On Pastry Chefs and Bag Boys

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

My nephew just announced a major career change. Well, a major career goal change. Yes, he has abandoned the dream of being a zoo keeper, and, now, his sights are set on being a pastry chef. At nine years old, it’s unclear if this new professional interest will hold, but, honestly, the entire family is keeping fingers crossed. Hey, we like dessert.

My nephew’s recent announcement reminded me of my first career aspiration: grocery store bag boy. Sure, it’s a sexy job, with the the high drama of paper versus plastic and the feel-good moments of helping little ol’ ladies to their cars, but I wasn’t drawn to the bag boy business because of the glitz and the glamour. No, at the time I made my first career announcement, my uncle worked at the local grocery store, and, if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.

I guess I quickly moved on from my bag boy dreams. There was the doctor period, and I think I threw out marine biologist a time or two just for kicks. It sounded cool. By the time high school and college rolled around, though, I knew I wanted to be an attorney. I can’t recall even considering another option during my college days. It just seemed like a foregone conclusion, really.

Everyone has their “What do you want to be when you grow up?” story. Lots are littered with fireman, policeman, teacher, and astronaut. Fewer include drug dealer, hooker, sanitation worker, and dental hygienist. The point remains, though, that we really like to ask young people who they want to become. The question invites young people to share with us their view of the world, their sense of the possible, and their interests. It’s also a challenge, asking a young child to articulate a dream, to announce what they will make of themselves.

Why aren’t we asking adults these questions?

For those of us in middle age, the questions may focus less on the professional and more on the personal. What kind of person do you want to be? What adventures do you want to have? What about you can you change for the better? Beyond gimmicky self-help videos pitched on late night television, maybe we don’t spend enough time acknowledging that the process of becoming someone should never truly end. The final answer is not the title on the office door nameplate.

I recently came across a quote from self-help guru Robin Sharma: “Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life.” Now, we don’t all have the luxury to drop everything, backpack across the planet, and blog about nature, tree frogs, and the meaning of life, reaching heretofore unknown levels of zen. Still, he’s on to something, and it scares the lover of routine and predictability heavily anchored deep in my soul. Still, I know life is about growing, learning, getting uncomfortable, and having new experiences. The times I’ve stepped way out of my comfort zone, like traveling to Central and South America, or moving to Washington, DC, for a personal and professional change, have easily been the most rewarding.

It’s not easy. We all like comfort, and I’ll fight any man that denies the perfection of a quiet winter night, tucked warmly away in one’s favorite reading chair, sheltered from the slings and arrows of the world. Still, as wonderful as that is, it’s not as awesome as the bravery of the nine year old declaring his intention to be a pastry chef. And, sure, my nephew may not know much about becoming a pastry chef, but the most important part is becoming someone. We could all spend less time being someone and more time becoming someone.

 

 

On Tomorrow’s Promise

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Hearts have loved long before weddings,
long before pedantic poems and sweet songs,
before white dresses, gold rings, and long tails,
and finely dressed familial throngs.

And love is even older than that,
older than houses, farms, and all Man’s worry,
older than the seas and mountains
and beaches and clear nights starry.

Love ruled before any rulers or rules,
before the planets circled one flame,
before the sky exploded with light and fire,
before love even had a name.

And for such a thing to have traveled so far,
to have survived the darkness of the ages,
and weathered the cruelties of man
and his army of tiny trembling rages,

for such a thing can only be a force unmatched,
unequaled in our minds and in our stories,
in our hopes and wishes and dreams
and all the tales of passing glories.

After all that, love is in this place, here and now,
with any two people prepared to say
that love is the sinew that
promises to make tomorrow better than today.

On Being Believed

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I recently watched a video clip of a school board meeting during which the voice of a lone advocate for the rights of transgendered students was drowned out by the pious singing of “Jesus Loves Me” by hundreds of opponents. As I watched, I flashed back to standing in the back of a junior high auditorium in my hometown in 1999, as hundreds of my fellow townsfolk gathered to address the menace of possibly not discriminating against gay people. I remember the signs, the hands to Heaven, the self-righteousness. I remember recognizing people. I could imagine how that woman felt — surrounded by a roiling mass of hate, fear, and ignorance.

