whispering-ashes

This blog is for coming to terms with myself. If something relates to you then all the better.

today I spoke up when I heard another guy at a party start talking about “some gay kid from a different school, a total fucking fag you know? so anyway, after we had made fun of him, of course, ……”

Before he left, I slipped in “hey Jordan, I’m gay and you’re a cunt” which grabbed his attention. We then had a 15 minute conversation where he tried defending himself by first saying that “faggot” is an okay word to say because it’s like “nigga.”

This is a white kid, mind you, and how does that make things any better? “some black kid from a different school, a total fucking nigga you know? so anyway, after we had made fun of him, of course, …”

His second argument was that he’s drunk. If you say an ignorant and aggressive comment towards a group of people, that’s never okay regardless of wether or not you may be intoxicated. “The KKK? No, they’re not actually racist. Most of them just get really drunk at those meetings.”

Anyway, our little encounter left him in tears and apologizing profusely through the rest of the night. He had nothing to apologize to me for, but at least he recognized the wrong he had done and I can guarantee that this moment will stick with him. There is no way he hears “faggot” in the near future and doesn’t get uncomfortable enough to say something - he was visibly shaken. I respect the guy on some level because he I believe he actually recognized what he had done and felt awful about it and I let him know that.

Oh, and by the way, saying that you’re in support of gay marriage every other sentence does not justify bullying gay kids and calling them faggots. You can be pro-choice and still be sexist, they’re not exclusive ideas. 

Home is a sensation,

a tingling of the skin,

a place of connection and warmth

where you’re free to close your eyes, and smile

-

It breathes through your blood

and resonates in every beat,

popping and fluttering

against the roof of your chest

-

And when that home is realized,

allowing it to permeate through every pore,

it envelopes your mind in safety

- its promise tears down the guarded walls.

-

That promise is essential,

a spinning cycle of supportive lines

spoken through a voice lodged in your mind

somewhere, hidden deep.

-

But if the physical betrays you

and the warning signs never flashed,

that voice will continue to spin

only now muttering in lies of wrath.

-

Warm breezes of elation

quickly turn to white hot rage,

scorching away the memories - your warmest dreams at night

until tears fail to extinguish the fury inside.

-

Unless you can grieve

that loss of acceptance

and safe place you once held,

then you can never recover, you will never trust again.

-

And maybe that’s my problem

and maybe that’s why I’m numb;

stuck in a purgatory between anger and denial

my trust is cemented within walls that lost faith.

tyleroakley:

getstooobsessed:

“Mommy, they are just like me.” 

My oldest son is six years old and in love for the first time.  He is in love with Blaine from Glee. 

For those who don’t know Blaine is a boy…a gay boy, the boyfriend of one of the main characters, Kurt.

This isn’t a ‘he thinks Blaine is really cool’ kind of love.  It is a mooning at a picture of Blaine’s face for a half hour followed by a wistful “He’s so pretty” kind of love.

He loves the episode where two boys kiss.  My son will call people in from other parts of the house to make sure they don’t miss his ‘favorite part.’  He’s been known to rewind it and watch it over again…and force other to, as well, if he doesn’t think people have been paying enough attention.

This infatuation doesn’t bother me or his father.  We live in a very hip-liberal neighborhood, many of our friends are gay, and idea of having a gay son isn’t something that bothers either of us.  Our son is going to be who he is, and it is our job to love him.  End of story.

He is also six.  Six year olds get obsessed with all kinds of things.  This might not mean anything at all.  We always joke that he’s either gay, or we have the best blackmail material in the history of mankind when he’s a 16 year old straight boy. (Take that naked bath time pictures!)

Then the other day we were traveling across the state listening to the Warblers album (of course), and in the middle of Candles, my son pipes up from the back seat.

“Mommy, Kurt and Blaine are boyfriends.”

“Yes, they are,” I affirm.

“They don’t like kissing girls.  They just kiss boys.”

“That’s true.”

“Mommy, they are just like me.”

“That’s great, baby.  You know I love you no matter what?”

“I know…” I could hear him rolling his eyes at me.

When we got home I recapped this conversation to his Dad, and we stood simply looking into each other’s eyes for a moment.  Then we smiled.

“So if at 16 he wants to make a big announcement at the dinner table, we can say ‘You told us when you were six.  Pass the carrots’ and he’ll be disappointed we stole his big dramatic moment,” my husband says with a laugh and hugs me.

Only time will tell if my son is gay, but if he is I am glad he’s mine.  I am glad he has been born into our family.  A family full of people who will love and accept him.  People who will never want him to change.  With parents who will look forward to dancing at his wedding.

And I have to admit, Blaine would be a really cute son-in-law.

PARENTING: YOU’RE DOING IT SO, SO RIGHT.

(via onlythefearlessarefree)

Marching to a stifled breath

and exhaling as feet stop dead;

yawns escape the stoic frown -

all the more reason to lie down.　

I relate to George Zinavoy. Then I look in the mirror and everything just gets worse.

My school decided that they will NOT offer me a spot as a student next year. I feel as though some ribbons deserve to be handed out for Excellence in Cuntiness; you know the ones I’m talking about - the fancy blue ribbons with the frills? yeup. FOUR FOR YOU HW! YOU GO HW!　

i can’t fucking write anymore. i’m trying so hard to block out everything my head feels numb…and heavy. so there’s no emotion to capture - memories gone too. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck self-destruct.

but what the fuck

Ok. I’m not a great writer. I’m not good. For the style I like to write in I like to think I’m decent. There are great writers at my school. But c’mon stonecutters, you published some pretty nonsensical shit. The least you could do was help my self-esteem out a little bit there. I’m just bitter because of the timing. 

i fantasize about the death of my closest friends, that way they can only leave me once