Old Belief

 When I was a young boy, I guess I was as inquisitive as any normal child, and especially so when it came to the “why” of things or the mystery surrounding anything regarding nature.  

Once, I was told that clouds actually came from the large smoke stacks of the paper mills we would see on trips to West Virginia from either Florida or North Carolina.  And it seemed plausible considering the huge, fluffy, white smoke that sometimes came out against a bright, blue sky.  Of course, even without the internet, it didn’t take long for me to pay attention to the weatherman and to use our Encyclopedia to look up clouds, and what forms them.  Also, oddly enough I was told once that the seeds on the stalk of Bahia grass were actually baby mosquitoes, and that is where they came from.  This was information shared by someone who was older than I am, and now I am unsure if they KNEW they were trying to BS me or if it was simply a slightly older peer who also happened to have believed it.  Again, didn’t take long to really find out that it was NOT the truth. Not even plausible. 

But today, while out walking the dogs, I happened upon a patch of un-mowed Bahia grass that was heavily populated by the stalks at the seed stage.  And the FIRST thing I thought of- was mosquitoes.   Something so innocuous given as information in my youth, that MAYBE I believed for a split second, was rooted in my mind and in my memory. Still there. Still taking up space. Still occupying a slight, small sliver of my attention when prompted.

Now imagine for a moment that it wasn’t just some random non-fact, some throwaway bit of information. Imagine it was being told you are unattractive, or unworthy. Or that you are “wrong” or “stupid” or any other descriptive that we believed for longer.  No matter how much we may have “gotten over” something, or chosen a different belief pattern through hard work and introspection if it occupied a small part of our sense of self and it is not completely healed, then a small jolt, a casual statement, an off-hand remark- any small thing can trigger that memory to come back, even without conscious effort.  

So be diligent. If you feel something unpleasant, don’t necessarily “fight it” or try and dismiss it. Let it happen, investigate it, treat that old wound with love, and allow it to heal even further.  Look for reinforcements in the things you KNOW to be true today. The things that matter. The hard-won truths about ourselves. Ultimately, the truth needs no defense, but it can use a little love and gratitude.

 Making Change

When we have asked the Universe for change in our lives, it seems we have been conditioned to expect something that is largely uncomfortable. It may be a cliche that has earned its reputation, but I don't think it's a forgone conclusion.  I was speaking to a friend and I recall a lecture from Marianne Williamson (based on the teachings of A Course in Miracles) is that maybe G-d would prefer we learn through joy and not through pain. But it may also be true that as we review our lives, sometimes the very formative situations WERE painful or uncomfortable, and we forget to honor the lessons that we were able to learn through a peaceful grace.

Still, once we sincerely ask for change and are brave enough to expect it, however it comes, we also must do the work necessary to allow it. I do not think it requires "strain" as an inevitability, but by work, I mean the diligence necessary to keep our own minds from seeking to go backward. Once we ask for grace, G-d doesn't need US to repeat the prayer over and over, but WE need to remind ourselves quite often that WE want the change and WE must clear the space required for it. 

I also loved a talk once given by Iyanla Vanzant that mentioned the expectation of results required by having faith. For example, if we prayed for a new home and it isn't manifesting as expected, she would say, "well, are you PACKED?" That means, are we ACTING on the agreement we have made with Source that once a sincere prayer is offered, then it shall be granted. THAT is faith in action. It is truly a rarity. 

And not everyone in your life will WANT you to change, or for your life or circumstances to change because it scares them. Will they be left behind, or even worse, will it present a mirror for them to realize that they have not made real the thousands of pleadings they have made for better circumstances in their own lives. They do not WANT you to be unhappy or unfulfilled its just a default position that "misery loves company."

Who I was ten years ago bears little resemblance to who I am now, unless I am with people (friends AND family) who would not choose to see me in my new state of self. And I have to be honest about how often I will allow myself to put on the mantle of the "me" I was in order to make them more comfortable. It's horrifying to know how willing I have been to do just that and how OFTEN. 

But I have said the prayer again. And I am making the room for the results. I would willingly bring everyone I love with me into the light that I wish to inhabit, but now I have also made a commitment that I will not go back to live in a shadow. There will be some temporary losses. But I am investing this change in my own self-worth. And every cent matters.

