip side, my moment in the lobby, holding the door for Sarah, made me think that, if I can hold such compassion and care for her, why not everyone else? Why not the coworker struggling with a depression that I can’t see? Why not the cashier that overcame years of abuse? And how about the mail carrier that beat an addiction? All obstacles. All outrageously sad and difficult and painful. And, all very, very human.

I’ll keep smiling when I see Sarah, and I know I’ll cry at the next Special Olympics commercial. But I think I’ll start making an effort to open up my list of those at which I marvel. We’ve all overcome something. We’re all inspiring, and we all deserve to be cheered for, loved, and met with a smile. Is it just a little cute, a little precious, a little too clichéd? Probably so, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

On Living on the Edge

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Lately, I’ve been thinking about reviewing my homeowner’s insurance policy. But, if I do that, maybe I should look at my auto policy too. Why stop there, though? I could take a look at my life insurance policy, or I could spend some time with my health insurance policy. If I have any energy left, I guess I could peruse the extra insurance policies that come with my bank card, and we did just purchase travel insurance for our jaunt to Europe in the spring. It occurs to me — shockingly — that I don’t have an insurance policy covering my insurance policies. I’ll need to find time to research that.

Having insurance and planning for the unexpected is just smart. That’s why I invest in my work 401k to the max. You never know what retirement will bring. Well, sure, I have Social Security and my pension. Okay, I’ve got that old IRA, and, yes, I have multiple savings accounts. You just never know. You can’t be too prepared.

And I like being prepared. Part of preparation is keeping things orderly and clean. That’s one reason I always keep Windex on hand. Well, I actually have three kinds of Windex under the sink right now, but even those three can’t do it all, hence the leather cleaner, stone cleaner, Pledge furniture polish, rinse aid, dishwasher detergent (solid and liquid), dishwasher cleaner tabs, garbage disposal cleaner tabs, granite cleaner, granite sealer, air freshener, Swiffer pads, carpet cleaner, scouring pads, Magic Erasers, hand soap, and Febreze. You’d never guess we have housekeepers that come in every other week!

When I step back and consider it all, I think what pleases me the most about all of my insurances, savings accounts, and cleaning products is the knowledge that I am really taking a bite out of life. Some people live the same year every year, but not me. I’m blazing my own path. Working without a net. Living on the edge. Being a rebel. Being unpredictable in a really clean, well thought out sort of way. I mean, this is living. This is James Dean. This is the dream, the authentic American dream. I’m cutting through the noise, digging down deep for greater truths.

Now, I don’t mean to paint a rosy picture. It’s not easy. You don’t just waltz into this kind of lifestyle, this crazy sexy cool approach to life. No, I earned this. On the streets. The mean streets. Of small-town Kentucky. This isn’t for everyone. And definitely do not try this at home.

What will tomorrow bring? What kind of mind-blowing mayhem will my life involve? Even with all the wisdom I’ve gained from the hard livin’ I’ve done, I can’t answer that. Maybe a trip to the dry cleaners. Maybe I’ll make some hot chocolate. I have 12 different coffee mugs to enjoy it out of, after all.