4th

I wanted to take the chance to post an experience that I had a few years ago, that seems apropos for the 4th of July. The following was an email that I sent out after my experience. As a side note, this email somehow made it's way to the mother of the soldier I wrote about, and his local hometown newspaper printed it in it's entirety for July 4th:

Hello all!

I’m writing to all of you to tell you of an experience I had last week. This is not spam and this is not a joke. This is not religious or political. This is a true story that happened to me last week – Friday, April 27, 2007 to be exact -- that changed my life forever. It is not a short story, but I hope that you will take a moment to read this and that you will be as moved as I was.

Yesterday I, along with 3 colleagues, was returning from home office in Chicago where we attended our company’s bi-annual Continuing Education Week. We arrived at O’Hare, tired and anxious to get on our scheduled flight that would take us back to our homes in and around the Atlanta area. On our way to the gate we happened to notice on the departures and arrivals monitor that our flight had been cancelled. With a sigh and a few muttered rumblings, we proceeded to the gate to see about having our flight re-scheduled. The gate agent informed us that due to extremely severe weather between Chicago and Atlanta there were currently no seats on any remaining flights that evening. What’s more, she said that it was doubtful that any flight on any airline would be leaving. As a few of my co-workers debated various alternatives with the agent, I called our company’s travel department to see if there was anything they could do to get us back home that night. After 20 minutes of passing messages from our travel department to the agent and back, discussing every possible scenario, it was decided that our only option was to spend the night at a nearby hotel and take the 9:40 AM flight to Atlanta the next morning. The agent made the arrangements and gave us our boarding passes for our new flight. Then she uttered a phrase that I never want to hear again – “You will not be able to get your luggage back.” In shock, we asked why. She stated that it was against regulations to return baggage that had already gone through security, unless there was medication in the luggage that the owner of the bag needed. Being the smart negotiators we are, we pounced, claiming that we all had medication that we had to have that evening. The agent, obviously skeptical, questioned each of us as to the description of each of our bags. She did some typing on her computer keyboard, and then announced that our bags would be pulled and that we could retrieve them on Baggage Carousel 10. Triumphant and relieved, we made our way to the baggage area.

When we reached the baggage area, we discovered that carousel 10 was closed for renovation. We stood, confused, trying to get our bearings and discuss where the bags could be. A helpful bystander overheard our discussion and told us that the airport was using carousel 4 in place of #10 during the renovation. We thanked her and headed to carousel 4. On our way, I noticed an area with a lot of baggage lined up in rows, as people stepped forward to claim it. I asked the attendant where we could locate our bags, and he motioned to two lines, one on either side of his appointed area. One line was about 50 people deep, while the other had about 20 in it. Not wanting to put our eggs all in one basket, we split up, with 2 of us heading to each line. While in line, I asked the agent at the desk if I was in the correct line to get my baggage back from canceled flight 4444, and she stated that I was in the correct line. I used my cell phone to call my co-workers that were standing in the other, longer line to come to join us. The line moved quicker than I expected and we were pleased to finally reach the counter. I explained that we needed to get our baggage back from our cancelled flight 4444. The agent looked up the flight and stated, “We cannot release your bags.” When, perturbed, we asked why, she pulled out a list of about 10 destination cities that the airline could not release baggage for. Apparently, this would be a security breach. Utterly defeated, not having the strength and energy to argue, we all made the long walk to the curbside waiting area for the shuttle to take us to our hotel. After checking in, we had dinner and drinks in a sports bar that was attached to the hotel. After dinner, 3 of us took the shuttle to Target, where we bought a few sample sized toiletries, new underwear, and new shirts to wear home on our flight the next day. Then, it was back to the hotel for a very restless nights sleep.

The next morning, we made our way to the airport bright and early. We checked to make sure that our flight was still scheduled to take off on time, which it was, and then had a leisurely breakfast. After breakfast we ambled towards the gate. I commented how, in spite of our ordeal, the fact that we seemed to be finally on our way to getting back home seemed to make us all more relaxed and content. Everyone agreed, as we shuffled calmly to the gate.