All of a sudden, it seems like the national consciousness has focused on the rights of transgendered individuals, and, unfortunately for such individuals, their pleas for decency appear, at times, overshadowed by our cultural prudishness, uncomfortableness with our bodies, bodily functions, and any expression of maleness or femaleness outside a narrowly conceived boundary. It’s heartening to witness the President and his administration coming down on the side of tolerance, compassion, and common sense. It’s a challenge, though, because the biggest challenge for transgendered individuals is the same challenge faced by gay and lesbian folks: being believed.

At the heart of all opposition to gay rights, whether it’s military service, marriage, adoption, employment, housing, or public accommodations, is the notion that homosexuality is a choice. That, somehow, us gay folk could change if we really wanted to. If we wanted it bad enough. If we prayed enough. If we were religious enough. And, when none of those things worked, we just proved to those that would deny us our full humanity the depth of our immorality, perversion, and worthlessness. For some, they simply could not believe that we love who we love and, like them, have no control over it.

Now the same folks must accept that some people born of one gender identify with another gender. That some men feel, with every fiber of their being, that they are a woman. That some women, in every part of their soul, feel as though they are a man. And, for some, this culminates in surgery to permanently change their sexual appearance. For other, for a myriad reasons, the changes are less radical but every bit as fundamental. It’s not a whim. It’s not a passing fancy. And, maybe it’s not the norm, but it’s their normal.

The new challenge is to convince enough — not all, but enough — fair-minded Americans that transgendered individuals are telling the truth. They aren’t degenerates. They aren’t evidence of the devil. They aren’t unnatural. They aren’t the result of a President opponents hate because, truth be told, they feel his skin color is a disqualifying characteristic. They only want what others take for granted: to be heard, to be respected, to be treated fairly. To be believed.

Back in 1999, as I stood in the back of the gymnasium, I watched as my old martial arts instructor joined the throng, and I watched as one of the attorneys in the firm I worked for took to the stage to explain legal tactics to deny local civil rights protections to gay people. Undoubtedly, the crowd contained other friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. I couldn’t help but wonder then: what if I could just go up and say, “It’s me. The person you like. The person you respect. Why can’t you believe that this is who I am and that there isn’t anything wrong with me?”  I know it probably wouldn’t have made any difference, and that’s the most traumatizing aspect of it all: to know yourself but not be believed.

 

On Summed Fears

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I walked quickly out of the theater, scanning the hall and then the packed lobby for signs of management. All I saw were kids running wildly and a snaking line at the concession stand. Desperate, I marched up to the teenage ticket taker – tall, lanky, and wearing a countenance that indicated marijuana had been smoked recently.

“Excuse me,” I blurted, “does your theater have armed security?”

He looked at me vacantly, not understanding that the only two paths forward for both of us were either a calm confirmation or a panicked call to police to alert them to potentially yet another public mass shooting.

“Yes, we have security,” he lazed, the words circling off his loose tongue much as the marijuana smoke had recently, I’m sure.

“Armed security? You have armed security?” I wasn’t hysterical, but I was firm. “As in, security that wears heavy vests and a firearm on their belt?”

“That was probably security,” he said.

Never, in the history of the world, had a “probably” been so important to me.

I guess the trouble started with my decision to see the latest superhero blockbuster on an opening weekend. Now, I make no bones about my love of superheroes. And I catch almost every superhero flick these days. But my love for superheroes has been tempered by my love of empty theaters where I can stretch out, focus on the film, and not contend with bratty teenagers (or adults or children or cellphones). And so, I usually catch my superhero tales several weeks after they open. But my better judgment lost last Sunday evening, and there I was, 7pm, still several days after the premiere, hoping for a thinned crowd.

Thirty minutes before the film, I thought I had scored a victory, as only a dozen or so other nerds lined the seats. My hopes were dashed, however, by a steady influx of folks, from senior citizens to kids that, without a doubt, should have been home preparing for the following school day. The growing crowd made me uneasy, and I’m not sure why. I don’t mind crowds, but I felt my anxiety continue to rise. Crowded theater, urban area, how can one not think about current events?

