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David W. Shelton

Hey everyone, I just wanted to let you know that I'm moving my blog. From now on, you can view all posts at http://davidwshelton.blogspot.com. I wanted to do this so anyone can comment without having to be a member of anything.

See you there!

David

While children and queens of all ages ponder, plan, and otherwise conspire to have the best Halloween costume on the block, I realize that I’m again completely inadequate for a 21st century queen. The cold chills ran down my spine at a startling revelation.

I have no costume.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I have a wizard’s hat from a couple of years ago, along with plenty of black clothing. I might be able to put some wicked-looking makeup or something. Or maybe I can buy another pointy hat, then stuff and strap them to my chest into a makeshift Madonna costume. Nah, I’d get stoned the minute I stepped into a party. Hell hath no fury like queens with their diva scorned.

Maybe it’s life paying a cruel joke on me. When I was six, back in my stormtrooper-in-shorts days, I had more costumes than any boy should have ever been allowed to have. I had them all. Superman. Batman. Spider-Man. I even had an old Darth Vader costume that my mom helped me put together. Of course, I was oh-so-imposing as a three-and-a-half foot Sith lord with bird legs.

The nice thing about living in my own little world is that I had the power to make it as large as I wanted it to be. My world was one where Spider-Man and Superman could co-exist. It was a world that was built by Legos and ruled with an iron hand by my own imagination.

My imaginary world required one thing: complete devotion. For me, that meant that whenever Superman was to save the day, I would have to BE Superman. I had my felt “S” logo taped on the blue shirt with red Underoo briefs over the pale blue tights that doubled for my Batman tights when Superman wasn’t required. The cape was attached by diaper pins. Naturally, I ignored the tennis shoes and the fact that my hair was white blonde.

My dad never knew who he was coming home to. Finally, after several weeks of half-pint superheroes living in his house, he’d had enough. “The costumes have to go,” he said. He simply refused to have such “hokey” behavior in his house, but that’s okay. I still had my Lego city. So, I packed up Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, and everything else that lived in that old box, and watched as Dad put it into a secure location well out of my reach. I didn’t discover the joy of climbing the shelves until much later.

Costumes are about putting on a make-believe face. They’re a chance for all of us to pretend that we’re someone else. Most of them are, of course, flame retardant. And they’re beyond cheesy. But that’s the charm of it. Even the pregnant nun costumes bring a few laughs when they’re worn by daring celebrants.

The costumes on the department store racks are nothing like the ones so many of us wear on a daily basis. It’s a costume that is different for everyone, but very much the same. It’s a costume called the “closet.” Whether we’re just trying to fit in with the masses or putting on a face so we can appease the family, it’s all just a glorified mask that hides who we really are from those who we think might not like us if they discovered the truth.

What is the truth that we’re hiding? Is it fear? Is it shame? But more than anything, are we consistent in our lives? Even as we push forth on our quest for equality, the question remains whether or not we’ll be honest with ourselves and everyone around us as to whether or not we’ll live with the integrity that our quest mandates. This past October 11 was a chance for all of us to take off our own costumes.

When I first publicly came out, I thought that my life was about to get a lot more complex. I didn’t realize how simple it would get. I took off the mask. The weight was removed. The costume was put away. It scared the hell out of me when I did it; especially when a local pastor offered to take me to lunch after finding out about my sexuality.

I cut to the chase during the meal. “Look,” I said. “We’re not going to agree on the issue. I’m here to make absolutely clear that I’m going to live with integrity. And for me, that means that I’m going to be who I am. I won’t shout it from the rooftops, but I will work to keep hate from being shouted from them as well.” He didn’t have much to say after that. But hey, it was a free meal.

Yes, our closets are being emptied in droves. The problem is that the bullies and bigots are going into them. The question is, is that a good thing?

David W. Shelton

Okay, I confess. When it comes to pop culture, I’m lost. I mean it. Lost. It’s gay-man-watching-the-Super-Bowl lost. For the life of me, I simply do not understand why Cher, Madonna, and Barbra Streisand are such icons of gay culture. And if that weren’t bad enough, I’ve never seen Rent or the stage version of The Laramie Project or Angels in America.