A Little Goes a Long Way

 Dear Local Business Representative,

I have reached out to you numerous times. I may be interested in working with you / I may work for a nonprofit / I may be starting a new company / or any other number of reasons. I have emailed, called, I have stopped in and left my number or card. I have even sent a letter. I chose your company because there is something about it that rings true to my own core values / your mission seems in line with my own sense of purpose / you are well-loved by the community in which we live. I know you are busy, and even though you may not have any full idea of why I have been trying to communicate with you, 

I have never received a reply or an answer to my request to possibly meet to discuss my reasons for maintaining a devoted interest. Maybe I’d like to partner on an event. Perhaps I am looking for a donation. I may even have a great idea that I think would be of great benefit to both of our goals. Still, at some point, it must go from being very busy to actively ignoring my outreach.

I’d like you to remember what it was like when you were looking for a job / were starting your company / needed assistance from someone a few steps ahead of you / were just looking for motivation and inspiration to continue to grow and improve. I wonder who answered your request to speak / connect / collaborate. They found the time. They knew the value of professional courtesy. Maybe they even felt compelled to “pay back” because of the success they have been able to enjoy, to honor the faith and the loyalty they enjoyed from those they serve.

I don’t know why you have opted to completely ignore the phone calls, the emails, the in-person visits, or the letters. I just want you to know it matters. It matters a great deal. And maybe, just maybe, you are the one missing out on something.

Still, I wish you continued success. And someday, you may actually want something that I can offer. I promise to try my best to keep my integrity and uphold the values that others may not have shown, but that support a more productive, and mutually respectful business and prosperous community.

Thanks for the lesson. 
#business  #work #community #success #courtesy #professional

A day of music that changed our days forever.

 July 11, 2021

In two days, on July 13, it will be thirty-six year since Live Aid was broadcast on MTV, and around the world simultaneously, for sixteen hours.  There are so few events in my life that I can recall with such a sense of awe. I am old enough to have seen some of the Apollo missions from my backyard in Florida. And of course a shuttle launch or two.  Some things that happened are of course tragic; the horrible events of Sept 11. I dont include the terrorism of the Oklahoma City bombing because we didnt really experience it as it happened. 

But events like Live Aid go beyond attending a great concert. It was a rare moment of GLOBAL participation in a belief that we could, or someone could, change the world through actual CARING about other people and by the sharing of talents and gifts. Music carried not only the songs of our time, the music produced that day carried hopes and prayers of over a billion people. 

I lived in a small bedroom above a garage in an old house in downtown Orlando, Florida. Windows lined one entire wall, I had a small metal bed, an antique trunk and dresser, and really not much else. The small television set sat on the dresser beside a plant and a small replica of the Eiffel Tower. My roommate downstairs had his television hooked up to big stereo speakers, and as I went back and forth from my room, to downstairs, doing I cannot remember what, the music propelled me through the day.  Of course I remember many of the acts, Bryan Ferry, Allison Moyet, Elvis Costello, and throughout the day, Wet Wet Wet, Madonna, Wham!... you know the list.

But still, the performance of Queen is a standout. Not just because of the recent biopic "Bohemian Rhapsody" which to me captured the energy so well. But the way I felt that day, its a feeling I have let slip into the back of memory too often. Watching the performance now, whether on YouTube or recreated in the film, I am still moved to wet eyed emotion. 

A lot has gone wrong in my life since then. A LOT to be grateful for to be certain. A lot! I'm in no way discounting that. But the feeling of that day can still wipe out so many feelings of frustration or sadness. Not just the music, the collective thought and energy expended by strangers across the globe, has never been matched. If you are familiar with REGs (random event generators that measure fluctuations in random occurrences many believe can be impacted by collective thought,) we can barely imagine how they must have behaved that day. But like anything. If it was possible once, it is possible again. I guess thats what Im really reaching for. That idea of what I once KNEW was possible without a doubt, to be so central to my behavior today that nothing would stop me from achieving my every true wish. 

So maybe, let's take a moment and sing a song sometimes. Even in our heads or our hearts, but lets do it together as often as possible. 

(photo of Freddy Mercury at Wembley Stadium from YouTube)

The Worst Type of Racist

Confronting the Worst Type of Racist. Myself.

     It does me no good to say “but I’m not a racist, some of my best friends (and family) are Black/Latinx/Asian/other.” Not when I look at some of the things I have done or said so very long ago. Mostly out of ignorance and fear, and just plain stupidity. This is not meant to be a mea culpa, although I would beg forgiveness from anyone I I have made to feel less than, hurt, offended, or even angry. And when I say “beg” I do mean plead with such sincerity and emotion, yet I am aware never coming close to fade out such hurt.

Let me explain.

