At the beginning of April, I took a ten-day Intro to Buddhism/Meditation Course at Kopan Monastery (near Kathmandu), and this is what I learned:

Taking a vow not to kill is harder to keep than it sounds.

Fiction withdrawal is painful — Ignore the voice inside your head that says “Just one short story. Nobody has to know.”

If you can only read Dharma books, the best escape is to go to the monastery bookstore and read Pema Chodron’s, “The Wisdom of No Escape.”

It’s okay to believe in reincarnation when you live at a gompa (i.e., a Tibetan Buddhist monastery), but when you return to the West, guard this secret with your life, this life.

The Tibetan word “gom” means to become familiar with; to mediate is to become familiar with your mind.

When most worldly pleasures are taken away, tea can turn into a vice.

Excessive body hair is a death trap for insects.

There may be no such thing as a dumb question, but there sure are unhelpful ones, like “Let’s say I go fishing, but I don’t kill any worms for bait, and the fish I catch is for a beggar, so my motivation is right, but the beggar will probably sell the fish to buy alcohol… Will this cause me to have good karma or bad karma?”

When a herd of goats circumambulate the stupa, they sure do leave a mess on the ground.

You can wash vegetables in cow pee-pee because it’s so clean, and cow dung is more useful than human ka-ka.

It is funny every time a nun says ka-ka and pee-pee. And oddly enough, nuns say this often.

Philosophy and religion are interesting to talk about, but practice is what matters.

Practice is what you do when things are going wrong, not right.

If you take a vow not to kill, you may inherently be taking a vow to save.

In a group of 105 Westerners new to Buddhism, allot them only 5 questions about reincarnation. Maybe then, they’ll use them wisely.

They may wear robes, but monklets are naughty little boys. (Which is why they need naps).

The only antidote to the effects of eating too much white bread is to drink too much nescafe.

If you develop a crush on a girl in your afternoon discussion group, it will be hard to concentrate in afternoon meditation.

A prostration is a bow, not to an image, idol, or a person, but to the wisdom it holds.

Regret and guilt are not the same thing. The former inspires change; the latter is useless self-flagellation.

It’s a relief to keep silence for two out of three meals a day.

Rescuing an ant, lady bug, or tiny insect from your body hair is extremely gratifying and very powerful.

You may start to hear a rallying cry in your head before you eat, or practice yoga, or meditate: “Do it for all sentient beings!”

Life is precious.

You may think that spending ten days in a monastery is an escape from reality, but deep down you know it’s bringing you a millimeter closer to reality.

A dozen of us sit around an oval table, two candles offering the only light. In the main cities of Nepal, the electricity is out for around 12 hours a day. Load shedding (or rationing) it’s called, and the schedule varies day to day. Generators and solar power exist, but tonight, on the top level of the Sadhana Yoga and Meditation center, high above Lake Fewa, the candle flames set the perfect atmosphere for an impromptu concert.

A German guy has just returned from his trek, returned to this place where he’d previously spent a week, a place that feels like home. Those who know him hail his return with requests for songs on his portable traveler’s guitar. He opens with a narrative song about a monkey who yearns to fly only to realize he cannot land. Soon, I’m laughing harder than I have in weeks and singing along to a catchy chorus that goes, “Hey monkey, monkey… Hey monkey, monkey…”

On the far side of the lake are pinpricks of light from city of Pokhara, where every establishment caters to travelers — convenience stores that do your laundry, paragliding companies that will arrange your jungle safari, and too many restaurants misinformed about backpacker eating habits. I did not come to Nepal for white bread toast and spaghetti. Perhaps Lonely Planet can send a memo.

The scene in Pokhara is a more laidback version of Thamel, the backpacker neighborhood in Kathmandu, and a more uptempo version of the main town at Chitwan National Park — the other places I’ve been. Touts are significantly less annoying in Nepal than in other countries, but if like me, you don’t have a plan upon arrival, adventure-information overload is a danger. Whether you are ready or not, within a day almost any company can whisk you away to trek in mountains so high that altitude sickness is a reality. And I was not ready.

I came to Sadhana to rest my eyes from pinballing the storefronts, to find some likeminded and likehearted travelers, and to center myself before taking on the mountains, rivers, and as it would turn out, the sky.

The bell rings at 5:30 am, and we gather in the yoga hall for warm up exercises and morning meditation. The practice is centered around the repetition of mantras (“Om” and “So Hum”) externally and internally for concentration. My mind wanders as it always does during my own morning meditation, but I am surprised by lack of self-judgment, that in the past year it has become a tiny bit easier for me to sit still.

Following our morning herbal tea, Divyam rings the bell. “It’s Neti time!” he shouts from the balcony. When we are all gathered in the garden area, he begins, “Namaste and welcome to this nasal cleansing program.” All of the newcomers are nervous. Unlike me, they have never poured salty water into one nostril and watched it come out the other. Some people sound like they are choking or drowning, partially because they are laughing. The only appropriate way to end a group nasal cleansing is with a ridiculous physical exercises. Up and down we bounce, fingers tucked under our armpits in the chicken dance, forcefully blowing out excess water through our noses.

Our morning yoga session is led by the center founder, Asanga. He reminds me of a wizard and leads us in pranayama (breathing exercises) that I know but do not practice often enough. During the physical portion, we begin with pre-asanas that are like kindergarten calisthenics and then asanas (poses) that we hold for three minutes, timed by a stopwatch. It is one of my intentions to be open to a yoga style that is different from my regular vinyasa flow. I figure if I haven’t cut off friends in the States who practice Bikram the least I can do is be open to this branch of Hatha that extends back to India and the very roots of yoga. And while the method is very different, I have to admit that in this Himalayan land, “downward dog” looks a lot more like a “mountain pose” as it’s called here.

Every few days, we practice laughing yoga, a traditional (Buddhist) practice that has us squealing and cackling for no reason at all. At this time, Santo, a young guy who speaks little English and works in the background, runs up from wherever he is on the property, bursts into the room and breaks into a fit of hysterics that energizes us even more.

Usually, our morning walk is short and leisurely. We stroll past the “Great Compassion School,” or down to “Happy Village,” or kick around a soccer ball. The highlight of the day is breakfast, either because we’ve already been up for four-and-a-half hours, or because the banana lassi, lightly spiced like the masala tea, and the muesli with curd (yogurt) is amazing. One morning we count almost a dozen different items from coconut to apples to dried dates in our bowls. Because I am language inept, I learn only one Nepali phrase, but I practice it (and am corrected) at every meal. “Mitho cha!” Delicious!