Just before the gate agent called for us to board the plane, the ladies I was with noticed a handsome, young soldier standing in the gate area. The usual chitchat that accompanies the discovery of an attractive man ensued. Then, as quickly as it had changed, the conversation turned back to previous discussions. We boarded the plane, and located our seats -- all in the very back 3 rows of the small, 18-row plane. I, of course, had what I believed to be the worst seat on the plane: the last row, right across the aisle from the bathroom. Of course, the ladies I was traveling with were quick to point out that, in their eyes, I had the best seat, as I was seated right next to the handsome, young soldier that had caught their fancy. At one point, while we were taxiing out to the runway, I asked the soldier if he was on his way home, or on his way out. He stated that he had been home since the 11th of April, and that he was on his way back to Iraq. He said that he didn’t expect to go back, but that he had just been informed that he was being sent back to Iraq for another year. I asked where he was stationed and he said the center of Baghdad. I said that I was sorry that he had to go back. He said that he was alright with going back, though it was hard when nobody really knows the good that is being done in Iraq. He said that they are making some real progress, even though it is moving slowly. He expressed his disappointment that you never see the good that is going on in Iraq, only the bad. He felt that the media will never show the good for several reasons: the Democrats hate Bush, and we’re nearing the election year, and that the media needs to report on the bad things going on in Iraq to sell papers.

I asked if he was from Chicago, and he told me that he was from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I noticed that he had closed the shade on the window, occasionally raising it ever so slightly to peek out to see what progress the plane was making. I asked if he didn’t like to fly, and he stated that he didn’t really mind, and as the plane began it’s race down the runway and we lifted into the air, he mapped out his journey from Chicago to Iraq for me. He described what it was like to fly on the two military planes that would carry him during the last two legs of his journey to Kuwait, where he would be shuttled to Baghdad. We talked about the tiny MP3 player that he had removed from his pocket, and how he loved music, but due to the slow connection speed, it took a long time to download a song in Baghdad. He told me of his desire to study Health Science and Nutrition, and how he hoped to be a personal trainer and nutritionist. He said that soldiers had the option to take classes while in Iraq, and though many of his friends were, he had decided not to, as he wanted to be able to focus on his schoolwork and do his best. This was something he didn’t think he could do with the daily distraction of his mission in Iraq. I asked when he would be finished and able to start school. He said that his new tour would end in June of 2008. He told me that when he returned from his tour, before he started classes, that he planned to visit some of his family in Connecticut, and then go on vacation in Florida. When I asked where in Florida he wanted to go, he said, ”Someplace with a beach, and with sand. Even though I see sand every day, it’s different sand. I want to go somewhere that I can stand in the sand and see the ocean. Somewhere where there’s beer, and girls!” A big smile came across his face. Our conversation continued until the captain announced that it was safe to use electronic devices. He put in his MP3 player earphones, turned on his music, laid his head back, and closed his eyes.

At some point in the flight I looked over and noticed that he had fallen asleep. His face was so serene, almost angelic. I was amazed at how someone who had been exposed to the horrors of wars, and was on their way back to face that horror once again, could be so calm, so relaxed and drift into sleep. Moved by the scene of this young soldier, facing an uncertain future, sleeping peacefully, I slowly and quietly reached into my computer case and took out my digital camera and took a few pictures of him sleeping, so serenely. One of the ladies I was traveling with noticed what I was doing and commented that she wanted a copy of the picture of the handsome man. While taking the pictures, I noticed the patch on his uniform that had his last name: Hansel. I thought it ironic that he shared his last name with the name of a boy from a child’s fairy tale – the storybook Hansel, an innocent who fought an evil force; this soldier Hansel, an innocent on his way to fight an evil force.

I settled back and scrolled through the photos I had taken of the soldier, hoping that I had captured this scene that had amazed me so. Suddenly it hit me that the very photos that I had just taken, the ones that I was looking at, could very well be the last photos ever taken of this young man. The thought was more than I could handle. Tears began to roll down my face and I was at that moment grateful that I was in the very last row of the plane, able to simply stand up and step a mere 2 feet across the narrow aisle into the bathroom. Trying to hold back the eruption of emotion I was feeling, I fumbled with the seatbelt, unable to unlatch it. I pulled and tugged at the belts’ mechanism, desperate to exit my seat and reach the solitude of the bathroom where I could unleash my emotion without being seen by any of the passengers. The seatbelt finally unlatched and I hurried across the aisle into the bathroom. My hands began shaking as I locked the door behind me. I collapsed onto the closed toilet lid and began sobbing. I cried harder than I ever have in my entire life. Here I was, a 40-year-old man who has seen my share of sorrow, my body convulsing in emotion, sobbing, unable to control my emotions. I let go and let the tears flow, body shaking, voice whimpering…

After what seemed like an eternity, afraid others were lined up outside, waiting to get into the bathroom, I managed to compose myself, and returned to my seat. I sank low into the seat, hiding my eyes with my hands, hoping no one would see me. The two of my travel partners that were sitting in front of me were carrying on a conversation with a woman across the aisle. She looked at me and, knowing that she could see the telltale signs of the tears I had shed, I hoped that she wouldn’t tip off my colleagues.