I grew up in a very diverse, military town. So much of the make up of the student body was a true melting pot. Fathers from military families who had been stationed overseas often married women from those countries. The “mix” was every coupling you can imagine. And like most cities, there existed blatant and unspoken racism from decades before. But as a third and fourth grader, we didn’t know that, and we maybe had not yet learned from others around us how to divide ourselves along those lines quite yet. I do recall the very first time I felt that there was definably something different in those other than myself was during a questionnaire given to us in the fourth grade.

Mrs G Smith was our teacher, and looking back she was one of the best educators I have ever encountered. We actually all loved her. The questionnaire came about during one of the times of year I grew to dread, the Presidential Physical Fitness testing. I was not as physical as I would have liked, I was smaller and slight. If only someone then would have taken me aside and said “let this be the thing that changes you for the better” my life may be very different, but I digress. One of the questions was about “race.” We really hadn’t been exposed to that idea before, and I remember Mrs. Smith trying to guide us all to answer in the way she most certainly thought we would identify.

I had grown up understanding that somewhere in our family background, there had been Cherokee. As kids, if the idea of “Cowboys and Indians” came up, I always thought I’d be the Indian. And not the villain. Now later with the advent of genealogy and ancestry tests, it seems we were not AS close to Tribal bloodline, but as a kid, I thought I should answer differently than “white.” But Mrs. Smith told me that of the options given, I should choose “white.” So I did.

A classmate who sat beside me, named David, who was barely darker skinned than I, chose “black.” I was surprised. Certainly I knew “black” was an option. I had heard it before. On TV, from my father and my fathers employees, even in random conversations. But for David to self identify as “black” had me very confused. I even asked him why and he said “my dad is black.” So that was all I needed to understand. OK, so that’s all it takes is for someone’s dad to be black. After all, I knew my mother’s last name had been different before she was married, thats why my Grandma and Grandpa from her side had different last names than I did. But then it settled in my brain that there were reasons and configurations which I did not understand. And it was mostly forgotten.

Except for the teasing. 

Rodney, James, Vince. These boys, black even though Vince and James had white or Asian mothers, would pick on me relentlessly. “Sissy, Tom-girl, and Pinocchio nose” were what I was called on almost a daily basis. Now evidently my nose was longer and pointier than their noses, so I guess I understood KIND OF where that one came from, although it didn’t feel any better. But I didn’t yet understand “sissy” or “Tom-girl” (a take on “Tomboy.”) But I knew it hurt. And still, the only thing that I myself saw differently was that I was “white” and they were “black.” They didn’t pick on any of the black kids in the class. And honestly their daily abuse was saved for me alone. They didn’t hit me or hurt me physically on a regular basis, it was just the name calling. Although they did on occasion spit in my food at lunch when my back was turned.

One day, on the playground, James, Vincent, and Rodney were relentless in picking on several kids for some reason. A few of the other kids were playing in the sand pit (we didn’t have an actual “box”) and James came stomping through kicking sand around and destroying the scene that was somehow supposed to be a town. Everyone started yelling and asking him to stop. I remember clearly he said “shut up honkeys” and kicked sand again. Although I had not yet come to understand that word, I was still really mad. So I grabbed a handful of sand and I threw it at him, and even grabbed another and rubbed it into his hair. He had an afro that he would always pick out. It was quite honestly the perfect head of hair. And I knew my actions would really make him mad. They did. He punched me in the stomach just as Mrs Smith came to our rescue.

Although that was all the retribution I got from James for that particular incident. The teasing and the torment never let up. Not from the rest of fourth grade, not from fifth, sixth, or through junior high. One young black man I thought was my “best friend” in fourth grade was named Marvin. But he turned on me once in the fifth grade and also called me names, and that ended that friendship.

In junior high and high school, even some of the black girls chimed in. Gail, Angela, and one or two others would steal lunch from my bag. They would call me a new name “fairy” or “faggot” and even some of the white kids started to pick up on that difference although I would not understand that much about who I was until later in high school.

I had NEVER called someone a bad name or even used “swear words” until I was in eighth grade or so. Not really and not with any regularity. But the abuse I suffered, albeit by this time I was not alone (Mitch, John, Michael, a few other boys became targets for the “faggot” slur by then.) But I remember the first time I really used the “N” word in a hurtful way.

We were in the library and I had just a few of the usual verbal assaults. Someone I loved as a friend (and still do) who identifies as black came and asked if I wanted to go out to the patio during lunch. I knew who would be on the patio and I didn’t want to be a target so I said “no, there’s nothing but n******-lovers there.” I saw the shock on the faces of my friends knowing that one young lady present was "mixed." When I saw the look on HER face I was immediately crushed inside. I knew that my use of the word felt just as horrible to her. If not worse, because I was actually supposed to be her friend.

