Recently, a friend of mine called me“bougie.” In case you’ve never heard the term, Urban
Dictionary defines bougie,a hacked
truncation of the word Bourgeoisie, which refers to the middle-class in Europe,
as “aspiring to be a higher class than one is.”
Now, this wasn’t the first time I’ve been called bougie. And
generally, being called bougie doesn’t offend me because it calls me out for
daring to dream, for striving to accomplish something. I have, after all been called other, worse things. And I don’t
particularly care much what other people think of me. But being called bougie does
rather irritate me because it
inherently asserts that I have no right to dream, to achieve, that who I was at
birth is who I should be at death.
The word bougie seems to stem from a screwed-up thought
process that defines a place for everyone, a place they must always remain. I
remember as a kid, when I talked back, I would be told I was “out of place.”
And that was often a punishable offense. The idea t…
I love my Dad.
That’s probably not an unusual statement. But when it’s a
gay son talking, there is often some history and work that went into making
that a true statement.
I love my dad. I saw him two weeks ago when I drove up to
visit. I hadn’t seen him in about a year and I realized how much I missed him.
When I was younger, my relationship with my dad was…strained. I think part of it was my own
resistance to him, thinking he didn’t like the idea that I was gay. So for some
years in there, I kept my distance. That changed one rainy Saturday morning in 1988 when I was racing to work outside of Washington, D.C. I was doing 80 when a car
merged onto the highway in front of me. I would guess it was going about 40
miles an hour. I slammed on the brakes. I was going so fast and the other car
was going so slow, it actually looked like the other car was moving backwards
towards me. I’d decreased speed to about 60 at the moment of impact. My car
started spinning and as it started to flip an…
Because of the way Christmas and New Year’s fell this year,
I found myself the beneficiary of a nearly two week holiday from my day job.
And I needed it, too. Between my commute, the job itself and the people I work
with, I was seriously burned out. But because I am not good at being idle. I
decided to make my time off a “writer’s holiday.” I’m seriously behind on
writing my new book, so a holiday during which I could just write made sense. Of
course, I can never just write—we had
friends coming for Christmas, so cooking needed to be done, and the house
needed to be cleaned. And of course, the dogs needed to be walked—and spending
time with them was a priority since we both work all week, leaving them on their
own a good bit.
I realized for this writer’s holiday to work I would have to
be disciplined—something I am not naturally.
I set two goals for myself: 1) write at least one hour each day, and 2)
write 1,000 words each day. Modest goals I know, but no sense it setting goals