I began thinking of 2 songs, both coincidentally by one of my favorite singers, Jann Arden. One of them, “Fighting For The World,” about a family waiting through Christmas, New Years, and Easter for their loved one to return from war, is a melodic, somber song, that has always made me cry. The other song, an upbeat remake of the 1971 Freda Payne anti-Vietnam War song, “Bring the Boys Home.” (I have attached a document with the lyrics to these songs to this email for those who are interested). I took out my I-Pod and listened to both. As I did, tears began to well up in my eyes again and I tried desperately to contain my emotion. One of the ladies I was traveling with turned around with a big smile. Her face fell into concern as she saw the tears rolling down my face. She mouthed the words, “Are you alright?” I slowly shook my head to show that I was not, and told her that I would explain when we got off the plane.

I managed to compose myself only a few minutes before our pilot announced our descent into Atlanta. The soldier awoke. He lifted the window shade a bit to see if he could get a view of the Atlanta skyline. I leaned over and asked him his name. “Cody,” he said. I asked him if I could ask a favor. He said that I could. I told him that while he was asleep that I had taken a photo of him, and explained how it amazed me to see someone who was going into war, be so calm and serene. I told him how you see the war on the news everyday, but you are distanced from it. With tears welling up, I told him that spending this time with him had truly changed my life. I told him that for me, the war now had a face. I tried to hold back my tears as I shook his hand and thanked him for what he was doing.

I asked if I could take another picture of him while he tried, for a moment, to forget where he was going and imagine that he was on the beach, in the sand, with the girls, and happy. He said, “Sure.” I took out my camera, aimed it and said, “Think of the beach. Think happy.” His face lit up and I snapped the photo. I thought to myself that if anything ever happened to this young man, that the last picture of him could now, possibly, be one of happiness and joy. I shook his hand again and wished him the best.

He told me that he was so surprised that he was able to sleep. He stated that he does not get a lot of sleep, as his workday is normally 16-20 hours long. He described how the human body can only go so far before it gives out. He told me how you can be marching one minute, and then wake up lying on the ground, your body having collapsed. He said described his small, meager living area, and how it was overcrowded, and noisy from the nearby airport in Baghdad. He told me that this is why he has the MP3 player – so that he can put in the earphones, listen to music to try and drown out the noise, and try and get a few hours of sleep. He mentioned that this trip to Baghdad would be 16 and a half hours in the air, but that he would get to see “three sunrises and 2 sunsets.” He described how beautiful it was to fly through a sunrise and sunset, watching the sun rise and fall. I was in awe that, once again, this young man was finding the beauty in what most would find an awful situation.

The plane landed and we all began laughing and joking with the soldier. As we exited the plane, he asked if we knew what area of the airport soldiers were supposed to report to. One of the ladies pointed him in the right direction. I shook his hand one more time and wished him a good trip. He thanked me and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

The four of us made our way to baggage claim and rejoiced out loud when we saw our bags waiting for us. We gathered them up and moved to our respective bathrooms to freshen up. As we regrouped outside the bathrooms, I recounted my experience to them and why I was so emotional on the plane. Once again I began to cry, but this time I was not alone. As I looked at the faces of my traveling companions, I saw that they shared my same emotion. We stood together and cried…and hugged.
On our way through the airport we began to notice soldiers everywhere. At one point, we stopped, frozen in our tracks, seeing a large group of about 40 young soldiers, lined up in formation, beginning their march through the airport towards an uncertain future…


I believe that everything happens for a reason. I believe that the reason that our flight was delayed, that we were without luggage, that we “suffered” through the night unexpectedly, was so that I could meet this soldier. It was so I could realize that all of the small stresses in my life are nothing in comparison to the life of this young man and the uncertainty, fear, courage, and strength that he has to muster everyday, just to survive. It gave me clarity as to what is important in life, and what is not. That the petty annoyances that we hold on to, are just that – petty. I realized that there is a world outside of my own, one where there are men and women that I have never met, that I will never meet, who have chosen to fight for me…for me…

I am not a political man. I have my opinions about the war and about our President. But what I experienced was beyond those opinions. Meeting this young soldier changed my life.

I want to ask anyone reading this email, regardless of your beliefs on the war, to take a moment to remember Sergeant Cody Hansel, as well as all of our soldiers, who are risking their lives on the other side of the globe, fighting for freedom, fighting for you and me, fighting for the world…

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The music that completes today's look is "Fighting For The World" by Jann Arden.

