Ponderings and Musings

It looks like WordPress is moving away from their WordPress app and wanting users to use their JetPack app instead. Of course, JetPack involves a yearly subscription, but it wouldn’t be 2023 if a software company wasn’t trying to coax a constant revenue stream out of users.

Eventually I will move to something open source and free (as in likenfree beer) software to power this anxious blog. In the meanwhile I shall play the game.

When I was back in my hometown a couple of weeks ago to address medical needs with Mom, we talked about many things. We talked about happy memories, wondered aloud as to the whereabouts of several people from our past, and discussed the weather. We always talk about the weather. It’s the Lake Ontario Snowbelt, after all.

My sister was also at the hospital and while visiting with Mom the subject of our high school days came up. It’s been decades since those turbulent times in my past but I can still vividly recall too many memories. Many of those memories are happy, too many of those memories make me sad.

Mom brought up the “11th grade Ethics class incident” (recanted in a cut and paste from a post from 2021 below) and how she felt when the Vice-Principal mentioned she should perhaps take me home for the day. My sister had never heard any of this and was surprised it wasn’t ever discussed at home. In the mid 1980s a gay teenager didn’t heartily discuss the abuse from other classmates (and some teachers) with his family. My how times have changed over the decades. I mentioned to mom and sister, “Karen O’Brien probably saved my life that day”. My sister let out an audible gasp.

I have been blessed(?) with a crazy, full sensory memory that is a blessing but is also sometimes a curse. Words have impact. I sometimes feel a bit crazy around the way words are so carelessly tossed around on the Internet, as if the anonymization of the author reduces impact. For some it does not.

I’m not suggesting, endorsing, and asking for censorship. That’s not the way. I ask that people speak the truth and perhaps maintain a bit of respect.

Now, the original blog entry from 2021.

“Mr. Wing, do you know what a homosexual is”?

The 10th grade biology teacher’s voice boomed through the room with this question posed to me; it was his way of gathering control of the class for the next 41 minutes of 6th period and since we were apparently to talk about the importance of the prefix “homo” in the scientific world, the disheveled man apparently thought it humorous to fixate on me and ask this question that carefully treaded a line. The girl to my right, we’ll call her Jeannine, laughed at me. I’m not surprised. She wasn’t known for being an exceptionally nice person. To be fair, it was a nice change of pace to hear her laugh because usually she was crying about something or barking out with a special amount of bitchiness one can find amongst high school sophomores in the 1980s. To my left, my table mate, we’ll call her Lori, whispered “asshole” under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear her word of support. I turned beet red, stammered more than usual trying to formulate something, anything to come out of my mouth, and feverishly wished for the kid at the table in front of me to have a seizure or something. The rest of the class laughed, the word faggot was shared once or twice and I was asked that very same question by various members of that class for the rest of the week. This is the stuff sophomores live for. The teacher had control of the class, I did not, and I was humiliated.

I do not forget these things. It rings as loud in my head in 2021 as it did in late 1983. I imagine most gay men, especially those of us of a certain age, have not forgotten instances like these. This is what we grew up with. Welcome to growing up gay in the Gen X set.

“Well let’s face it, John will have a hard time being gainfully employed”.

Another nugget of wisdom, this time from a fellow classmates in Ethics class, which was in the latter half of my junior year of high school. This time it was 4th period and I really just wanted to go to lunch at 11:04.

“Why not?”, queried the teacher, who, at the beginning of class, had instructed us to arrange our desks in a circle so we could debate things like whether or not a functional homosexual like I apparently was destined to be (calm down Mom, I wasn’t a ‘functional’ homosexual at the time) was a good or bad thing for society. Would our gayness cause the fall of the United States. (Spoiler alert, it did not).

“His mannerisms and way of speaking are going to prevent serious employers from hiring him”, was the response.

I don’t know what happened to that classmate after high school and I don’t really care to Google him to find out. Why waste the bits? Who knows and who cares. In the moment I looked for support from another classmate, we’ll call him Mike, that I really knew “to be on the team” (he is and we actually shared a kiss a couple of years later) but he turned on me with the rest of them, laughed, and made detrimental comments. That was probably the first time in my life that I wondered if I was going to be anything at all and if I wasn’t going to be anything, why continue the charade? Was my life worth anything?

The teacher of that class had to dash off at 11:04 to do some Vice Principal duties, but he checked in with me at the end of class and asked if I was OK. When he saw tears building in my eyes, after the longest 41 minutes I’ve probably endured in my life, he told me I was a good guy and asked another teacher to have a chat with me in his office to get me grounded again. He knew I was mentally not well. I can safely say I probably owe my life to that other teacher. Her name is Karen O’Brien. She taught Special Ed, but through talking with her she helped me find my worth again that day and honestly probably doesn’t even know the depth of the impact she had on me that day. She talked me off a psychological ledge. Years prior to this she had put as her caption under her photo in the yearbook, “People – they fascinate me. I haven’t met one yet that didn’t impress me”. Words to live by. I think of her often. I should probably send her a thank you note someday.

