My brother in Albuquerque got out by joining the air force, and his daddy shouted at him about that decision. My brother in Seattle got out by joining the army; he was expected to join the army as he'd discussed it with his guidance counselor, and came from an army family. My brother in Wichita got out by joining the navy because he simply wanted to see the world; I enlisted in the Corps because I needed a job, and my soon-to-be brothers Don and Mark said I'd make a good Marine. And we all did the same work, felt the same fear, wondered "Did I do the right thing?" as we lay on our cots enduring a humid, no-see-'em night.
Life is all about perception, or so I am told. If you wish to change your life, simply change your perception, and you're gold.
Yeah, it's gonna be one of those essays, bwar har har.
By now, it is old news that young queer folks commit suicide at an alarming rate; several examples appeared recently in the media. There was, of course, a corresponding push fomented by right-thinking people everywhere: tell our youth It Gets Better (Dan Savage, the originator of this push, was naturally awed that So Many People Took It So Much To Heart.) But I am compelled to dissent: It Gets Better is simply another Just Say No (and if you make fun of one variety of Just Say No, you fooken better make fun of every other variety -- Safe Sex is Hot Sex, wherein we Just Say No to condomless sex; the original Just Say No to drugs, guns, gangs, what have you; and Just Say No to suicide). If one Just Say No campaign is specious and simplistic, then all Just Say No campaigns are specious and simplistic. That's kinda the point of Just Saying No; it does not take anything about one's particular life and life circumstances into account. Just Say No is another example of the Positive Thinking (i.e. Magical Thinking) which is so detestable; if one Just Says No, one won't even think about drugs, let alone experiment with drugs, no matter the amount of social pressure, anxiety or self-loathing one experiences. Beset by bullies, wracked with suicidal thoughts? Simply change your perception and you will change your life.
And now, even the San Francisco Giants have contributed to this project. Sigh.
This is the part that sucks: you can't construct another's maturity or reasoning for him. When you do, it's called paternalism, and paternalism destroys another's humanity. What, after all, did Tyler Clementi accomplish when he jumped from the George Washington bridge, if not change his perception?
C'mon: the world is a difficult place (okay, okay -- an indifferent place), but, on the whole, it ain't such a bad place to let your sexual orientation be known (Uganda, duh, but I'm talking about the United States). For every Tyler Clementi, there are hundreds and thousands of non-Tyler Clementis. Personally, I think his suicide had more to do with his privacy being invaded; such invasion is humiliating, regardless of sexual orientation. If our lives are so damned public, as they often are to ridiculous lengths on social networking sites -- let us recall Clementi announced his intention on Facebook -- no wonder his roommate (and his roommate's gal-pal) believed it perfectly legitimate to run a nanny-cam. (And no wonder so many dorks believe they are entitled to grab my ass on the street: after all, baggy Carhartt's, green skivvy shirts and combat boots constitute a highly provocative, tawdry, come-hither look which disables an observer's higher cerebral functioning and positively screams, "My body is community property, and I'll be disappointed if you don't cop a feel.")
Thing is sometimes, it doesn't get better. Sometimes, it just fooken sucks. Frankly, that's okay, too. Personally, I'd rather know people who think and feel than people who do neither, or people who behave as if all their thoughts and feelings are "positive" because such folk are pod people. If it can be said that a feeling is in want of anything, that thing is expression, acknowledgement. Ideas, being ideas, need to be bounced around, cogitated. A buddy's "negativity" won't scare me away; if it ever does, I should hope that buddy would shoot me. Okay, maybe not shoot me, but I sure as fook hope he'd tell me that I've neglected to bring a few of my better angels along, and that I need to sit my sorry ass down and fooken listen to him, let him get some shit off his chest, that it's part of the whole getting-by-with-a-little-help-from-your-friends thing.
Telling the etherized and anonymous world that It Gets Better romanticizes the issue of suicide. It does not lead by example (there's no real hope that such a message may reach one in crisis); it refers too much to oneself ("Look at me; it got better for me, so it'll get better for you, too!"). It smacks of vanity. It may make one feel as though one has done something beneficial -- rather like hordes of fundamentalist Christians believe praying for homosexuals (usually done from the safety of some distance, either geographical, theoretical, or theological) is beneficial. Good for you -- you can tell me you prayed. We shall bow our heads and march in solemn solidarity with the heroically oppressed who murdered themselves. We shall tell them -- after the fact -- of our concern, of our care. The most useful gay man is a dead gay man.
At this point, alas, my thoughts turn to silence, although courtesy dictates a suggestion or two about what else one might do to improve the situation. So -- volunteer for a suicide hotline; get involved with a gay/straight alliance at an area school. Ask young queer folks what they believe they need, what their thoughts are on the issue. (And if they don't have thoughts or opinions, push 'em to have thoughts and opinions; I know, I know, that's my solution for everything.) They may have some good ideas. They may have some thoughts on empty gestures, too.
My brother in Albuquerque: him and his daddy never made amends. My brother in Seattle was killed shortly after an east Texas cowboy driving his Humvee on a routine convoy though the Green Zone spied an innocent and IED-free berm and said, "Hey, y'all, watch this!" My brother in Wichita served a tour in Afghanistan; he's touring the western Pacific now, and I recently had the privilege of reminding myself why I love him like a brother when he visited me on leave. I served a good long time, got more out of it than I ever imagined or wanted, and I learned, among other things, that I make a damn good buddy to myself when I want to, and that I always did enjoy a good, invigorating chase scene. (I've also always wanted to fight an impossible battle against incalculable odds, but that's another story for another time.),
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
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