It’s a silly thing to worry about, statistically speaking, but that’s the point of irrationality — it’s not rational.

I calmed down once the movie started, and I could focus on repulsors, flying shields, and slinging webs. But, amid the fights, explosions, and aggression, my anxiety hadn’t left but, rather, just hid in the shadows. And, one hour later, it pounced.

I can’t remember him coming into the theater, and I can’t remember him starting to climb the stairs, but, from my seat at the end of the row, I looked over as he walked past me. Both arms heavily tattooed. Heavy tan vest bulging with numerous compartments and undefined pinpoint lights. And, most notably of all, the firearm on his hip. It took me half a second to register the scene, and even less time to decide to leave the theater. I stood up and quickly walked out with a speed consistent with a needed bathroom break but not so fast as to indicate to the would-be attacker that he would need to pick off this defenseless lamb before I could report his nefarious aims.

After the ticket taker had inspired less than full confidence, I guess I talked some sense into myself. I went back into the theater, walked to the opposite side and immediately saw the armed man now crouching against the wall, flicking through Facebook on his phone. I could again see the tattoos, and now I could see that he was wearing shorts, tennis shoes, and still had a large gun on his hip. I figured he was either a bored security guard or an attacker preparing to post his manifesto to social media. I circled back around to my side of the theater, stood against the wall, and proceeded to watch the movie. After a few minutes, I decided that, like the ticket taker said, he was “probably” security. Besides, I had a few M&Ms left at my seat, and I wasn’t about to let fear come between me and my candy treat. I guess in that moment, as I walked back to my M&Ms, I was pretty much my own kind of superhero.

So, nothing happened. I finished the movie, left the theater in an orderly fashion, and drove home thinking about my reaction. It was silly, I guess, but, then again, perhaps it was more a testament to our culture’s increasing saturation with fear and violence. In the last 15 years, we’ve experienced the cultural trauma of international terrorism combined with a seeming increase in random public shootings. And those terrible events (and all of the political and social ugliness unleashed in their wakes) have traveled at the speed of light, from their deadly epicenters to the smart phones in our pockets to the tiny, defenseless recesses of our minds and our hearts. Big city, small town, school, church, office, highway, party, mall, it doesn’t matter. You can’t escape the possibility.

We are more interconnected than ever, and maybe more interdependent, and it takes just one nutjob to throw the whole country into a tizzy in the span of fifteen minutes. And it’s not just violence. Now, our 24/7 news relentlessly reminds us of crushing debt, unstable third world regimes on the far side of the planet, and the dangers of peeing next to a dude that wasn’t born a dude. Since 9/11, I wonder whether that random car on my street will explode, or whether the weirdo on the subway is just moments away from an attack. Perhaps most distressing of all, my thoughts aren’t panic but calm realizations of an option. There’s a chance this car might explode. It’s infinitesimally small, but my world paradigm now includes that option nonetheless. How can it not?

We all dance with dark thoughts, and, for the most part, we all manage to go about the business of leading our lives, don’t we? After all, that’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Not let them win. Not change anything. Go about our business. Be brave. Don’t worry. Keep calm, carry on.

And, then, we find ourselves racing to the stoner teenage ticket taker, begging for him to soothe our fears, because we can’t comprehend the awfulness of it all or the possibility that our comfortable world may come crashing down in a theater full of strangers and empty M&M boxes.

On Missing The Trapeze

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I arrived on the campus of my future college the summer before my senior year in high school ready to participate in a prestigious academic camp. I was ready for six weeks of intellectual enrichment; little did I know all of my learning would take place outside of class when I had my first serious crush.

His name was Scott, and we were both declared philosophy “majors” at the camp. Along with a handful of other nerds, we spent our days sitting in a circle, reading old texts, and pondering the meaning of life with the depth of experience accessible to a 17 year old. While pretending to think deep thoughts during our reading sessions, I tried to make sense of this intoxicating sensation. What had started as long talks in the library had progressed to listening to pining REM and Natalie Merchant songs in his dorm room, vague conversations about teenage alienation, and dreams of future academic accomplishment.