Beauty

A friend and I were reminiscing the other day about a few TV shows that we watched as kids. We were discussing "Wonder Woman," when I asked, do you remember "The Secrets of Isis?" He said, "I loved Isis!" Without hesitation I gushed, "I wanted to be Isis! I wanted to be Wonder Woman, too!" We laughed for a moment, then he said, "Isn't it interesting that gay boys want to be heroes like Wonder Woman and Isis, rather than Aquaman, or some other male superhero?" It made me wonder, why are so many icons for gay men women?

Growing up, I can vividly remember dangling a towel around my head, pretending it was long, luxurious locks of hair. I can remember wrapping my body in a blanket, imagining myself clothed in a form-fitting, stunning evening gown. When I was lucky enough, I would commandeer a pair of my mothers high heels and wear them around, proud of this gorgeous feminine creature that I had, in my mind, become. I did this with no shame, no deliberation, no remorse. It was natural for me. It was the exploration of my feminine side, the innate longing to understand the sense of femininity and beauty that lay inside of me.

Growing up, I left such things behind, slowly becoming more comfortable with the masculine side of my being. Yet, deep inside, I still help on to that desire to be beautiful.

I can remember as a young adult, specifically shunning anything typically "gay." Until my late twenties, I had never heard a Patsy Cline song. I refused to listen to her, as she was a stereotypically gay icon, and I did not want to allow myself the possibility of liking her. That would be expected of a gay man. Barbra Streisand? Ditto. Joan Crawford, Bette Midler, Cher -- any stereotypically gay icon I simply turned my eyes and ears to. Then one day, I thought, "Fuck it, let's see what all of the hype is about," and I listened to my first Patsy Cline song. I was mesmerized. Such an incredible voice. Such swooning emotion. She spoke to me...

Over the years, I discovered the talents of other gay icons, some intentionally, some by happenstance. Though my mind wanted to fight the attraction to them, my heart somehow overruled, and I became enthralled with these icons, as so many generations of gay men before me had done. What is it about these women that makes for such positive role models for gay men?

I think within all gay men is a desire to be beautiful. I don't mean in the purely physical sense (though, God knows, gay men have an almost obsessive need to be outwardly beautiful). I mean beauty in all it's forms. I think all gay boys -- growing up to be gay men -- have desire to have someone really see who they are, to accept them, unconditionally, for the beautiful creatures they are. We want to be recognized for our inner strength -- the fortitude for standing tall when everyone is making fun of us, ridiculing us, abusing us, or telling us we're wrong, worthless or going to hell. We want someone to see our humor -- our ability to laugh at not only ourselves, but at the small absurdities that make life delicious. We want someone to accept the desire that we have to be loved -- truly loved -- by someone that just happens to be of the same gender. We want someone to see our vulnerability, tears, weaknesses, successes, hurts, anger, spunk, giddiness, loyalty, romanticism, sensuousness, and affection. We want someone to see that light in our eyes that says. "I am what I am." We want someone to see our...beauty.

I think it is the characteristics that we want others to see in us that draws us to these women who seem to embody all that we want to be. If you look at any gay icon, you will see someone who has led a life that parallels that of a gay man -- self-awareness, self-doubt, success, criticism, standing tall in the face of adversity. These icons are deeply sure of themselves, their abilities, and of who they are, even when everyone around them is telling them to give up, or that they will fail, or that they are not as relevant as others around them. These icons die many figurative deaths, but they persevere. They are unflinching when they need to be, tender when they know to be, and invisible when they have to be. But regardless of what happens, these icons retain their dignity and their strength, and they radiate a light of self-assurance. They are...beautiful.

I cannot speak for all gay men, but I know that I do have the desire to have others see my beauty. I know who I am, what makes me the person that I am, and what it took to get me this far. I know that I have the ability to make others laugh. I have the ability to cry at the smallest thing that touches my heart. I can be outrageous, sensitive, smitten, and carefree. I can be strong, yet insecure. I can hold a friend who needs to be comforted, and can sink into anothers arms when I need to be embraced. I can fight when I need to, and I can back down when I am wrong. I have an unlimited capacity for love. And I can have my heart broken. All of these things make me beautiful. And I desire to have it be recognized. I want the world see all that I embody. I think it is this same desire that I share with other gay men.

We live vicariously through these amazing women, these icons, these beautiful creatures that speak for -- and through -- us. It is their beauty that we see in ourselves. It is our beauty that we see in them...

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The music that completes today's look is: whatever song makes you feel beautiful. Play it, listen to it, embrace it, feel beautiful.

