Winning on the ballot

 

   No matter who wins on (or after) Tuesday, I have won a big victory in this election. 

   The other day, for the first time, I voted by myself, on my own.  For the first time, after voting for about 45 years, I marked my own ballot. 

   This may sound like nothing, no big deal, but it’s huge. 

   Like I said, I have be voting in dozens of elections over decades, ever since my mom took me to the poll for the first time after I turned 18, when the poll worker, an old man who was presumably a Republican, glowered at my mom, a Democrat, no doubt thinking she was voting twice.  A few years later, I became a permanent absentee voter, which meant I could vote at home, but I always needed to tell my attendant how to mark my ballot.  This wasn’t exactly private, anonymous, especially when the ballot switched from being a punch card to an actual list of candidates and propositions. 

   Then, a couple months ago, I went to a talk at Claremont McKenna College by Dean Logan, the Registrar of Voters in Los Angeles County.  He spoke about all the work his office does – it’s a lot! – and mentioned that he has made a special effort to make voting accessible to the disabled, especially after meeting with a group of severely disabled voters at United Cerebral Palsy in L.A.  I was impressed that he made such an effort to listen and that he wanted to make sure everyone can mark their own ballot no matter their physical limitations.  I was particularly interested when he said there was a way to vote on one’s computer at home using one’s own adaptive equipment, as I’m now unable to touch a keyboard or a screen, and my speech is impaired, making speech recognition practically impossible. 

   A while later, I e-mailed the registrar’s office explaining my situation and promptly got a response directing me to a web page.  Lo and behold, when I tried it out a few days ago, I found myself marking my ballot on my computer. 

   Note, that’s on my computer, not online. One thing I really liked about the process was that, after completing voting, I printed the ballot, and it was put into the absentee voter return envelope.  This way, there’s no question or fear mongering about votes being in the ether, hacking, etc.  I guess my attendant could look and see who and what I voted for but hopefully not if I keep my eye on them. 

   Wow!  Who knew?  It’s like that old line – where have you been all my life?    

A five-alarm (at least) warning

 

   The other evening, I went to Scripps College to hear a conversation with Van Jones, perhaps now best-known as an commentator on CNN. Jones, a Black man, has worked in the past several presidential administrations and runs an organization that places disadvantaged young people, including the formerly incarcerated, into green jobs. I was looking forward to hearing good things about Kamala Harris becoming the first female president, the first Black woman president and the first president with an Indian background. 

   I was disappointed, sorely disappointed.

   When asked what Harris’ chances of winning the race were, Jones said that they are slipping away.  At this point, Trump seems to be on a “glide path to victory.”

   Oof!  This wasn’t what we wanted to hear. 

   Jones explained that we “aren’t working” for a Harris victory.  He declared that he loves and admires Harris and thinks that Trump shouldn’t win.  However, as he pointed out, unlike when Obama ran, people aren’t “calling in sick to take a week off to fly to Georgia or Pennsylvania to knock on doors” for Harris.  People aren’t manning the phone banks, all hands on deck.  Instead, not unlike what happened when Hilary Clinton ran against Trump in 2016 (and when, early on, Jones predicted that Trump would win), people “are tweeting each other about how happy they are that Harris instead of Biden is running.” People aren’t working for a Harris win. 

   When asked about Black men who a leaning toward Trump or thinking of not voting, Jones said that they are not being listened to and are being taken for granted by Democrats, that we aren’t knocking on their doors.  He said Black men question why they should care who wins when they haven’t gotten anything that was promised them (no voting rights law, no police reform, etc.) and pointed out that Trump funded Black colleges and released more prisoners than other recent presidents. 

   In answering a question from the audience about those protesting  America’s role in Israel’s war on Gaza, Jones asked, “Who do they think they are?” He questioned if these students and others really know what best, when they think it’s better, worth it, to send a message and let Trump, who is Netanyahu’s buddy and doesn’t give a damn about the Gazans and might let their land become Israel’s “beachfront property,” win – while Harris consistently says that what Israel is doing in Gaza is wrong and there needs to “be an immediate ceasefire.”