The bulk of the midday is for hanging out. This means we sit on the veranda, watch the paragliders twirl above the lake, and engage in the typical backpacker banter. Q: How long are you staying? A: I don’t know, maybe 4 days, or 7 days, or maybe 10 days. Q: Where are you going next? A: I don’t know, maybe Thailand or Burma, or maybe I’ll just stay here? Q: Where is the best place you’ve been? A: India. Definitely India.

Surprisingly, I find myself looking forward to the noon meditation session. I’m headed into a Tibetan monastery for a Buddhism/meditation course soon, and I’d been afraid that I might OD on meditation. But the opposite occurs. I feel like I’m just warming up. As my larger trip begins to take on a shape of its own, it’s apparently unfolding around yoga and meditation. I seem to seek this out wherever I land, as if I’m taking a real world survey course in Eastern philosophy and practice.

And I’m a spiritual lightweight compared to the two girls who are finishing up their 21 days at Sadhana shortly before going into a hardcore Vipassana meditation course. I like them very much immediately, and in the couple days that our time overlaps, our connection feels effortless. I make friends while I am here, those I will catch up with when, on our own schedules, we all  re-enter civilization.

In the late afternoon, we practice karma yoga, thirty minutes of kitchen help, watering plants, cleaning the yoga space, or one time, shoveling rocks. I enjoy this tiny contribution to the upkeep of the community, but there is a deeper intention behind this practice. “Yoga is union of body and mind,” Durga (Asanga’s wife) says to me. “And in this karma yoga, the yoga of action, we unite our work with our body and mind in meditation.”

It is hard to practice this work-meditation if anyone begins jabbering away while we are peeling potatoes. But I observe it in Sunita, the cook who sings softly to herself behind us, and in Ganga, the workhorse and family elder who cleans, launders, and hauls firewood, always with a smile so deep and pure it appears ancient, as if she discovered joy in a time long ago, and only she knows the secret to maintain it. Karma yoga, perhaps.

And finally, the moment we all wait for. No, no, not the snack of masala tea and popcorn, but after. Chanting! “Now we will unite our beautiful voices in beautiful melodies and spread our beautiful energy,” Durga says, rolling her T’s. No matter how many times she says “beautiful,” it never gets old. Just like her smile, equal parts love and mischief. A leader of the village women’s group, Durga is strong and nurturing, exactly as her name suggests.

Every day, we pick three mantras/chants from the list, many that I recognize from home, but that Durga explains differently. While we sing, she plays the tambourine and her nephew, Kaushal, plays the drum. He often wears a Sid Vicious “Smoke the Herb” T-shirt, and sometimes in between sending text messages, he’ll casually and naturally fall into a few repetitions of “Om Namah Shivaya.” He is passionate about chanting, and he downloads a bunch of Nepali devotional music onto a thumb drive for me, an exciting surprise for when I get home.

Kaushal is my favorite. When he suggests I get up and dance at the end of one session, I climb over my own internal  resistance and rise in my spot. Prodded by the girls, and there are only girls, soon I’m in the center of the circle dancing alone to a chanting encore. I’m stepping outside of myself in this place, or maybe it is into myself. I am at ease in this environment, and I I soon notice that I am a resource for those who are new to yoga, meditation, and chanting.

Divyam leads evening yoga, which is always a mental challenge for me. Divyam is unadulterated sweetness, disciplined and dedicated, but he has a disciple’s demeanor and lacks the knowledge of Asanga. He passes on to us only what he recently learned and is unable to answer basic questions (asked often) like why we greet the morning with moon salutations and end the day with sun salutations. I’m not sure whether it is empathy, sympathy, or compassion but even as I’m regularly annoyed by stopwatch yoga, I alternate between these warm feelings toward Divyam, as well as myself for my own frustration and lack of focus.

After dinner, we do a quick candlelight meditation. When it’s over, Divyam places his palms together and ends this session in the same manner that he ends all of them. “This program is over. Thank you and Namaste.”

Seven days is a short time for me to experiment with a new form of yoga. Seven days is a long time for me to be away from booze, bud, internet, and especially coffee. This is probably the longest I’ve gone without those habits and substances since I was fifteen years old. I was so fearful about caffeine withdrawal that I brought a small bottle of emergency Nescafe that I never opened.

I felt at home the moment I arrived in Nepal, but it is only at the end of my week at Sadhana that I feel at home within myself. We practiced everything from extreme stillness to excessive laughter to stretching our eyeballs, and in the process, we received a lifelong foundation for yoga, or an addition to my existing foundation, something I’ll carry with me on the rest of my adventure. Some people travel to discover a new world, but I think I travel to discover myself in a new world, and it took a week of focus on my “sadhana” — my practice — to turn in before looking out.

At a literary event the night before I leave for my trip, a random in the audience gave me the contact info for his friend, a queer guy living in Munduk, a small village in the mountainous north of Bali. A month later at midnight, Qian knocks on my guesthouse door in Ubud (returning from a quick jaunt out of Bali to renew his visa) and climbs into bed wearing only his underwear. In the morning, we wordlessly unroll our yoga mats. Before we hit the road, we have become friends.

Sometimes when you travel, you have control, or the illusion of control — some knowledge of where you are going and what will be there. And sometimes, you are along for the ride, accepting an invitation into the home and life of another, accepting what is offered. I make sure of only two things, boiled drinking water andvegetarian food, the second typical since meat is a luxury.

Qian and I are dropped off on the side of the road near a sign for waterfalls, these the main tourist draws in a town that receives one page in my guidebook. After a 7-minute walk on a dirt path, we approach a clearing where cock-fighting chickens and bred pigeons (apparently birds are decorative) and a well-behaved dog wander. Qian lives on the second level of this humble home in a tree-house like room with glass windows on three sides and a balcony that overlooks the orchard and misty valley.

Qian is here to study, practice, record, and produce gamelan music. As I understand it, gamelan refers to a collection of instruments (loosely reminiscent of xylophones, although some remind me in shape of clay pots used for cooking ) many with bronze keys set above bamboo tubes. The keys are struck with mallets, some round while others look like hammers.

Gamelan is everywhere in Bali. Everywhere. And along with performances and lessons I often see a phrase: “playing gender.” I cannot wait to ask Qian and shout at him, “What does that mean!?” He starts cracking up. The gender (with a hard “G” and an “er” sounding like “air”) wayang is a type of gamelan. With two trans guys, the jokes are endless.

I am excited to meet, Made, the gamelan teacher. He wears bifocals, has an intellectual mien, and everything about him cries musician — he builds and tunes gamelans, as well as teaches, composes, and plays. Having toured in the States, he speaks decent English and eagerly talks to me about his work. In fact, gamelan seems to be the only thing on his mind. During my first day, he sits around smoking, drinking coffee, messing around on the flute, and praying it doesn’t rain so that village gamelan practice will happen.