 

To make matters worse, I have never listened to a CD by Queen, and the only rock concerts I’ve ever attended were performances of The Beach Boys and a long-forgotten boyband group called New Kids on the Block. And that was before I even figured out that I was gay. I did it for my sister. Really. I did.

 

I’m not giving up my Homosexuals of America card quite yet. But yes, there’s more. A couple of years ago, Curtis and I drove to Davenport, Iowa to visit John, his high school best friend. It was there that I encountered something that I will not soon forget. It was a horror that still sends chills down my spine today. We were in his living room, and John put a DVD into his player.  It was a collection of ABBA videos.

 

During the next two hours, I saw two grown men turn into prepubescent girls. They bounced around on the couch with sheer teenybopper jubilation at their favorite songs. And when “Dancing Queen” came on the screen, well, I don’t want to talk about it. All I could do to avoid the horrors unfolding before my eyes was to pull out my hearing aid and go to sleep on the sleeper sofa.

 

Okay. Now that I’ve horrified every urban Queen in the area at my sheer ignorance, I have to move on. I won’t mention the fact that I’ve never been to New York City or Chicago. Nor will I mention the fact that the only part of San Francisco I’ve seen is the inside of the airport.

 

I’m just a hard-of-hearing, boring, kind of chubby, sit-on-my-ass kind of guy whose most significant urban experience was living in Antioch for a few years in my early twenties. Sure, I’ve been to Atlanta a few times since then. But I don’t think I’ve ever gotten anywhere without stopping and asking for directions at a convenience store from a clerk for whom English was clearly their second language.

 

So what can I do? The more I immerse myself into pop culture in a vain attempt to remedy my vast ignorance, the less it makes sense to me.  I know I’m supposed to be able to enjoy techno music and quote lines from Rent or Cats at length. Alas, it just wasn’t to be.

 

But hey, at least I saw Torch Song Trilogy at a Clarksville movie theatre when it was in release back in 1988. Yes, you read right. The classic Harvey Fierstein movie adaptation of his play was on the big screen right here in Clarksville. I was 17 at the time, and I was employee of the local multiplex. I was awestruck at the story, and puzzled by Fierstein’s famous gravely voice. It was one of the first positive examples of gay life that I had ever seen.

 

So what good am I then? Here I am, a fag without a clue. I have no fashion sense (Just ask Curtis; he’ll tell you), and my decorating sense leaves quite a bit to be desired. I could whine about the fact that pop culture is as foreign to me as Cambodian culture, but I guess I’ll just have to deal with it.

 

As ignorant as I might be, I’m willing to admit it. I’m inadequate, and I know it. Maybe that’s the challenge that’s so appealing; to explore strange gay worlds. As much as I really want to understand my partner’s obsession with ABBA, I know that I never will. Just as I realize that our fundamentalist neighbors will never understand why we’re not fawning over the opposite sex. Nor will they ever understand why we’re not jumping at their calls to enter their “ex-gay” ministries.

 

But all is not lost in this world of different cultures and languages. We have reached a time where gay culture and straight culture are intertwined to the point where it’s hard to recognize gay men because of those darn metrosexuals. There’s a solution to my ignorance thanks to Logo, the new all-gay cable TV network. I’ve even watched an Erasure concert. I can now watch all of those old movies and finally get into gay culture.

 

Just whatever you do, don’t make me watch ABBA videos.

“You people are not a protected class.” This was a statement made to me a few weeks ago while I was visiting with colleagues in Atlanta. He’s right. We’re not. As we continue our march for equality, this fundamental issue still remains. Over the last few years, we’ve spent a tremendous amount of time, energy, and money to acquire marriage and other various rights in federal, state, and local governments.

 

However, as of this writing, less than a third of the population of the United States lives under the protection of a nondiscrimination policy that includes sexual orientation. Even fewer people enjoy protection as transgender. Illinois was one of the most recent states that passed a law that added ‘sexual orientation’ to their nondiscrimination policy. Naturally, Tennessee does not.