Like so many summer romances, it was a true whirlwind. Six weeks of self-discovery and little more than a peck on the cheek. A little more. We parted after six weeks in high emotional angst. There were the occasional letters to follow, full of vague phrases and suggestion. There were hollow invitations for visits that never went realized; the three hour drive just seemed a bridge too far in our limited scope of vision. And there was a final telephone call, on the day of my high school graduation, full of awkward silences built on un-acted upon feelings and the entropy of a school year.

And so it was with some interest that, fifteen years later, I receive a friend request over Facebook from my old crush. It would have been impossible to decline the invitation to peek into the past and what might have been, and, as it turns out, it was a reminder that what was once so alluring can turn out to be so different. My crush was now a professor of film with an interest in trapeze. That’s right: trapeze. Difference does make the world go round, which, in the case of a trapeze artist, is good, I guess. We were, however, two very different people, to say the least.

Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind, in the heat of that summer before my senior year of high school, I dreamed we would end up going to the same college. After all, at 17, he was the only other gay person I had ever met. I knew that was not meant to be at some point during my senior year, but, the next fall, I was back on the same campus, ready to start my college career. I unpacked my bags for a few minutes after my parents dropped me off, and I couldn’t help but remember the brief romance the college had offered me just the summer before. Little did I know it was the closest thing to a romance the campus would ever really offer me.

The naive dream that we might meet and rekindle whatever we had — and even I wasn’t so sure — didn’t happen, but, in an odd twist of fate, I did end up rekindling a relationship from that academic camp. On my first day on campus my freshman year, as I rounded my dorm building to walk to the book store, I encountered my roommate from the camp. Brad, in his trademark sunglasses, was walking right towards me, and we both couldn’t believe we were seeing each other. Brad turned out to be my closest college friend — funny, smart, and the strongest moral center I’ve ever encountered. That friendship turned out to be the best thing the college ever gave me. And, so, the academic camp did give me a life-changing relationship, just not the one I might have predicted during those hot summer days.

And, honestly, at my weight, it’s probably best I’m not up on a trapeze.

On Chasing Whales

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

My husband and I read alone and together at night,
separated by feet and worlds, and by the fire light.

We do not speak but tell a quiet tale in glances,
with cups sipped in our respective bookish trances.

My captain’s ship has sunk, a whale torn asunder,
while husband reads of a great economic blunder.

And I can pause and consider our literary dance,
or how we fell in love, oh just by so much chance.

Maybe one day I can write of that love, chapter and line,
with tales of his patience, laugh, and similar kind.

But for now I’ll keep reading my heavy epic tale,
wondering if the captain, without love, must chase the whale.

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 the Hunters of Our Happiness

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Behind the nods and the smiles,
just underneath the winks and hellos,
swim the hunters of our happiness —
the defects in our soul.

And we sit in our easy chairs, and sip
our glasses of tea with a sweaty lip,
letting the sun hit our face,
while our shame buzzes our ear a bit.

Then our jowls shake out of sync,
dragging our eyelids down and pink,
and for a moment the sun we lose,
leaving only ourselves to abuse.

On a Funeral Procession

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Strobing lights shining in front,
the parade of cars lumbered past,
of old ladies wearing bright flowers
and black dresses of a certain caste.

To the syncopation of my blinker,
I waited and watched, listening,
struck dumb to the dark sight
of death’s recent christening.

As the painful parade went on,
sad faces drooped and dropped longer;
I sat and waited at my turn,
and my resentment grew stronger.

From those stopped and staring patiently,
what did the ashen faces want,
as their bald wheels moseyed down
on their morning mourning jaunt?

Our choral respect for the dead
quickly passed, forgotten, buried,
in my heart a rising passion
and a pain in my swiveled head.

Impotently looking for a break,
I sat and waited some more,
to cut home with my groceries
and get on with the daily chores.

The last long sedan passed, waving flags,
and I whipped around the corner, gunning gas,
snarling at my torturous wait,
driving in zigs and zags fast.

I bundled up my hurt little man
and tucked him at last neatly away,
knowing how awful and ugly he is,
until I need him again another day.