When it starts to rain at 6pm on my first night, Made turns to me, “Very bad, Nick, very bad,” he says. “God does not like gamelan.”

In the treehouse, Qian and I fall into one of our effortless conversations — about queer San Francisco, artist colonies, art fundraising, touring, or gender (soft “g”). We do not notice the rain has stopped until Made calls up to us. “No, no,” Qian whines.

“This is what I hate,” Qian says to me. “I never know where I’m going, for how long, what will happen, and when I’ll be back.” I get it. I totally get it. I’m along for a brief ride, but this is his  daily life.

Made, Qian, and I put on our headlights, plod through the mud, and reach the road where two helmetless young men on scooters pick us up. It is dark, wet, drizzling, and for 2 kilometers along a very windy, hilly road, I think only of one thing — dying.

About a dozen men — ages fourteen to sixty — arrive slowly, cigarettes gangling from their mouths. The gamelans are aligned in pairs on a long raft of cement protected by a corrugated metal roof. Along the cinder block wall, bamboo flutes (sulings) hang. One coiled light on a string hangs from the ceiling. Water drips off of the leaves and roof, a pitter-patter of drops soon overtaken by the twinkling of keys.

Supposedly they are learning a new piece, but it sounds practiced. Up close, what impresses me the most is the way the musicians strike the keys with the mallets and quickly stop each key with the base of a hand. Their movements are so quick, like a magician’s trick, a sleight of hand that I hadn’t noticed until now.

They practice for a couple hours until coffee is served and the animated conversation eventually dies down. It is midnight before we are back on scooters and making our way home.

We are staying with Made’s daughter and her family (her husband and three kids). None of them speak English, and I am aware that I am communicating wholly with my body language, my face, my walk, and the few Indonesian words I know. My new favorite words are “Makan, Makan” — “Eat, Eat.”

This is shouted up at us constantly for we are fed constantly — fried bananas with palm sugar, chayote, bamboo shoots, greens that the son hands to his mother through the kitchen window, tapioca, cassava roots boiled and fried, cassava greens — and always white rice. We do not eat with the family for reasons I don’t understand; the cooked food remains under a dirt-caked fly protector, and people eat whenever they want.

Everyone in the family sleeps downstairs on a collection of mattresses, some without sheets, that rest on the floor in front of TVs that blare constantly. We all share the bathroom with a real squat toilet, not the kind at tourist spots where you bring your own toilet paper and leave it in the waste basket on your way out. No shoes are allowed inside the bathroom, or the house.

I do very little while here other than go on a short trip to the waterfall. The middle child, the son, silently guides me. This kid is beautiful, all of them are. He is lanky with fuzz over his lip, ears that stick out, and a kindness that makes me believe (mistakenly perhaps) that he will not become an angry, sullen teenager like those in America.

It is always raining, or about to rain, the water occasionally dripping through the roof of the treehouse onto the bed. Mostly, we work. While I write, Qian sits at a stool in front of his computer (using a modem that uses radio waves) engaged in the creative and business aspects of gamelan  — choosing songs for an album, doing the cover art, contacting producers.

I write about Ubud. It takes me such a long time to write the blog post, longer than it should; it always does. In the past couple weeks, I have been rejected (or waitlisted) by the three artist colonies/retreats I applied to for the summer. I have been falling in and out of that rejection spiral — the why bother, “I suck” spin — that every writer experiences.

I look over at Qian with his headphones tuned to his music, and I think of the lunacy of artists, the lunacy of travel, the lunacy of love — the passions that call us, the cultures that steal our hearts, the people who become family. Somehow, isolated in this treehouse on an orchard, high in the mountains of Bali, it all makes sense, for a second, anyways. For this is where the two of us ended up when we let go of the illusion of control.

***

Check out Qian’s blog to hear the gamelan, support his work, and learn a thing or two from the master about this pretty amazing music.

The faint moonlight silhouettes palm trees against a blue-black sky. Inside the open-air Yoga Barn studio, over twenty of us — travelers and ex-pats — gather for the first in a new bi-weekly evening series, Bali Dharma Talks, a lecture and discussion about local life.

A spotlight shines on a pull-down blackboard. “Mula Keto,” our speaker writes. It means, “That’s just the way it is.” It’s something parents say and reminds me of the American version, “Because I said so.” Except that here there is a nuance. It’s based less on about authority and more on faith. It means just do it, but also implies trust it, believe in it. “Mula Keto” is the response when kids question the many offerings, ceremonies, and rituals that define village existence.

Our speaker writes and connects “spirituality,” “humanity,” and “environment” — balanced in harmony. Above this micro-level is the macro-level, one word “Universe.” At the very top, he writes “God.” He explains that this organizational system does not come from a specific book, class, philosophy, or religion, but is the tradition imparted to him growing up. His lecture is a series of digressions, and I collect the pieces that resonate with me, tonight and at other times, creating a patchwork understanding of the culture, or many cultures (for each village is unique) here.

He describes Ubud as a village and shares a bit about his childhood back when the main street was a dirt road and the market a field, before the trees were cleared for the arrival of electricity in the mid-seventies. He is not romanticizing, but bridging, the past to present, and to the future, accepting his responsibility and teaching us about ours as the inevitable growth and change continues all around us.

Ubud is a thriving tourist town and my home base in Bali. On the surface it is similar in many ways to my true home, the Castro — a tourist mecca and a theme park that I call “Gay Disneyland.” Ubud is a Yogi Disneyland, a spiritual theme park. The stores and restaurants pull from Sanskrit and Hinduism — Satya Jewelry, Ahimsa Clothes, Atman Cafe, Lakshmi Books, Saraswati Bungalows, and Durga Burger — Ok fine, I made the last one up.

I absolutely love it here. I pretend the Yoga Barn is Yoga Tree and attend classes in the morning and events in the evening. A Kirtan led by a visiting Ozzie, Kevin James, is one of the highlights, a foot-stomping, hand-clapping, musical extravaganza, a beautiful co-mingling of voice and sound, celebrating community and expressing devotion.

With my ponytail, fisherman pants, and white (albeit tan) skin, I fit in well in this scene and am almost too comfortable. I branch out by trying a chanting night affiliated with a massage center and ashram. A candle flickers in front of a lone frangipani flower in the center of our intimate three-person triangle. A Balinese man, Putu, plays the guitar and leads us in familiar chants with unfamiliar melodies, including one with the twist of a local tongue that substitutes W’s for V’s. From our hearts, we repeat “Om Namah Shiwaya” over and over and over again.

