Bad Juju Buju
October 13th, 2009 § 1 Comment
“I have never bashed any gays before, and if I bashed gays, I bashed them 16 years ago…” – Buju Banton from Billboard.com
Do you see a problem with the statement above? It’s contradictory, right?
Last night I protested with others in front of a club (RockIt Room) promoting a notorious reggae artist who has written what amounts to a hate crime into some of his songs and refuses to distance himself from them in any meaningful way. Buju Banton has been cancelled in other cities including San Jose, but the show went on in San Francisco in spite of our efforts. We did get on the news (CBS5.com) but we were sadly out numbered. Not enough people were moved to get off their sofas or leave the bar to join us. And those of us who were there were at times fighting amongst ourselves about how we should be protesting, or even if we should be protesting at all.
I love men. I really, really, love men. But as time goes on, I have less and less faith in the gay community and it’s sporadic ambitions and message . It’s self-serving. It really doesn’t want to do the grunt work to get 100% human equality. Perhaps if there wasn’t a drug epidemic (crystal meth and alcoholism) and greater self-respect things would be better. So how do I change that? I’m thinking. I have some free time these days, and equality matters to me. But loitering in front of a club as it begins to rain isn’t enough.
I did meet and talk with a few spirited fans who came to see the performance. What began as a boiling-hot debate involving race and the history of ignorance and abuse ended in fist bumps and smiles with two of them. It was revealing to hear what they thought of my community, the gays. One mentioned something he saw at the Folsom Street Fair: a fisting exhibit at one of the booths. He said he didn’t like what he saw, but that he wasn’t trying to stop it either. He wanted the same freedom of expression to watch Buju Banton that we already seemed to have in our public venues. I stopped to think about that. While I don’t get the allure of fisting and I don’t see the point of performing it in broad daylight during Folsom (it’s the most private sex act I can think of) he had a point. So I told him as much. I didn’t see the point of it and I told him just that. I had fun talking back and forth and negotiating our two sides. At the end of it, I realized that we are all people. We are all different. And some of us are gay. There are commonalities amongst all of us, if we take the time to listen to where the other person is coming from.
I look forward to doing more 1-on-1 engagements instead of just hanging out with a group of disorganized activists. I have to be doing something to learn more about why people hate us or think we shouldn’t have the same rights as everyone else. Passersby on Clement Street most likely saw us as regular bar patrons talking amongst ourselves and smoking, not protesting. That was until Pollo del Mar showed up in fabulous drag in time for the 10 0′clock news on CBS 5 San Francisco. Thanks, Pollo!
no walking in your garden
October 3rd, 2009 § Leave a Comment
I’m lucky enough to have grandparents from both sides still alive at my age (43) but have a nagging sense of loss over the fact that of the four grandparents still alive, I can only access two of them. Years ago, a family feud ensued that drew a line in sand between my father’s side of the family and ours, essentially making communication between us impossible. It’s been over 20 years since that disagreement. It’s been a long time.
This morning, I thought about the times I’ve lost with my grandmother Ruth (my Dad’s mother) and how many times I think of her off and on even though we haven’t spoken or seen each other for well over a decade. I find it hard to believe that adults from the same family can behave this way, and yet, as proof-positive, we can. All of us on both sides of the disagreement fence have decided to just let things be as they are. As if that in itself is saying anything! How else could these things be?
We could be closer. We could be honest. We could be more loving. But we are not. The grandparents I idolized throughout my childhood might as well be dead but they’re not dead. Not really. Death is a finality that I cannot change. But something tells me that there’s a way to change this situation. I’ve tried to reach out in the past. I sent a CD of my piano music a few years ago, but I never got a reply. I didn’t expect that I would, but I sent it anyway. I wanted my grandmother to hear what I had been working on lately, since she was the one that promoted my music while I was a boy and was the one I wanted to impress.
This thought of grandma holds me back. It keeps me stuck.
Like an anchor,
holding me still.
the memory of you
lives on in me
with every note
with every chord
with anything Chopin
I think of you
Thinking of you is bitter
and sweet. The loss of you
is unmentionably awful
like a car wreck in the dead of night
in the middle of winter
with icy roads and drunk drivers
racing much too fast
someone is bound to get hurt
and yet… it’s nothing like this.
A quarrel. A series of lies.
A foundation of insecurities
decimated by sudden storms
nothing remaining but memories
of times never spent together
of conversations we never had
of tears we might have shed
in each other’s presence
finding each other as we did
and losing each other as we do
I never got over the loss of you
sitting together at the piano
you watching me read the notes
giving me the courage to play things
I could not possibly play:
Claire de Lune as one example
The same time I tried to (and now) play
that piece, I was learning Bach etudes
and couldn’t possibly learn something
from Debussy — yet I did and I do
How did you know what I could do?
How did your support get me so far?
Was it love?
I’m sure that’s it. I can feel it now as I write this
And yet you’ll never see this, I’m sure
your world is there while mine is here
world’s apart, never to be joined
in harmony or dissoance
with words or without
I try to live without you
and physically this is true, I do
but inside, deep down inside
you’re still there, egging me on.
/ /
There was an idea I had that lead me to this new blog post in the first place:
We wake up and make tea at your place. The sun has just begun to rise above the hills. Your garden faces towards the kitchen window, inviting us to take a closer look. The weather is brisk and cool, fresh and clean. We look into each other’s eyes and say nothing. There is nothing to say. This is the time we spend together: morning tea in the garden. And nothing in words could make sense of how this feels.
We recognize each other as orphans. Your abandonment was physical. Your parents were no where to be found. Mine was psychological. I saw them but never connected. Part of our alliance comes from a common experience. Our world is solitary and determined. We rely on others sparingly, in small doses, in small groups. There is no collection of friends for us. We have each other and our family. That will have to be enough.