Letting Go

I was sitting at a stop light yesterday, listening to a song that I've listened to many, many times in the past year -- "Let The Wind Chase You" by Trisha Yearwood. Whereas I am usually just singing along, rapt in Trisha's exquisite vocals, yesterday I actually stopped and listened -- really listened -- to the lyrics of the song. I was struck as I realized that this song seemed to sum up the way I was feeling last year just prior to the break up of my 12 year relationship.

During the last several years of our relationship, I realized that my ex and I had lost the ability to communicate our feelings to each other. Whether it was fear, pride, shame, or defiance, we just stopped telling each other what we needed and wanted. After 12 years I realized that we both had changed, too much it seemed. I was no longer the man that at my ex fell in love with. I was no longer the man he wanted, nor the man that he could ever love again the way he once did. I think it was that thought that initiated the conversation that led to the eventual break up of our 12 year relationship...

It is only now, listening to the lyrics of this beautiful song, that I realize what I was feeling at that time, and the way I was living that I was no longer willing to live:


Like a wildwood flower
Doesn’t have to reach for the sun
And when it needs a drop of water
It doesn’t have to ask the rain to come

I don’t wanna work for your love
I don’t wanna try to be
Something that you’re looking for
You’re never gonna find in me

So let the wind chase you
I can’t do it anymore
Let the road run after you
Like I always did before
Let the stars catch your eye
‘Cause I’ve tried and tried and tried
And I won’t do
So let the wind chase you

No one says a diamond ain’t precious
Just because it hasn’t yet been found
And no one blames the moon for not shining
Just because it’s hidden by a cloud

I don’t wanna blame myself
Thinking that I’m not enough
And wonder what’s wrong with me
Because I couldn’t win your love

So let the wind chase you
I can’t do it anymore
Let the road run after you
Like I always did before
Let the stars catch your eye
‘Cause I’ve tried and tried and tried
And I won’t do
So let the wind chase you

I don’t wanna work for your love
I don’t wanna try to be
Something that you’re looking for
You’re never gonna find in me

So let the wind chase you
I can’t do it anymore
Let the road run after you
Like I always did before
Let the stars catch your eye
‘Cause I’ve tried and tried and tried
And I won’t do
So let the wind chase you

Let the wind
Chase you

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The music that completes today's look is "Let The Wind Chase You" by Trisha Yearwood

To Become What I Became?

I used to be attracted to a certain type of man -- masculine and confident, with facial hair, a hairy chest, and a little bit of a rough side. Unfortunately, that type of man was not attracted to me. This perplexed me, as I was attractive, grounded, and an all around nice guy. I went to the bars where specimens of this type of man hung out, but I never got noticed, never got approached. Then someone told me, "To get what you want, you have to become what you want." This intrigued me, and being young enough to not have a real sense of who I was, I took this advice to heart. I changed my look from innocent college boy, to a more masculine, adult, sexy man. I changed my wardrobe. I changed my behavior. I changed the way I interacted with others when I visited the places where this type of man frequented. I had become a new man. The change was apparently more than I had realized, as a then recent ex questioned, "Wow, I was not your type at all, was I?"

The plan worked. I found myself having one night stands, dates, friendships and relationships with this type of man. I had become the man that I wanted, and this was what I attracted.

Time passed and I settled into a more relaxed version of the man I had become. I ended up in a long-term relationship with a man that embodied some of the characteristics that I had become used to, but ,in essence, was quite different, more "mainstream." I remained on this mainstream side of the fence for twelve years. When the relationship ended last year, I found myself in the unique situation of not having any real "type" that I was attracted to. I found that I was attracted to many different types, shapes, and looks of man. Recently, however, I have found myself looking at a particular type of man and saying to myself, "Wow..." Apparently I do have a type after all. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, this type seems to be the one I had become all those years ago. And surprisingly -- or not so surprisingly -- that type of man is eluding me once again...

There is the thought that I could once again become what I became years ago. There are still traces of that man -- the masculinity and confidence, though the facial hair has disappeared. My dress has segued into a more sophisticated style, as I opt to shop at Banana Republic these days. However, it would be easy to move back into that old person I used to be -- a slight change in dress, attitude, venue, a few more days of stubble. After losing my identity during the twelve years of my last relationship, I am prime to become someone else while I am in the process of discovering who I truly am. So the question seems to be, do I once again become what I became in order to get what I want..?

I am now at an age where I view the world differently. My priorities have changed. My ideals and dreams, desires and needs are different than they were when I was younger. Even now, as I am trying to discover who I am as a person, I am more confident in who I am and what I want to be than when I was younger. I can see the value of being a whole person, devoid of semblance to anyone else but myself.