I find it expansive to explore what I was first introduced to in my San Francisco yoga world in here in Bali. I like seeing a much larger form of the Ganesha I have on my home altar guarding the front of many of the temples, guesthouses, and stores, removing obstacles, clearing the entrance. I like seeing a performance of the Ramayana at the palace. Even though I do not take to Legong Dance, when Hanuman and his vanara army enter I excitedly poke the Canadian singer-songwriter I coerced to come along. “Look, Hanuman!” I say. “This is the best part.”

Unlike the rest of Indonesia, much of Bali is Hindu. I’m told that as time marched on, foreigners arrived, and Muslims conquered, Bali was safely isolated due to the coral that thwarted boats. The Hindu that remains is mixed with animism, and as I gather, because I’m always gathering, somewhat specific within each village.

A unifying trait is devotion, expressed in rituals and ceremonies that are so constant, time-consuming, and expensive (especially if a lot of deaths occur in a year) that I begin to wonder if they are excessive. On a long day of temple sightseeing, we pass a shocking number of processions and temple anniversaries. My driver, Apel, attended a cremation the day before. “Do the ceremonies ever get to be too much?” I finally ask him.

“Yes,” he says, laughing like I caught him. But in his laugh, I can also hear, “Mula Keto.”

I spend a big part of the day in the car with Apel, talking the whole time. He is married with a four-year old son, and he recently borrowed a large amount of money to buy a tiny piece of land, 125 sq meters, to build a house. “Every day, I wake up nervous,” he says, gesturing a hand over his heart, pumping it hard against his chest.

His English is terrific, not just the words but the slang and the sentiment. He calls one of his friends a “high-class playboy” with a hint of admiration. “But that is not me,” he says. “I have to be me.” He desperately wants to be a good father and husband, speaks apologetically about occasionally drinking Arak, the local spirit (made from palm leaves) with his friends.

He is so earnest and honest. My skin feels translucent, like it can no longer protect me. I discover we are the same age, a few months a part. He wears a Hurley T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. I feel a deep kinship with him. He teaches me much, including a new Balinese word, “taksu” — inner beauty, and I understand perfectly because I see it so clearly in him.

At Tanah Lot, I walk across the shallow ocean to the base of this temple; it’s so perfect it looks like it belongs in a snow globe. A couple hours later, I explore Uluwatu, another seaside temple, this built on a cliff so sheer and steep it is as if a sharp knife sliced off this bit of land. The view, the sense of the end of the earth, is the allure of these temples — homages to the ocean. It is a bit bizarre to feel the essence of God, then get in line behind a busload of Singaporeans to capture it in a picture. I enjoy my time in the car with Apel as much, maybe more than the temples.

On my last day in Ubud, I visit Sari Organic, the restaurant in the middle of the rice fields. I am thrilled to be outside the bustle of the town center. On the walk, I pass signs for places to rent by the month, and although I’d once thought I might seek a rental, settle for a bit and write here, I quickly realized that this trip is not for working on a project, but is a respite between projects.

I spend hours at this restaurant, many more than I intend, eating vegetables and chatting with a yogi and an Asia-phile who has been coming to Bali for twenty years. She is a New Yorker (it takes one to know one) but in the seventies, she lived in San Francisco, the Castro. She speaks with nostalgia about this time, a period along with the eighties and early nineties that I have pieced together from documentaries, archival footage, books, and friends.

The “Gay Disneyland” where I have made my home for the past 7 years may be full of tourists paying too much money for ironic underwear and bad dance music, but it is also the neighborhood where early liberation and freedom was experienced, community grew around enormous devastation and loss, and part of the foundation that allows for my queer existence was built. You can see Disneyland, or you can find the hallowed ground underneath.

As I walk back to my guesthouse on none other than Hanuman Street, I pass one of the places I have not visited on this trip, Taksu Yoga. In total, I’ve spent more than two weeks in and around Ubud, but I am only beginning to see behind the words painted on the storefronts, to discover what taksu means.

Perhaps next time I’m here I’ll rent one of those houses in the rice fields…

I am sitting on the veranda of my bungalow in a garden of blossoming flowers with Buddha and Ganesha statues shaded by the canopy of palm leaves. A mother’s foreign lullaby is punctuated by the crows of roosters, bird calls, and scooter engines. I slept for 12 hours last night, 10 hours the few nights before. I am not sure why I am so tired, whether it is the past couple years of busting my ass behind me, the emotional days of goodbyes from folks on my yoga retreat — the end of their vacation and the beginning of my adventure — or if hanging out underwater could possibly be that exhausting.

Scuba diving is the only “activity” I’ve been doing for the past week. And by that I mean watching a turtle levitating to the surface for air, a reef shark swimming amidst a school of barracuda, a sting ray flapping along the sandy bottom, a scorpion fish camouflaging itself into the wreck of a WWII U.S. cargo ship, the flatworms and starfish and clams gripping on to coral as I begin to let go of the grip on my mouthpiece. With each dive, the tiny bits of life become infinitely more interesting, the details of this underwater ecosystem more vivid.

I am in Amed (Jemeluk Beach to be more specific), a strip of villages situated on black sand beaches on the east coast of Bali. There is seemingly not much to do here. And so I wonder, “Why am I here?” This is a question I have been asking myself for weeks, with differing tones of fear and wonder.

It started with a retreat, something that felt like a mix between the Real World: Yoga Edition and yoga camp in a college dorm. Slightly outside the main part of Ubud, our compound was planted in the center of rice fields, a pool its only attraction. On that very first afternoon, a new friend and I, resting on the pool’s ledge, looked out into the jungle and eyed each other with the same trepidation: What the heck would we do all day after the yoga session?

The question was quickly answered by the two kids on the retreat, young girls who jumped into the water and proceeded to engage us both for the next one, two, or was it three hours with games — searching for my lost hairbands under water, catching rocks off the diving platform, racing to touch the bottom.

Time and space — the greatest burden and the greatest luxury.

I didn’t expect my yoga retreat to be full of Hide-and-Seek, Go Fish, I Spy, or that literally the only words I’d read during those ten days would be the book “Should I Share My Ice Cream?” I didn’t expect that my biggest adventure would be a rain-soaked, mud-drenched journey with the kids across the rice field to a temple instead of the day I climbed Mount Batur before the sun rose imperceptibly through dense clouds. That morning I fell asleep on volcanic rock heated by the earth’s core, but it was the heat of two girls sandbagging me on the dorm floor later that afternoon that warmed me the most. It’s been a long time since I’ve had friends under the age of ten. It’s been a long time since I’ve had this much time.