   These were tough words, and Jones knew it.  He said that he meant to scare us – scare us into action.  He said that this was the huddle in the fourth quarter when we are down by a goal. We are almost there but not quite – and that doesn’t count.  He said we aren’t acting like we might well have a dictatorship. 

   I have to say that while I was bummed out by what Jones had to say, I wasn’t exactly surprised.  After the initial flurry of excitement in the weeks after Harris became the nominee and at the convention, I’ve noticed that the excitement has lagged, if not fizzled out. 

   I can’t go to Pennsylvania or Detroit to knock on doors for Harris.  Writing this is the least I can do.  

When I see a guy

 

   Sometimes, like when a male student from the colleges shows up at Quaker meeting, and I can’t keep my eyes off him during worship, I wonder why I’m gay.  Why am I attracted, so very attracted, to men?  What was it that got me to get turned on when I see certain guys? 

   It’s not really about or only about dick. It’s not like, when I see a guy, all I see, or imagine, is his dick.  I can’t deny that it’s there, that it’s a factor, a big factor, but there is so much more to admire and love about the male body, the male physique.  I can get aroused when I see a guy’s back, a guy’s smooth, tanned shoulder blades.  I know they are a guy’s, even when they’re all I see, and I get excited. 

   I remember when Harvey Milk was murdered, and when thousands of gay men and lesbians rioted and marched, especially when his killer got off with a lighter sentence.  I was a young teenager, and it was decades before I came out, but I felt like I could relate to their rage and sadness, to their being made outsiders – no doubt because I was an outsider, shunned and made fun of, because of my disability and impaired speech. 

   Fine, but this doesn’t explain my same-sex love.  It is, perhaps, an important backdrop to what came later. 

   Sometime in my teens, I was made aware that I tended to avoid looking at myself in the mirror.  Was this true?  Did I not like seeing myself?  Was I repulsed by what I saw?  I didn’t know. As far as I know, I hadn’t thought about it.  Being so advised, I made an effort, a real, conscious effort, to look at myself in the mirror.  At first, it was an exercise, a chore.  After a while, though, perhaps like Narcissus looking into the pond, I began to like what I saw.  Indeed, soon enough, I admired and loved my crippled, spastic body. 

   Around this time, I discovered masturbation and was exploring ways that I could, with my limited physical ability, masturbate and enjoy and have fun with my dick and my body. I discovered that wearing overalls helped in this process – and it was a process.

   I soon found that I liked seeing myself doing this. Seeing myself having fun with myself in the mirror was even more fun. Whether or not I would have said so at the time, it was hot, my body was hot, and turned me on.

   Soon enough, I was thinking and wondering about other guy’s bodies, and I began looking at other guy’s bodies and enjoying it.  For many years, I couldn’t say I was turned on by them – I would tell myself that their clothes or hair were cool or something.  At the same time, I kept relating, and strangely feeling comforted by, all those gay guys protesting and marching for justice for Harvey Milk and later for their lives during the AIDS crisis and then against discrimination and unjust legislation and for the freedom to love and marry who they wanted.  When I finally came out, finally admitted that I was one of them, at age 39, it was a huge release, a great liberation. 

   There are probably other factors, like the fact that I liked writing poetry and going window shopping with my mom when I was a kid.  Then again, my brother didn’t really like playing sports and played French horn when he was growing up, and he didn’t turn out gay.  Those who are into Freud might say that I’m stuck in some childish phase, infatuated with myself. If I had not been disabled and if I had not been encouraged to not avoid looking at myself in the mirror, would I be straight?  I have no idea.  All I know is I love it that I love my crazy, twisted body, and I love it even more that I love guys. 

Silent, and a shame(d)

 

   My neighbors are moving. 