 

While I am highly supportive of the push for gay marriage and/or civil unions, I question whether it’s wise to pursue the right to marry when many of us are still denied the right to hold a job or enjoy equal access to housing. Sadly, gay marriage is a house of cards that will crumble if we continue to allow nondiscrimination policies in government and the workplace to slide.

 

I question the current “shoot-for-the-moon-and-land-among-the-stars” strategy that seems to be prevailing among the gay activist groups as it’s done little more than piss off the bigots. As a result, more than a dozen states have amended their constitution limiting marriage to that of one man and one woman. After all, we’re “not a protected class.” Why should we be treated as such?

 

Our struggle for equal rights rests on the foundation of whether or not we ARE equal. This is the discussion that must take place. The Religious Wrong will continue to deny us any semblance of equality under the guise of ‘morality.’ Their position is that sexuality is a moral and behavioral issue, not an issue of orientation.

 

They have based their entire movement to deny equality on their belief that a person’s sexuality is a choice. This is what is driving the current witch-hunt within Catholic seminaries, and it’s what drives the fundamentalists to preach hellfire and damnation to anyone that’s a “homuhseckshul.” Over and over, they scream, ‘it’s a choice! It’s a choice!” “It’s behavior!” “Repent!” “Turn or burn!” Ugh.

 

Yet we have been silent. Even though the American Psychiatric Association and over a dozen other professional and medical groups disagree with the religious right on the roots of a person’s sexuality, there has been little attention to the simple phrase, ‘sexual orientation.’ Perhaps there’s good reason for that. Any time we’ve tried, we were shot down.

 

When the Metro City Council attempted to add this phrase to the city’s nondiscrimination policies, the uproar was as loud as it was verbally violent. Lifeway and the Southern Baptist Convention threatened to pull out their convention if the change was passed. Even a more watered-down version was rejected as a result of similar bully tactics.

 

No, we’re “not a protected class.” Yes, we should be. Even if a person’s sexual orientation were a choice, we shouldn’t be forced to choose. After all, a person’s religion is undeniably a choice, yet freedom of religion is guaranteed by the constitution. No one is expected to change their religion for a job or to gain housing. A Wiccan or a Buddhist should never be denied housing based on whether or not they converted to Christianity. Nor should a Baptist be denied a job at a Methodist publishing house.

 

Why should a gay person live a lie in order to appease a mortgage broker? Shouldn’t a person’s right to form relationships, sexual or not, be equally protected? Scientific research on the human genome continues to indicate that a person’s sexuality is indeed inherent. And it’s only a matter of time before the Reich Wing is forced to stop shouting and covering its ears as it screams in denial of this simple reality.

 

But why should we wait? Let’s focus on this tiny issue so that we can build on it. After all, how can we marry when most governments don’t even want us to exist? We simply can not afford to continue assuming that everyone understands that a person’s sexual orientation is a vital part of their life. The clear reality is that a person’s sexual orientation, whether perceived or actual, must be protected. It must be equal.

 

This is the strategy to which we as a community must commit. Everything we fight for depends on how we are perceived in society as well as on paper. I urge everyone to write their legislators at local, state and federal level to ask them to sponsor or support legislation to add sexual orientation to nondiscrimination clauses. Tell them why it’s important. This is the kind of grass-roots movement that we need. Tell them it’s the right thing to do. In fact, maybe we should tell that to ourselves.

 

David W. Shelton

“David, come here!” My mother said. “David!” She was a young mother of two boys who was more than used to having to yell to get their attention. But something was a little different about me.

I was in a swimming pool with a friend and never paid attention to her. One of her friends suspected that something was wrong. While my back was still turned to her, she said something to me in a softer voice; something to which I was sure to have responded.

I never did. To this day, I don't know what it was she said because I never even heard it. “Pixie,” my mom’s friend said, “Get that boy’s hearing tested.” My mother didn't really see how I could have bad hearing. After all, I usually responded to her when she called. And even more importantly, I would always come running when she played on her piano. Instead of sitting next to her or by the door, I would always sit underneath the piano. She thought I was just being a little different.