A white flag floats in the middle of the rice field. During yoga practice my gaze, my drishti, settles upon this flag, this symbol of surrender.

There is actually nothing that needs to be done after yoga. This is an event, the main event. Each morning, we dance, laugh, sweat, and chant. During these first few days, Michael Franti plays his acoustic guitar in savasana. There is a richness to these early mornings, as if I’m touching the depths of why I am in Bali, on this trip, on this earth, and it comes not in words but tears.

There’s a reason I’ve been following my yoga teacher around for the past couple of years. When every fiber in my being is resisting joy, the simple sight of her, all that she embodies, makes me smile. And when I’m ready to take on a challenge, but unwilling to step forward, she creates an opening, asks if I want to assist in a yoga class one morning.

This is something I’ve been putting off and would’ve gladly put off until returning home. It would’ve been safer to try it in the candlelit dark of my home studio, where I could clutch the wall, bathing in a stew of my uncertainty, discomfort, and futility. But I offer what I can, what little I can, relishing the moments when I can, and pocketing the “thank you’s” of my new friends as a reminder that a little goes farther than I think, that trying is enough.

Sometimes I feel like a baby, like I’m just learning how to walk and talk — to touch with love, to laugh with kids, to connect with my eyes — to engage with my surroundings, be part of the world.

After the retreat, I sloth around Gili Trawangan for a week with friends. A dirt road skirts the perimeter of this island, and the only transport beside bicycles are tiny horse-drawn carriages. It’s amazing to see the sun rise on one side of the island and see it set from the other. In between, we eat pizza, drink Bin Tang beers, listen only to Bob Marley, and gazebo-hop from one white-sand beach to the next. Occasionally, I take a break from maximizing lethargy for a yoga class or a dive with the batfish, sweetlips, and angelfish in turquoise water so clear it seems unreal.

It isn’t all perfect. The stomach ailments, bizarre rashes, earaches, sunburns, and flip-flop chaffing wounds remind me constantly of the fragility of the body. I have been outside almost all day every day, the elements (and bacteria) are taking their toll. The brown on my feet is either tan or dirt; my hands are peeling from the salt. I need to restock my medical kit.

The goodbyes have been the most challenging — leaving the kids, my teacher, my friends from the retreat. Each one felt like my heart was being extricated via my throat, like a clown pulling endless links of a paper chain from his mouth. Some mornings I wake up with an air bubble of longing behind my solar plexus. In these times, I breathe deeper, smile wider, wrap my loneliness up with all that I can find inside. I take out my yoga mat, my inflatable meditation cushion, and my mala beads — these, and band-aids, are my most prized possessions. They anchor me when I feel lost and afraid, when I spin on where I should go, what I should do?

I decide to stay here in Amed another day even though there are must-see things I’m missing and there is nothing to do here.

In the morning, I watch women leave out their offerings of incense in front of the bungalows and upon the altar in the cafe that doubles as a bird feeder. I read and write and say hello to all the Made’s, Wayan’s, and Ketut’s on the strip, making a note for each in my journal so I can remember the names that many of the men share based on their birth order. In the afternoon, I watch boys of all ages play beach soccer, sliding and falling on the sea glass and plastic bottles and scraps of coral. Men unfurl their fishing nets or cast a line from the shore or take out their boats with peeling paint.

I walk this black sand cove in the early evening to cries of Barack Obama as the locals call Americans, and from the sounds of the languages spoken around me, I’m seemingly the only one here right now. At the end of the cove there are a bunch of large rocks, one that is particularly flat. I sit here, next to a dead crab, and chant loudly as the sun falls behind Mt Agung. I think of the kids from the retreat, and how a laundry bin became a hiding spot, the spiders became personalities with names, the little hut behind the kitchen became a clubhouse — that compound became a wonderland.

On the drive from Amed back to Ubud, I track the white flags in the rice fields. In between our marathon singalong to American stoner classics, reggae hits, and Dido, I ask my driver about these flags, and he tells me they flap in the wind, scaring the birds and keeping them away from the crop. I nod. His answer suffices. But curving around the narrow windy roads, the vista opening to vast flatbeds of water-saturated fields, I find the white flags, my own meaning, why I am here.

I recently completed a four-part yoga series for the Original Plumbing blog. Here are the links to all of the columns.

Yoga Anyone? (Oct 4, 2011)
When I first stepped into my local yoga studio three-and-a-half years ago, at the peak of my gender questioning phase, I was simply trying to get over a breakup. A couple trans guys had invited me to an ass-whooping, spiritually eye-opening class that was also quite the event with tambourine-led chanting and a soundtrack that mixed the Jackson 5 with devotional music.
Read more…

A Trans Guy Walks into a Yoga Class… Score (Oct 24, 2011)
In my early twenties, I discovered Eastern philosophy. I read books about Zen and Tibetan Buddhism, and I grew very attached to non-attachment. For a brief period, I spoke in universal “We” statements, as in, “Our fundamental problem is that we deny death.” Sometimes, I went by myself to Spirit Rock Meditation Center for daylong silent retreats for LGBT folks, after which I’d scan Craigslist Missed Connections to see if any girls thought I was cute.
Read more…

Creating a Yoga Space for All: Q&A with Jacoby Ballard (Nov 9, 2011)
For this series, I reached out to Jacoby Ballard, a yoga teacher whom I admire and respect  for his dedication to bringing yoga into queer and trans community. He is the co-founder of Third Root Community Health Center in Brooklyn, where he is an herbalist, yoga teacher, organizer, and fundraiser.
Read interview…

Spiritual Activism: A New Frame for Social Change (Dec 1, 2011)
Several years ago, I had a girlfriend with a history as a direct action activist. The cause deepest to her heart was animal rights, and she had spent many hours screaming into a bullhorn, “Your mother kills puppies,” at the homes of employees of huge companies that tortured animals for mascara testing.
Read more…

Because it’s important to finish what I started, I’m writing a concluding book tour post from the airplane even though I’d rather lose myself in my library book. I’ve read more of the novel This Is Where I Leave You (by Jonathan Tropper) during the first two hours of this flight than I read during two weeks on the road. I finally have what feels like true, uninterrupted relaxation. Ahhh… Alas, I am compelled to provide some closure.

The last few events, all in the state of Massachusetts, went well — great turnouts, each with a completely different crowd vibe. Over the course of a trip, my nervousness faded away and was replaced by a pre-event giddiness as I developed a rhythm of preparation, reading and storytelling ease, and my own style of engaging the audience through questions, eye contact, gestures, posture, tone, and humor.