My main track of thinking now is, "Why should I change who I am to become something that I am not to attract a man?" Do I want to be in a relationship with someone who is not attracted to me as I am now? If I need to become someone else to be with the type of man I want, is that type of man really for me? If I compromise myself to be happy, am I really happy?

The decision seems obvious. But I find myself in the same predicament I found myself in all those years ago -- the type of man I am really attracted to, the type I want to be with, doesn't know I exist. I smile at him...I speak to him...I try to converse with him...I flirt with him...but nothing. So, where does that leave me? How do I get this type of man's attention without changing who I am? Do I relegate myself to another type and accept that that my desired type is not for me...?

I subscribe to the belief that everything happens for a reason. Because of this belief, I realize that the universe has its plan for me. It has lined up my next partner, and has chosen when and where we will meet. But waiting for the universe to work its magic can be a bitch. Sometimes I want to give it a nudge...

Perhaps I can give it a little nudge. Maybe there's a minor solution, one that doesn't require me to drastically alter myself. Maybe I could adjust my dress in subtle ways that are still keeping true to my own style. Instead of Sketchers, maybe I could wear boots. Always wanted a pair, maybe now's the time to buy. Maybe I could start going to a few of the bars that I've wanted to try anyway, bars where these men hang out. Maybe I can reach out through my network of friends to have them introduce me to men who are "my type."

So, maybe I can make this happen, while still remaining myself. Maybe I can make it happen by revealing deeper shades of me. I may even find that as I am discovering who I am as a person, that who I am embodies many of the qualities I admire and desire in others. I may not need to change anything. Those things may have been a part of me all the time. They just needed to be rediscovered.

So, I will continue my journey of self-discovery. I will discover what elements of myself, my look, my personality are truly who I am. When I find me, perhaps I won't need to look for my type. Maybe then he will find me...

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The music that completes today's look is "Only When I Lose Myself" by Depeche Mode.

Confluence

con-flu-ence: /ˈkɒnfluəns/ [kon-floo-uhns] -noun

1. a flowing together of two or more streams, rivers, or the like: the confluence of
the Missouri and Mississippi rivers.
2. their place of junction: St. Louis is at the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi
rivers.
3. a body of water formed by the flowing together of two or more streams, rivers, or the
like.
4. a coming together of people or things; concourse.
5. a crowd or throng; assemblage.

There is a small town at the very southern tip of Illinois, the confluence of the dark, muddy Mississippi and the pure, clear Ohio rivers. The town is called Cairo (pronounced Kay-row).

Cairo was once a thriving town, founded in 1837 as a perfect stop along the shipping routes of the Mississippi and Ohio rivers. It housed a U.S Customs House, one of only seven still in existence. During the Civil War, Cairo was a strategically important supply base and training center for the Union army. For several months General Ulysses S. Grant even had headquarters here. The town is surrounded by the most elaborate levee system in the United States. There is even a Congressional order that this town will never flood -- if flooding seems imminent, levees in towns south of Cairo must be blown, flooding those towns, rather than having Cairo be destroyed. Cairo seemed destined for prosperity.

But in the 1960's, the fate of the town took a swift turn. Cairo had a growing black population, though 100% of it's businesses were white owned. After the passing of the Civil Rights Act in 1964, the majority of white business owners refused to serve blacks. Those businesses that did follow the law and served blacks found their businesses quickly failing, as white customers refused to frequent them. In 1969, amid violent race riots and the boycotting of many white owned businesses by local blacks, white business owners closed their doors and moved out of Cairo, choosing to relocate rather than serve blacks. One by one, homes and businesses were abandoned, left open, as-is, to age and decay.

Today, Cairo is a ghost town. Where the population was once twenty-three thousand strong, it now hovers at a sad twenty-five hundred. Driving through the town is surreal, like being on the set of a war movie, or sci-fi film where the townsfolk have mysteriously disappeared -- "The Town That Time Forgot." On Millionaire's Row, the ruins of beautiful Victorian mansions lay dormant, crumbling, trees the new inhabitants of their stately rooms. Entire neighborhoods of turn-of-the-century bungalows are mere shells of their original glory. Cairo's main street, about a mile long, once lined with bustling department stores, beauty shops, diners, and clothes emporiums is now deserted. Some of the structures are still in tact, though their facades and innards have crushed and crumbled. Most of the buildings have succumbed to age and neglect, having simply given up and died. One such building has toppled into the street, but rather than clean it up, the town has, instead, decided to just block the street. The town has sat dormant for the past forty years.