   I don’t remember if the young couple moved into the bright yellow and white house right across the street before or after my spinal surgery about seven years ago, but it was roughly, very roughly, around that time.  From my front window, I was intrigued by the punk-rock husband with his tattoos and his band t-shirts who didn’t seem to work and who did the yard work, hung up Christmas lights and sometimes played guitar in the front yard – there might have been a few band practices over there after they first moved in – and by the wife who always smiled and who always seemed to be pregnant.  Indeed, most remarkable, I watched the couple have four boys – four boys! – over the years.  The oldest looks to be about 7; I remember when he was a toddler.  Several weeks ago, the whole family was out washing one of their cars, with the new toddler watching from a stroller. 

   Now they are moving, and I’m sad.  I’m sad that I won’t see this family grow, that I won’t be able to see the boys get older, go to junior high school and high school. 

   I’m also pissed.  I’m mad that I never found out what the father does and if he did or does play in a band.  I’m mad that I never found out the boys’ names. 

   I’m pissed at myself, pissed that I never went over and talked to them.  Just talked to them! 

   It sounds simple – going over and saying hi, like good neighbors supposedly do, but I guess it’s not for me.  For me, it’s more than being shy. 

   I’ve been thinking about this over the last year, especially after attending a memorial of the mother of a few kids I grew up with.  I realized, as we greeted each other awkwardly, that I never spoke to them, because I felt bad, embarrassed that my speech is hard to understand.  I was ashamed of my speech (and probably of being disabled).

   When I was in Santa Barbara last month, I saw an old friend who’s about my age.  We talked about getting older, and he mentioned that he’s having a hard time finding friends who are younger than he is.  I’m having the same problem.  I want to find people who are younger – people like my neighbors who are now leaving – to be friends with.  It is hard enough, as my friend can attest, and it doesn’t help that I am ashamed to talk. 

   That’s a real shame. 

The Big Yellow House (no longer)

 

   On the drive north from Los Angeles along the coast on Highway 101 (and 1), right before Montecito, home of Oprah Winfrey and Prince Harry and Megan, and Santa Barbara, is the small, unassuming town of Summerland.  For all my life, as long as I can remember, there was a restaurant there along the highway called The Big Yellow House which was, literally, a big yellow house.  (It was actually one – the first? – of a small chain of big yellow houses known for being, literally, big yellow houses and for serving Thanksgiving dinner every day.) It was pretty much a landmark. 

   Last month, I went to Santa Barbara for a few days, and when passing through Summerland, I saw that the big yellow house is no longer The Big Yellow House.  The house is still there, but it’s now a furniture store (perhaps appropriately enough, in a house), and it’s not yellow but off-white or a very pale yellow.  What’s most interesting is that the big The Big Yellow House sign was still there, somewhat faded, along the highway – perhaps in recognition of its status as a landmark?  Or maybe as a memorial?

   It occurred to me, as I passed through, that it was like my life.  Or lives. 

   Ever since my spinal surgery seven years ago, it has been like I have a new life.  At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.  The surgery left me far more disabled, being able to do less and having to do things in other ways. As I’ve written about before, this means I’ve had to make many adjustments including to my attitude and mindset, like being satisfied with sticking around Claremont most of the time and not always traveling as I used to and not going so far when I do travel. 

   Although I’ve made progress on this adjusting, it is, as I’ve also written about here, not easy.  The fact is that my old life, my life before the surgery, is still and always will be there – somewhat faded.  As the song goes, there is always something there to remind me of what I used to be able to do, of where I used to be able to go, of the way I used to do things.  It doesn’t help that I keep doing or trying to do things, like going to all of the concerts and performances at the colleges here, that I used to do (and I was getting tired of keeping up with it all before my surgery!).

   What makes it so hard is not that or just that my disability is worse. I am more disabled, because I have a new disability. I now have a spinal cord injury – the surgery to remove a virus damaged my spine, leaving me paralyzed from the chest down and only able to move my neck and my left arm to a limited extent (and also with considerable neuropathic pain). On top of, layered on, the Cerebral Palsy that I was born with. After all that it took for me to learn to live, to make a life, with Cerebral Palsy, I now, in my 60’s, have to learn to live and make a life, with a lot of new ways of doing things, with a spinal cord injury.   

   What’s hard is that, although my old structure, my old life, is still there with its signs, although somewhat faded, I am no longer The Big Yellow House.