I like that first moment, looking out over the group, guessing who they are and why they are there, letting the need to know go as I find the friendly and interested faces that I return to again and again for encouragement. But I love the ending even more, when these people approach me individually and I learn something about them, share a moment, a connection, sometimes deep and personal. Actually, I love the events in their entirety. My heart is fully invested in this speaking thing.

In Amherst, I read at Food for Thought Books, which as far as I’m concerned is like the Madison Square Garden of alt literary tours. Every queer person or group I admire reads here, one of the few collective bookstores left, and a spacious beautiful one at that, with a podium of snaking iron and curved wood, and a red curtain for a backdrop.

The large audience surprised me by not laughing in any of the usual places, but there’s something interestingly weird about this geographic area, like it’s been stuck in its own liberalism for too long and has acquired a progressive stuffiness. I appreciated being asked to read my short humor piece from the recent Original Plumbing “Family” issue. The uber queerness of it contrasted nicely with the total ignorance of the character in Nina Here Nor There, otherwise known as me five years ago.

I guess I have to admit that speaking at Harvard brought out a bit of pride, an ego-driven sense of accomplishment standing behind the crested podium, or maybe it was a, “Look at me now, Fuckers” attitude. I was rejected as an undergrad, and while my desire for their acceptance, then and now, partially comes from an elitist privileged place, I have always found something untainted and amazing in the people I meet surrounding this institution.

The Harvard event was the best on the tour. I think this had to do with their widespread promotion. There were ALL types of people there, students, grad students, faculty, teachers from other colleges, local queer and trans kids, aspiring writers, and a few of my long-lost friends. And every single person appeared to be truly into the whole event. I think three-quarters of the room asked a question. It was the only time when the Q&A didn’t peter out naturally, and I had to look over to the organizer to end what was turning into a long night.

For my last night, I spoke at Boston College. The building looked and felt like a church, and the room was covered in crosses, saints, and Latin. I had to quickly change the passages I slated to read when the student organizers told me the administration had looked at my website and I “couldn’t advocate for same-sex marriage” or “read about dildos,” or anything I extrapolated to be equally inappropriate.

Which is why this night felt awesome in a way unlike any of my other events. These students pushed for me to come to campus, pushed themselves to learn about a topic – trans folk – in which they knew little to nothing. While all the other schools I spoke at have like 10 to 30 queer groups under a larger umbrella, BC has only one group – they call themselves the campus gays – and they were the only people who showed up at the event since it was closed to the general public.

It was a good turnout for a rainy night, and because everyone in the room knew each other, it had a familial atmosphere. I offered a bit more Trans 101 here and altered my manner to be even more encouraging with questions than usual. I really liked these kids. They smiled a lot. And they inspired me, the way they were out and proud in an environment that was not particularly supportive of them. I’m sure this sounds ridiculously patronizing, but I got the sense that they were good eggs, like they were going to really succeed in this world in their own diverse ways.

After the event, I had the world’s worst veggie burrito. (I’m coming home SF!) On most other post-event nights of the tour, I had a drink with a random grouping of whoever wanted to join, which was always bizarre and great. But on this last night, I was alone, exactly what I needed, a brief moment of private reflection and celebration.

This tour was all that I could’ve hoped for and then some, a success on every level (except I’m a dipshit for never putting out a mailing list). Seeing my parents and connecting with old friends added a huge bonus to the experience. I am grateful for all of it, especially everyone who opened up their homes to me, offering me not a couch but a guest room.

By the time I returned the rental car (with nearly 800 miles in one week), I was already plotting for a way to keep running with speaking engagements, to develop a presentation and maybe a workshop. There’s something in this that I really love.

Last night, I returned to my hotel room, briefly flipped through the channels on the TV, then turned off the lights and went to sleep. It was 8:30pm. I was exhausted, like Justin Bieber on a fifty-stop international stadium tour, except I am playing at gender-neutral housing floors, LGBTQ Centers at colleges, and fringe conferences like Transcending Boundaries.

Of all the conferences I attended this year (Philly Trans Health, Butch Voices, Southern Comfort, WPATH), Transcending Boundaries has been my favorite. This is the gathering ground for outsiders to the outsiders, queers of all stripes – trans, genderqueer, intersex, poly, kinky, asexual – and although my behaviors and looks are rather vanilla in these surroundings, my heart is as freaky as they come.

I led a writing workshop, my second ever, and without a doubt, the most anxiety-provoking event on my schedule. But people showed up (about 20), the first hurdle at any conference with tons of programming. And, they even wrote during the exercise portion. It’s so interesting to me that the participants can talk to the end of time about the obstacles to writing, but if they’re in a room and told to write, inevitably their pens will start moving. I feel relief when this happens — the weight of silence lifted and reassurance that the prompts I offered (usually too many) prompted something.

I threw out the identity words, all the ones that fell under the Transcending Boundaries umbrella, and let people define these words for themselves, not dictionary definitions but personal definitions. The greatest surprise was everyone’s eagerness to share what they wrote. One person said that this was the most comfortable they ever felt writing and sharing. Then it hit me: In what other writing workshop context could these people write about being intersex or trans in complete safety, letting down their outsider defenses for a moment.

This environment affected me too, because for my author reading, part of the Saturday night entertainment, I read a scene from my book that I’d never felt comfortable reading before: the sex scene. I joked that it was kiddie erotica, a warm-up to the second part of the night: Tristan Taormino and Kate Bornstein read from the new Trans and Genderqueer Erotica Anthology. Nice company, eh?

Finally getting to meet Kate, who so kindly endorsed my book, was pretty awesome. Her keynote address and her simple presence inspired me; her support, encouragement, and advice was an added bonus. This author event, in the grand ballroom, was the largest venue and largest crowd I’d ever read to, and their laughter indicated they were having fun. The ASL interpreters seemed to be having the most fun, using their whole bodies to translate what was mostly sex writing.

I still find myself thinking about this day, the inclusiveness of it, the people beaten down daily by dominant culture, finding a home, space, and  community.

****

On Sunday morning, I drove to Hanover, New Hampshire via Vermont (apparently there are only a few highways in New Hampshire). Everything in New England is like one to two hours away from everything else, and I’m really enjoying the road and the fall scenery. Sometime in the past weeks, the leaves went from red/orange to nonexistent on the creep toward winter.

At Dartmouth, I spoke to the gender-neutral housing floor at a Sunday brunch, doing my best to engage a crowd that was tired, in sweatpants, part queer, and part just wanting to live in this specific campus housing – this second group laughed particularly hard when I did the, “I’m just a straight, white guy” imitation of my brother.