Today, Cairo's population is 63% black. The average salary is 16,220.00 per year, with 33.5% of residents living under the poverty level.

It is ironic to me that Cairo is known as the Confluence of America, when it's own history seems to be the antithesis of the definition of confluence. Here is a city that was built on the idea of merging, melding and growth. Yet it's history shows segregation, separation, and decay. Even the rivers seem to tell the past: the muddy, dark Mississippi -- blacks -- and the pure, clear Ohio -- whites -- merge, but the Mississippi never mixes or flows into the waters of the Ohio. Massive levees protect a town that, for all intents and purposes, no longer exists. A Congressional order preserves a way of life that has disappeared.

Ride through Cairo and you will find a town that is ripe for revitalization. Homes can be purchased for a fraction of the standard cost. Businesses still stand, ready to be re-discovered. This is the stereotypical small town America. The people are some of the nicest you will find. They are personable, and perkier than the setting would suggest. They are proud of their home, despite it's history. I received a tour of the town by a member of Cairo's City Council. He drove me around, giving me insights into the town's once illustrious past. We visited the town library, an enormous, gorgeous architectural specimen, with a spectacular history of it's own. We visited the Customs House, previously a Federal Courthouse, now the town's museum. An elderly gentleman giddily took me through the myriad of displays that told the story of this town. His eyes gleamed as he told stories of not only Cairo's history, but of his remembrance of better times.

I was grateful for the chance to experience the way of life that is Cairo. I was glad to be able to experience some of the town's history, rather than leave with the thought that this town was sad and forgotten. I was delighted by it's citizens and actually look forward to returning.

Cairo makes you appreciate your own city. It makes you understand how far we as a nation have come, yet how far we have to go with accepting each other and our differences.

Will Cairo ever prosper again? Will Cairo ever be able to save itself? One can only hope.

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The music that completes today's look is "Revival" by Eurythmics.

Tornado vs. Oak

There I talk of a Tornado in Atlanta tonight. I capitalize the word Tornado to give it respect. You see, a Tornado almost took my life once, but be it the will of the universe, sheer luck, or the tornado changing it's mind and rolling elsewhere, I was spared. I was three years old. My mother and I had just returned home from a shopping trip with my grandmother and cousin (actually, he was my uncle, but since there was only a year between us, I called him my cousin). It was a beautiful, amazingly sunny day in rural Manning, South Carolina. I still remember how blue the sky was that day. The air silent, and calm. I can remember being happy...

My grandmother dropped us off at our mobile home, which was on the edge of a long dirt road which led up to the house owned by the people we rented from. The mobile home was surrounded by enormous, hundred year old oak trees, trees that used to both intimidate, and shade me as I played beneath them. We went inside as my grandmother, with my cousin in tow, drove off down the dirt road. Almost immediately after closing the door, my mother noticed how windy it had gotten. Huge streams of breeze were gusting into our open windows, blowing items from their usual resting places on side tables, counter tops, and night stands. We could feel the wind physically moving us as we were stumbling around our home. My mother instructed me to help her close the open windows. I ran into my bedroom, climbed up on my bed and began cranking the window shut. As I was closing the window, suddenly I found myself hanging from the handle. A few quick jolts, and a slam. Chaos... noise... screaming. We had no idea what was happening. My mother stumbled to me, grabbed me and we began to run out of our home. Swinging open the front door, we prepared to bolt down the stairs. We stopped dead in our tracks. Our stairs were no longer there. Looking out we could see that they still sat where they always had, yet we were about 50 feet away from them. The Tornado had picked up our home and wrapped it around a tree while we were inside. If not for the protection of those intimidating oak trees, we may have flown farther, maybe flown to our deaths. Oak...capitalized.

Still unclear what was happening, my mother grabbed me and we leapt from the mobile home onto the ground and ran furiously towards my grandmothers car, still in the driveway. We could see the car was rocking side-to-side, literally balancing on two wheels one way, then slamming down and lifting onto the other two wheels. Still we kept running. We were being pelted by baseball sized hail, but still we ran, believing in the safety that lie in my grandmothers station wagon. We jumped in the car, still dazed, crying. My grandmother hit the gas and we sped towards the garage my father worked at, a mere mile or two away. I can still remember crying, screaming that I wanted my pillow and my Matchbox cars. It's funny what comforts children value...

We pulled into my fathers workplace. I can still remember the big grin on my father's face as he saw us pulling in to pay him an unexpected visit. My mother was incoherently screaming out the window the events that had just occurred. He tried to comprehend. When he had finally grasped what she was saying, he laughed it off, thinking it a joke. Where he stood, there was not a cloud in the sky, the ground was dry, and the air was still. It was not until we drove him to the debris of what was our home that he believed. There, surrounded by fallen, mighty Oaks was the rubble that we used to call home...