Finally, she agreed to have my hearing tested. I was escorted into a tiny room that looked like it was a space capsule on Star Trek. It was empty except for a chair and a set of headphones. My imagination immediately kicked in. I'm going to be an astronaut! Alas, my fantasy was interrupted by the soft voice of the audiologist. It was the first of many times that I would hear, “now listen for the tone…” As it turned out, my left ear is deaf as a stump, and my right ear has a mere twenty-eight percent of normal hearing. The test results indicated that I needed a hearing aid.

I remember the first time I wore that hearing aid. It was a rainy day in the early seventies. It was a time of pure wonder and discovery that stirred my imagination. I turned my head rapidly back and forth as I tried to see where each new sound was coming from. But there was a sound that I couldn't quite place. It came from everywhere. “What’s that sound, Mommy?”

“What sound, dear?”

I struggled for the words to describe this incredible new sound that filled my ear through the wonders of this tiny plug attached by a cord to a cigarette-pack-shaped device on my chest. I scrunched my nose and thought some more. “Dibble-dibble-dop-dop,” I finally said.

“Oh, honey, that’s the rain.” Her smile was pure delight. As we sat on the front porch of our Memphis house, she knew that my world had just gotten much larger. That day was filled with discovery after discovery. I heard the birds chirping for the first time, and the sound of the wind. I could hear the cars as they drove by. I could even hear the family dog as she panted for food at the dinner table.

I finally got it. As content as I was in my world of silence that would only be disturbed by the harmonic melody from my mom’s baby grand piano as she played, that world had just been expanded into a spectrum of sound that filled my tiny little head.

A little more recently, I was told of a situation which is remarkably similar in many ways. It happened in a 6th period class at a local high school which was being taught by a substitute teacher. One student yelled across the room to another, “You're so gay!”

The teacher said, “First of all, there’s not a thing wrong with being gay, so that wasn't an insult. I don't know what your point is.” What ensued after that was a lengthy discussion of sexual orientation and how some people are just different. Naturally, there were several teens who voiced their outright opposition to such ideas, but many were silent, and took it all in.

This was a woman who could not sit idly by as common bigotry was hurled in a classroom. She couldn't just let them belittle each other using a word that in reality is no insult at all. It’s people like her that are willing to stand for what is right, no matter how unpopular it might be. I only regret that I did not learn her name.

I suspect that it was to some of those high school teenagers as it was for me that rainy morning more than 30 years ago. “What’s that sound?” That, my friends, is the sound of an opening mind. And nothing could be more beautiful.

David W. Shelton

I guess I’ve just been in a daze for the last week since Katrina paid a visit to the Gulf coast.  Like most Americans, I’ve visited New Orleans and wonder if it will ever be the same.  And now Curtis and I are wondering what we can do for the people there.  Whether it’s a financial gift or any of our millions of extra clothing, we want to do something.  Anything. 

 

I was in Dothan, Alabama for a few days this week.  Dothan is a designated refugee area.  How I managed to find a hotel room, I’ll never know, but I did.  It was there that I met a woman who was an evacuee.  She had her four-year-old daughter with her, who was oblivious to the harsh reality that had struck her family.  She still had that wild-eyed innocence that was eager to push the buttons on the elevator.

 

Her mom was a different story.  Her face bore the burden of the loss of her home and her hometown.  She then told me, “I just found out… today… that my other son and daughter are alive and well.  We’ll be all right.  We lost everything, but we’ll be together.”  It was a bittersweet time for her.

 

A dear friend of mine, James Hartman, is the Spokesman for the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff.  Before the storm hit, he said that most of the parish had been evacuated, and that The Weather Channel had a storm chaser posted there.  “It’s not a good sign,” he said.  He was right.

 

A few years ago, James was kind enough to show Curtis and me around New Orleans.  During the day, he told us that New Orleans is in a basin, and is below sea level.  “What would it take to flood the city?” I asked. 

 

“If somebody spits,” he said.  He then elaborated, “If a hurricane were to ever come through here, it would be disastrous.  Especially if it’s a category 3 or 4.  Tens of thousands could be killed.”

 

I thought he was exaggerating.  I realize now how dead wrong I was. 