After the formal part of my event, I ate a late lunch with a few of the students (rugby players like me once). I particularly liked hearing about their experiences as being out on campus. In the groupings of dyke college students, there seems to be queer activist types and closeted sporty lesbian types – I was the latter, not quite closeted, but I had a girlfriend rather than an identity. These students were so well-spoken and mature that I kept thinking we were around the same age until they would throw around the terms “thirteens” and “fourteens” to describe the class of 2013 and 2014. I graduated college in 1999, which in this context sounded long time ago.

Last night, I spoke at Brown as part of their Transgender Awareness Week to a relatively large crowd of interested undergrads – by far the most students in one room. I read mostly the funny scenes and sweated so much that armpit stains bled all the way to my forearm. One of the kids came up afterwards and told me that he lives in Nebraska and that a few kids in his youth group read my book this summer, and that it helped them out. There have been a handful of these moments so far, someone approaching me in tears to tell me how much my book mattered to them, that it was the first time they saw themselves reflected in literature.

Throughout the writing process, I didn’t think all that much about the people who would read my book. I mean, I did theoretically, in the sense of my “audience.” But not in the sense of actual people with actual experiences connecting with me as a character, and now me as the author, a person, like them, with struggles and triumphs.

I am loving every moment of this trip, even when the kids text while I speak, or when only a few show up and the ones that do appear as if they are one blink away from nodding off. I am in Amherst now after a small lunch at Hampshire College. I am trying to accept that I am tired, that I may be tired until this tour is over. But I know that when I step to the front of Food For Thought Books tonight and see the rapt faces of a few folks in the crowd, I will get my second wind. I always do.

“You know we’ve never lived in the same place,” Alley said when I arrived at the train station. We’ve known each other for almost ten years and I hadn’t really thought abut that. Alley is one of my best friends, and about once a year, we get a few days together. This time required careful orchestration for Alley to switch some shifts in the Yale Hospital Emergency Department where they are a PA, and for me to line up my schedule to stop through before an event at Wesleyan.

On my way to New Haven, the Wesleyan Event was cancelled (the early fall snowstorm left the school powerless for a bit and caused some issues.). This change in plans created an extra night of chill time that instantaneously turned my stay with Alley from a visit into a full-on vacation. Our goal was maximum relaxation, to excel at doing nothing. It was pretty magnificent.

In the mornings, I did my *work* while Alley went to their garage, a self-designed workout cave that so completely shows Alley in their natural habitat, heaven-on-earth, special place, that I had to include a picture. Then, in the afternoons, we strolled New Haven, which in my opinion is a cross between a quaint town and small city, with arts, culture, a low-buzzing energy, and a handful of decent (I’m spoiled by San Francisco) bookstores.

Each night, we went to yoga class at the Balanced Yoga Studio, where Alley goes regularly yet sporadically depending on how much time they are working out compulsively and obsessively in their garage. For me, so used to attending yoga in San Francisco, it was great to experience classes from a different angle — smaller rooms, smaller classes, and a smaller community that took me in immediately. The angle I struggled with was that facing the walled mirror, forcing me into an intimacy with my reflection while I practiced.

After a few days in Jersey (with quick stops in NY and Philly), where I stole moments of practice – meditation here, a few sun salutations there, a practice while watching my teacher Janet Stone’s Ananda Vinyasa DVD (while my mom observed and made comments to me like, “How come you can’t get your leg as high as her?”) it was nice to be in a dimly lit, warm vinyasa class with a beautiful teacher and a single quiet yet powerful collective Om.

Three nights of yoga was enough to bring me back into the rhythm of my own morning ritual – the work-in-progress travel version — and start my days with my 10-min meditation, sun salutations, and pranayama exercises. As I spend more time away from my SF apartment with my altar (what I half-jokingly call my serenity corner) and consider longer travel, I am experimenting with ways to take my home morning practice on the road.

It certainly helped that Alley would give me their apartment for the evening before going to sleep at their girlfriend’s place, conveniently located downstairs in the same building. Some people might call Alley’s place a bachelor pad, but it is really a woodland forest for mystical, magical, or mythical creatures with multiple genders, like the two of us.

Real tree branches sprout from the walls in the living room and bedroom, complementing a few branches painted onto the walls. A tree theme subtly permeates, and is mixed, of course, with medical everything from mugs with detailed anatomy diagrams to an art piece that lines the long hallway, a string with suture clamps holding up  postcards, cut-outs, and drawings. Between Alley and their friends – mostly midwifes – evening conversations at restaurants and bars always seemed to turn to “catching babies” and medical emergencies.

As I consider places that I could steal away to for a month to write, practice some yoga, hang out with some good people, New Haven makes the list. Especially when Alley throws around the word, patron, a fun concept to think about because it makes me feel all literary and shit.

Alley and I met through the Gay Games in Sydney, Australia in 2002, although not at the Gay Games themselves. Alley was part of the NY Women’s Soccer team I met and played with there, and despite training the team, Alley never made it to Australia for family reasons. We met shortly after the Games when I was visiting these new soccer friends in New York. Alley and I connected immediately, saw each other before we could see ourselves. We may only get a few days a year. But I treasure them.

I am on the train, headed north, passing over bodies of water I do not know and Connecticut towns I’ve heard of but have never been to. I’m making the change from public transport to rental car in Boston, where I’ll drive to southern New Hampshire. I’m staying with an old housemate and rugby teammate from college. This is the last bit of my mini-vacation within my tour, a respite of quality time with my loved ones.

I should probably tell you about my event at Penn last night, but I’m kind of obsessed with the Amtrak train I just got on. There is free Wi-Fi, electrical outlets in every aisle, ample leg room, and the seats are more comfortable than most couches. I’ve always loved trains. They are the perfect compromise between car and plane because they avoid traffic and sharp turns, and there is an endlessly changing landscape outside. I’m going to try to keep this short, so I can get back to the graffiti, industrial plants, and forests blurring by in a fall kaleidoscope.

So Penn last night… I actually returned back to campus for the first time in a decade (I graduated in ’99) a few months ago. Back in June, I strolled the entire campus, took in all the changes, like my favorite cheesesteak spot turning into a bar with neon lettering and umbrella cocktails. Walking past all my old class buildings, I realized I’m just getting into that phase where I actually appreciate my college and my education, or at least the reading, writing, thinking, and discipline skills I learned.

Back then, I never entered the LGBT Center, unaware that it even existed. I claim it’s because the rugby house was my lesbian epicenter, but the truth is I probably would not have referred to myself as a dyke while in college. I had a girlfriend, a fellow rugby player and my housemate, starting my sophomore year, and yet there is a big difference between being in a relationship and embracing an identity, culture, and community.