So you see, I owe my life to that Tornado, or maybe to the Oak. Did the Oak fight furiously to hold onto our home and our lives, while the Tornado fought and fought to take us as a souvenir of its journey through Manning? Was there a terrible battle, each vying for victory, for the lives that each held in its hands? Did the Oak win? Did the Tornado admit defeat, or just give up and move on? I'm not sure I'll ever know, but respect is given regardless.

Tornado. Oak. Thank you.

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The music that completes today's look is"Blow Wind Blow" by Alison Moyet.

Pussy?

Sometimes I think I'm a pussy. Whether it be innate cowardice, years of emotional baggage, prior whacks to my self-esteem, or just nature, I cannot bring myself to go up and introduce myself to someone that I am interested in. I see a person across a room, often staring or smiling at me, and I just can't make a move. For years I have carried secret crushes on people and have been unable to start a conversation.

Even as I write this -- and the inspiration for today's blog -- I am sitting in Starbucks pining away for two guys. One, I have wanted to meet for at least ten years. The other, a more recent crush -- only the past four months. I should go up and introduce myself, but can't. Pathetic, huh?

I always describe myself as shy. This makes those that know me absolutely guffaw, as I am known to be a very outgoing, open, entertaining person. But when it comes to that initial contact, I clam up. Once someone talks to me, I am completely open and can carry on a conversation with the best of them. But unless someone else approaches me first, it just won't happen. Probably explains my dating life -- or lack thereof...

So what is the root of this inability to approach others? I think it could be traced back to a multitude of hurts and disappointments in my life. Could it be the abandonment I felt when my father disappeared from my life at age three? Never having a male role model to teach me confidence, strength, and go-gettedness I'm sure took its toll. I certainly wish I could've had the confidence my father was known for. He was a tall, masculine, good looking man who, from everything I've heard, could have any woman he wanted -- and basically did...

Could my apprehension come from the sexual abuse I suffered in my early teen years at the hands of a Catholic priest? Certainly my trust issues stem from the abuse -- hard to be a gay man when you have trouble trusting men. Certainly my ego was bruised, and my sense of self was destroyed during the years of secrets and hiding in the aftermath...

I wonder if it could be due to the basic insecurity I felt as a closeted gay boy in high school in a small South Carolina town. Unable to ever approach anyone for fear of being ridiculed, ostracized, outed or beaten, I lived a lonely existence in high school, almost reclusive, with only a few good friends. This pattern has extended into my adult life, as I have rarely had more than a few close knit friends, not wanting to cast the net of trust too wide.

It could be the hurt I've experienced at the hands of past boyfriends who decided, for one reason or another, that just having me was not enough and strayed into the arms of other men. This has certainly made me wary of relationships and, of course, only adds to the caution I give before extending trust.

Clearly I have good reason for not putting myself out there. But why can't I get over it? Friends say, "What's the worst thing that could happen? That someone rejects you?" Ummm...yeah. That's a pretty significant result in my book. Some people can let rejection roll off of them. My skin is too thin. Rejection seeps in and stirs around my body and mind, staying around a bit too long before rolling off.

So, what do I do? Just wait for other people to approach me? Do I try and go outside of my comfort zone and take the chance on acceptance/rejection? Could it be that easy, to let go of all of the past baggage and just allow myself to move forward? It sounds good in theory, but the reality is much more difficult. Maybe I should make a silent vow to approach the next guy that I find attractive... Maybe I should think of it as a work in progress and continue to work on the issues that have lingered from my past. Maybe I should accept that this is just a part of me and accept myself as I am, unable to make the initial reach out to another man...

UPDATE: Apparently writing this blog entry has been cathartic in some way. While I was writing, a very cute man walked by the window at Starbucks, headed to the gym. We exchanged glances. I've seen him before and wanted to say hello, but, well... So, I look up a few minutes ago and he was in Starbucks. Again we exchanged glances. He got his drink and sat not too far from me. After quite a few more glances and some smiles, I decided to myself, "You know what? You cannot let this happen again and let this one get away without even speaking." So I did. I struck up a conversation, and we chatted for a while until Starbucks closed. Walking out to our cars I asked if he'd like to go out. He said "Yes." I got his number and am, at this moment, on cloud nine.

Maybe all I needed was to challenge myself to break an old pattern. Time will tell. Looks like I'm off to a good start!

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The music that completes today's look is "I Remember You" by Eurythmics.