 

He has since miraculously been able to send emails from the carnage.  He wrote, “As you know, a major catastrophe has befallen my parish and my community. I've been working about 20 hours a day at our Emergency Ops Center. We're getting by, managing, trying to just take it 15 minutes at a time. Things are not good and won't be for a while. Please continue to keep us in your prayers.”  He also said that the only way to really help would be to donate to charities that are working hard to help the recovery process.

 

Even stories like the one of a stranded mom and daughter are eclipsed by the horrors that pour out of New Orleans, which has become pure anarchy.  I’ve never realized how fragile our American sense of reason and justice really is until now.  It’s as though disaster will literally bring out the true colors of a person.

 

But what can I say?  I’m sitting here in my air-conditioned home where the worst disaster I’ve endured recently is the loss of all of my electronics from an unfortunate lightning blast.  These people can’t even take a shower.  They’re wading through microbe-infested waters that have carried away the bodies of their families, friends, and neighbors.  Some have even described the scene as worse than the Tsunami disaster last December.

 

And this is happening right here in this country.  We are the richest, most luxurious country in the world.  And our favorite party spot has just been reduced to soaked rubble.  But what can we do?  We can, and must do anything we can.  The American Red Cross needs blood, resources, and money.  They need clothes.  People need a place to stay.  Hell, even U.S. Senator Trent Lott has lost everything.

 

Maybe it’s a good thing that the party has ended for a while.  I think the GLBT community is even okay with the demise of Southern Decadence.  The festival organizers will even refund the tickets.  If there’s one thing the gay community does well is show our charity.  The carnage stretches from Louisiana to coastal Alabama to deep into Mississippi.  Now that the party is over, we can do what’s right.  The question is, will we?

Okay, so why the name change?  Those of you who have read my blog before might have noticed this wee little difference at the top.  My columns and blog will forever have the title “Skipping to the piccolo.” And since no title means a hill of beans unless people know what the hell I’m talking about, I offer a brief excerpt from my memoirs…

Sports never did work out for me.  Every other six-year-old boy in my neighborhood had to go through the initiation of little league something, so off I went to baseball.  Dad always said to keep my eye on the ball.  He just didn’t mean literally.  Oh well.   My foray into basketball was just as much of an abject failure.  I think I only scored one goal in two entire seasons.  And we even lost that game.

Soccer was the sport that held my interest the longest.  I was proud to be one of the founding members of the Clarksville little league.  I was short, scrawny, and oh, so blonde.  And because I had just gotten a brand-new behind-the-ear hearing aid, my parents wanted to protect it.  Their brilliant idea was for me to wear wrestling headgear.  I think I looked more like an alien than a human child.  Felt like one too. 

So with my headgear, I all of the sudden became a stormtrooper.  I had my imaginary blaster and lightsabre and I was ready to take on the forces of darkness.  Game?  What game?  But there’s a galaxy to save!  Who cares about some insignificant soccer game when the death star is coming to destroy the earth!  The force was with me.  Oh yes.  I would achieve my goal.  And all around me, there were people cheering me on… weren’t they?  My soccer team was the “Cosmos.”  We would save the day!  And to this day, I have no clue what the rules are for soccer.

I played soccer for seven years after that.  Sadly, I think I actually got worse every year.  I finally had to quit after the neighborhood egghead scored a goal long before I did.  If only David Beckham had been around then.  He would have given me some inspiration!

Then there was gymnastics.  Finally, something I could enjoy!  We tumbled, arched, stretched and jumped all over the room.  The only real problem was that I wasn’t really paying attention to the teacher.  All right, that’s a bit modest.  I ignored the whole room. 

As usual. 

In my mind I was soaring into the sky as I rescued the damsel in distress who was screaming my name! There was a dragon that was about to tear her to pieces and she had her arms outstretched.  “David!  Watch out!  Go!”

Someone was screaming my name, all right.  It was the instructor.  “David!  It’s your turn!  David!  Go!  Go now!”  But the teacher wasn’t the only one who noticed my trip into another imaginary world.

“Isn’t he cute?” A lady in the group of parents said to someone next to them.  “That boy marches to the beat of a different drummer.”

Mom was also in the group and overheard the comment. She turned around to face the woman, and gave her a warm smile.  The woman’s face flushed.  She was sure that Mom was about to thrash her verbally. 

