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…
I am Prometheus. Prometheus. Say it slowly,
roll the letters around in your mouth. Prometheus.
It is not my real name but it is name most fitting for me. Prometheus, the
creator of mankind and its greatest benefactor, chained to a rock, his liver
eaten daily by an eagle, in eternal damnation for stealing fire and gifting it
to mankind. Yes, there are definite similarities between us.
I am Prometheus, and this is my story. Except it’s not my story. I wish it was, but I am
not unique or special. This is the story of untold millions of hapless chaps
and chicklets caught up in the grinding gears of the corporate machine.
This is a faux memoir told episodically. You will be
inclined, at times, to laugh at us, and cry for us. Do not hold back either
impulse. That is the point of sharing this story—to remind us that life is
nothing but a series of small comedies and tragedies. What is important is what
we take away from each occurrence, what we learn from each calamity and joy.
What will be…
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…