Speaking at the LGBT Center (and going to the dinner with the staff first) allowed me to reclaim some of that missed undergrad experience, or to circle back to it, perhaps even now enter this community as an adult. I enjoyed being an outsider during my college days, and without much thought, this led into me ignoring most everything as an alumna until the planning of this visit.

Receiving such a warm welcome and meeting the staff that work to make this a positive and safe space for queers on campus made me feel included right away. I was proud to hear that there is a health policy that covers transitional care for trans students (this is pretty revolutionary), and I found myself eagerly asking to be put on listserves and connected to Facebook pages.

The event itself went super smoothly. I read a few passages from the book, told a couple stories – some planned others organic — and fell into a comfortable rhythm where I felt both at ease and engaged, alternately serious and jokey. Seeing the interested, smiling faces in the audience, of the strangers and those I know, made it all the more fun.

Almost all of my friends in Philly showed up (with friends), all from different parts of my life – a friend from high school, my best friend from freshman year of college, a rugby teammate, a friend from San Francisco. Afterwards, a couple of us had beers in front of a fire pit on the roof of a bar that definitely didn’t exist during my time in Philly. I thought how weird it was that these two friends of mine were meeting (a similar random connection occurred on Sat in NY), although maybe unexpected is a better word than weird. I’m starting to think that it’s these unplanned, unknown, out-of-the-ordinary moments that make the concept of a “tour” so exciting. That and trains. I gotta go. Newark is passing by outside, and I can’t miss that.

Next stop: New Haven and a few days off with an old friend…

I ate almond croissant french toast for brunch yesterday. “Isn’t it outrageous?” my mom asked. She is a health nut, but a sucker for certain foods that contain almond, banana, coconut, or ice cream. We drove for a half hour to get this well-known dinner in Stockton, NJ, a speck of a town with great character — an inn, general store, vintage cars parked on the street, and a live band playing in front of the farmer’s market where I sampled apples, pumpkin cheesecake, and warm pure dark chocolate. After eating, my parents and I walked down to the Delaware River and across the Hopewell Bridge that connects New Jersey to Pennsylvania.

It was one of those effortless days, where I felt myself floating like the leaves falling off the trees around me. On the ride home, through the near rural back roads, I stared out the window and watched fall. Those colors, man do they amaze me: bronze, auburn, golden yellow. Take an East Coast kid away from autumn, and this season really does strike an impact upon return. The trees, they own the own the landscape, right now. It is so quiet outside, the rustle of branches, the crunch of leaves beneath my feet, the only sounds.

I went for an afternoon run, the light slanting down with day light savings now in effect. Running through the Princeton streets, passed all the local schools and the houses where I partied, the memories jump into my head. I kept expecting my high school soccer coach to step out of his house, and say, “What?! Now you run?”

My mom made her famous (in her mind) drinks for cocktail hour, margaritas with jalapeno-infused tequila, and we sipped them as I watched the end of the Giants Patriots game with my dad. I spent the evening on the couch, the Krieger chatter and TV shows background noise, trying to prepare for today, for my first college event, at Penn.

I have to pack now. In only a few days, the entire contents of my suitcase and backpack exploded onto the guest room floor. But I wanted to take this moment, a few last minutes to revel in the peace.

I noticed that my dad hasn’t referred to me by name once. I am fine that my mother refers to me as “Nina…Nick,” a self-correction of good intention. I like the pictures of myself as a kid, a teenager, a young adult – a girl – all around my parents’ house. I stare into them when nobody is around, see myself fully and completely, different shell, same person. And I was fine with the “she” references, the first few at least.

But this morning, while my parent were discussing the plans for the day, for loaning me their car, they referred to me with female pronouns so many times, I thought it was a Saturday Night Live skit. Discussions in my family are neurotic and Jewish, repetitive and circular. They probably could’ve agreed on when to give me the car keys with only about 10 pronoun references. But when you need to have the same conversation three times, this number escalates to 30.

The “she” “her” “she” routine went on for so long that I had more than enough time to have an internal dialogue with myself. How do you feel? I asked myself. Are you angry, hurt, sad? Where in your body do you feel this? What is going on inside? Do you even care? But I only felt numb, catatonic, crushed, speechless, dead. I guess those are emotions, though I’m more apt to say I was void of emotion. That I felt nothing.

I rationalized my silence. I can let this go, I told myself. I thought of dinner the night before, the moments when what my parents were saying, whether we agreed or disagreed, didn’t matter, how I focused on breathing in their presence, the three of us in the same room, at the same table, still new, still fragile, a broken vase put back together, the glue drying.

This again, I thought. This tired old confrontation where I shake my parents from denial, only for them to discount my words, my identity, the things that matter to me, that I have paid and fought for. I lacked the energy for conflict. I had just flown across the country. I was jet lagged. I had a speaking event at a queer youth group that afternoon. A train to catch to New York. A queer memoir storytelling event that night at the Queers for Economic Justice center.

The theme of the queer memoir event was “Speaking Truth to Power,” a serious sounding subject addressed by the other readers with humor, theatrics, and poignancy. One of the readers shared their experience producing a calendar for Brooklyn Boihood, of finding and creating a place for masculine of center people of color. Another shared an entertaining story about navigating the college lesbian basketball scene, coming out for her partner, only to be forced back into the closet by a homophobic coach in Kentucky, and finally delivering the final fuck-off of truth.

Dan Horrigan performed an amazing story of working at a summer camp, how he began as “water cooler closeted” – shooting the shit with co-workers without mentioning his “boyfriend” and a handful of cultural gay references. I love that term, water cooler closeted. It reminded me of my visits home to my parents house for ten years, that even though my dad knew that I was gay, I avoided any dyke references. Over the years, no matter how many times I spoke up, there were so many others when I kept my mouth shut, my throat blocked, my body shutdown.

Toward the end of Dan’s story, he’s let go from the summer camp for being gay. He does confront his boss and receives payment for the last three weeks even though he’s asked not to come in, thinking of himself at the time as the Gay Robin Hood. But the part of his story that stuck with me is the reflective part, that which comes from his current self looking back on his 19 year old self, the adult who would march into the LGBT office, research his options, and take a bigger stand rather than quietly taking the money.

He briefly mentioned a recent suicide of a gay kid, fifteen years later, in that very same town, not by way of direct connection, but as an acknowledgment of the ripples we create. I was feeling these myself, the storytellers speaking their truth to power, the youth group teenagers, out and proud – being themselves through the challenges of adolescence. It is from my community that I build my strength, that I will open my mouth, feel the vibrations in my throat, and say to my parents, “So, about that ‘she’ thing…”