“No ma’am, he doesn’t,” my mother said softly. “He skips to the tune of a piccolo in an entirely different band.” 

Gee.  Thanks, Mom.  But then, I think that tune was the Sledge Sisters’ ultra-gay classic, “We are Family.”  I haven’t gotten that tune out of my head since!

And the piccolo is still playing. 

There might not be death stars and dragons anymore, but there are real problems and real enemies.  They would rather that those of us who are gay do not exist.  Where that wild imagination took me to places only dreamt of, the real world is far more dangerous.

It’s a world that has people who would like nothing more than to see the GLBT community just go away.  I have a smile on my face as I realize that as much as I truly hate sports, but I will continue to fight against injustice, hate, and intolerance.  It’s the only way to live.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll get that lightsabre one day. 

I sure hope it’s pink.

It sure is easy to get dismayed here in Dixie land.  After all, we’re surrounded by churches on every corner that would rather see us exterminated than converted.  Sure, that sounds harsh, but even a casual observer of modern fundamentalist religion (it’s clearly not limited to Christianity) reveals complete disgust and disdain for anything GLBT.

 

The phrase “militant homosexual” has been a buzz word for the religious Reich for several years now, and it’s only going to get worse.  It still amuses me how people who simply want to live their lives without harassment or discrimination are suddenly ‘militant.’  Now there are ‘activist judges.’  Never mind the fact that most of those ‘activists’ were nominated by conservative Republican administrations.

 

The idea of gay-anything will get people up in arms faster than a chipmunk running up the legs of a church lady on the front pew.  Whether it be the Gay Games in Chicago or Ford’s very clear endorsement of the Human Rights Campaign, the right wing has been flapping like Chicken Little in heat.  The sky is falling!

 

Or not. 

 

Let’s take a step back and see what’s really going on.  Gay marriage is a reality.  Every province in Canada not only recognizes same-sex marriages, but celebrates them.  Same with Spain and several other countries.  Hell, there’s even gay marriages here in the good ole U.S. of A.  Massachusetts has had legal gay marriage for more than a year now, and Chicken Little still has her ass feathers in the air waiting for the sky to fall.

 

But there’s more.  Years ago, someone like Fred Phelps would have been widely embraced in the “Christian” community, but not anymore.  In fact, one ultra-conservative group recently accused Mr. Phelps of being a ‘gay plant.’  That must really suck for him.  “He’s so bigoted,” they might say, “he MUST be gay!”  Phelps has become nothing more than a figurehead of hate that even the Southern Baptist Convention shuns.

 

Yes, there has been progress.  Bigotry is recognized for the ugliness that it is.  We are gaining ground throughout the country among the moms and pops who will say, “Oh, he’s just that way.”  Even Fox News has reported on recent studies that have indicated gay genes. 

 

Those who would pretend we don’t exist are now realizing that we’re all over the place.  And as a result, they’re circling their wagons to draw in the troops.  We’ve seen decades of progress where we were the laughingstock of the country.  Now, some of us are doing the laughing.  But before we let out that next guffaw, let’s take a few minutes and realize that all we’ve done is back a wounded dog into a corner.  And if we’re not careful, he’ll bite.  Hard.

 

Let’s back up and realize that our greatest assets are the ones we take for granted… our friends.  Our coworkers.  They are the ones who know us best.  As we face the next year and all the political games that it will bring, let’s remember that we’ll never win equality by taking away someone else’s.  Yes, we disagree with the right wing about sexuality.  But we must agree that they have a right to be wrong. 

 

We all have family members and “friends” that have written us off because of our sexual orientation.  They insist that it was a lifestyle choice, and that we’re damned to someplace really hot.  We can’t let them define us.  We can’t let bigotry, ignorance, fear, and hate define us.  We are defined by who we are, not who we love or have sex with.  I wonder what would happen if we started living that way?

 

No, the world hasn’t ended.  Nor has our fight for equality. As we fix our eyes on that prize, we must not allow ourselves to be distracted by battles we can’t win.  And as we press on, we’ll start playing Dixie with a little bit of a pink twang.

 

David W. Shelton