Why do I share this? There’s a number of reasons. First of all, what we say matters. Whether we say it out loud, in print, or anywhere on the Internet, our words are making an impact, whether positive or negative. We might not know it. We don’t know the state of mind of every person that is going to read what we type or listen to what we say. We should never lose sight of this. The two incidents I talk about are from decades ago, yet I remember all of these things as if it took place yesterday. My frame of mind is better about all of this, but I still feel the sting. These things, and countless others during my school years, have made a permanent impact on my life experience. Am I better for it? Over 35 years, I can probably say yes, but it took a lot of soul searching, and that very important talk with teacher Karen O’Brien, to keep me going.

When I hear members of Congress calling one another “Communists” or spouting out provable falsehoods just to rile up a crowd I can’t help but think how much negative impact those words are having on the country. When I see people touting things like “Straight Pride” or all the bad things that will allegedly happen to gay people because of who they are, I worry about those that don’t have a Karen O’Brien talking them off a psychological ledge.

I share these things because the distance of time and the subsequent experience of life has safely moved me beyond these negative events in my life. Weirdly, I’m probably a better and stronger person because of them.

Let’s use the right words. Let’s send positive energy into the world. Let’s not use negativity to command a room. Let’s be one of those people that impress others.

Impress each other in a good way.

As Michael from The Sentimental Dom so brilliantly stated in his blog post today.

Remember that we are not our social media feeds. There are many things I think, believe, and support that never find their way to my social media accounts, and that is my choice and my decision, not yours.

We celebrated my husband’s birthday a few days late because of my trip back east. I had been planning this evening as a continuation of his birthday celebration from earlier in the week but since I didn’t get back until late Tuesday night, this turned out to be his actual celebration.

We had a nice dinner at a restaurant we’d hadn’t been to before and then went and saw “Dear Evan Hansen” at Centennial Hall on the University of Arizona campus. It’s part of the national tour of the show and part of the season here at “Broadway In Tucson”.

The dinner was very good and we enjoyed the show. The production was impressive and the performers were very good. The story is a little uneven at times, but that’s just the show.

Overall is was a great night.

Ever since I was a teenager I’ve had dreams about living a “champagne life”. Flying a private jet to a private island. No worries about finances. Traveling the world. Sipping champagne at a black tie event. Hobnobbing, conversing, and having a good laugh with others enjoying their champagne life.

Of course, this is not who I really am. I have enjoyed some really awesome experiences in my life, and there’s been plenty of bottles of champagne along the way, but when it all comes down to it, I was raised adjacent to my grandparents’ farm in Central New York by a country-raised dad and a city-raised mom, one who leaned on his traditional upbringing and the other who was a bit more liberal in her thinking.

It was kinda like Ward Cleaver married That Girl.

It’s hard work, not a trust fund, that gives me the opportunity to glimpse at “champagne life” once in a while. Last night, the flight attendant offered me a glass of sparkling wine before we left the gate for our flight home. I’m fortunate to be able to sit fairly close to the front of the airplane.

I sipped some of the sparkling wine. I did not complain that it wasn’t actual champagne.

I strive to always have a Plan B. This has been my mantra for many years and while it may seem to some that I’m paranoid, I like to have a plan B. My way of thinking always needs to be formulating resolution. If I have a problem, I need to resolve it immediately.

Just as we were leaving the gate at Syracuse for Denver, I received a text message from United strongly suggesting I consider jumping to another flight by using the convenient United app with free wi-fi access during the four hours I was in the air.

I immediately searched for other flights and found none until morning to Tucson, but there was a flight to Phoenix that would give me a comfortable layover experience.

I’m now sitting at gate B12 waiting for my flight to Phoenix. Earl will be making the drive to Sky Harbor to pick me up and we’ll make the two hour drive home across the desert after I (hopefully) pick up my luggage at KPHX.

There’s no reason to panic when engaging in travel. Just focus on Plan B. Always have an “out”. You’ll be fine.

I’ve been in Syracuse, New York for a week working with my family on Mom’s care at the hospital. She is more stable than when I arrived Wednesday night, but she still can’t keep food down easily, is quite dehydrated, and has some skewed levels when it comes to blood test results. She was napping when I left the hospital for the airport but she woke up to give me a hug and a kiss and told me how happy she was I made the trip from Tucson.

I’m hoping she’ll continue to improve and build some strength. We are working on an assisted living situation for her when she leaves the hospital. All that goes through my mind is “Shady Pines, Ma”, but we took a tour of the facility and I was comfortable with the services they provide. Plus the facility is centrally located so family will still be able to see her often, she won’t need to change doctors, and she’ll be in a familiar neighborhood. Not everyone has that opportunity in these circumstances.

It’s never easy to make these decisions but sometimes we have to make tough decisions. Her living with my sister is not easy as her house is small, multiple levels, and there’s a lot going on. It’s just not as safe as it could be. Taking her to Tucson is not an option, as Mom wouldn’t know anyone, would have to start from scratch with her medical care, and she said she doesn’t want to live in the desert.

We make hard choices. But we always hope it’s for the best.

I’m staying with my cousin while Mom is in the hospital. We’ve been watching television in the evenings, and apparently in this part of the country these television ads have been running. A lot.

How long before we start hearing that 1970s mod version of “The Lord’s Prayer” on the radio?