Even typing those words out now causes me physical discomfort. But to feel the full force of how awful, awful, awful, a thousand times horrible, they are, I need the reader to feel them too. They hurt then, they hurt now, and they are just this side of unforgivable. I say “this side” because I do believe in redemption, and I hope I am still earning it. More on that later. But I do remember crying about it at home that evening. It was the obvious to me for the first time I had actually sinned against G-d.

It shames me more to know that I would use that term again. Although never as an insult hurled at someone to their face. Usually in stupid, ugly, vile “jokes” or conversations where you try to “shock” someone and you pretend its “funny” or you “didn’t really mean it.” None of that can excuse it. Nothing could ever excuse it. It simply is the most horrible word in the English vocabulary. Designed and used for nothing but hurt.

There were kids that I would tell you that I LOVED who were black. Sheena, Cecelia, Corrine, Khadijah, Robin, so many more) and if I thought now that I had ever caused them to feel the way I felt when I was called names, it cuts me so deep. They were so beautiful, fun, funny, kind, smart, caring. I was and am proud if any of them thought of me as a friend. But it cannot erase what I had done or said on any occasion.

As I grew up into young adulthood, my group of black friends diminished and I became like most others my age. Friends with many, but close friends with those with whom I more readily identified. As I learned of my sexuality in early adulthood, I did not go in for “social kiss greetings” except for a young man named Bruce. He was black, and a true GIFT to this world, His charm, his humor, his kindness, his joy. He was the only man I would greet socially with a kiss and feel true affection.

I didn’t then, nor do I now, consider myself “racist” but I don’t think I ever really asked anyone for “forgiveness.” And I think that is important. I believe in the value of the 12 Steps, used mostly by those with addiction and substance issues. I have been to meetings and I know that an honest assessment and statement of the wrongs I have committed is for me AND for those I may have harmed. To ask forgiveness is necessary for real healing.

So am I racist? I don’t think so but I cannot offer excuses. And its also for someone else to determine.

When Trayvon Martin was killed, I thought George Zimmerman was GUILTY of murder. But I remember thinking AND saying “well, Trayvon had been verbally abusive and sketchy, and ....” other nonsense now that is complete garbage thinking. And then when Michael Brown, or Eric Garner were killed, I thought that the police involved should face justice but somehow I didn’t think it rose to the level of “murder.” I mean, they had been involved in possible crimes and they were not obeying the police. Some part of me wanted so badly to believe in the ultimate goodness of the police, but somehow I also believed in some unproven inherent "badness" of men I didn't know. Could I have really been racist? Was this due to some hidden fear I still had based upon how I was treated as a kid? Out of some prejudice picked up that was modeled by someone else of which I was not aware? I wish I knew, because I know it is not me.

But now look at us. To understand, too late, that most men of color grow up with such a figurative and literal loaded gun pointed at them no matter the circumstance, what gives me, or anyone the right to ask that they somehow “follow the rules” in order to NOT BE SHOT? Irrational, angry white men storm the steps of state buildings armed for bear because they don’t want to wear a mask during a pandemic and they feel perfectly safe. Yet a man who never resisted the police gets put prostrate on the ground and killed with a knee to his throat. I could never offer enough “I was wrong” statements. 

No matter how much of an outsider I feel I am because of my orientation, it will not overflow the level of privilege to which I have access based on my “complexion.” None of those men deserved to be treated the way they were. None of them deserved to die, to be MURDERED because some white guy thinks they should have “acted differently.” How can I make amends for any of that to which my ignorance had a hand in excusing for so long?

Now at this point in my life, one of the women I have met and admire most in this world is Kimberly. A long lost friend whom I have certainly hurt and miss terribly is Kamille. Terri is a woman who will most definitely change this world for the better. My sister in law gave me the experience of my two nieces who have the most beautiful souls I have been blessed to meet. They would all identify or be identified as “black.” And it is to them I owe so much of my personal growth and self discovery. So to understand that the harmful actions of my past. actions born of hurt, or pain, or ignorance, have left a mark somewhere, means I have been complicit along the way. I pray to G-d that I can yet be changed.

I would ask only that when I am judged, I am able to account for my sins, and say, yes, I am guilty, and I ask forgiveness, and I will make amends. 

Show me Lord. Bless them, and change me.

I am sorry.

In Honor of Patricia Nell Warren

When I was a young boy, back in 1978 or so, my father owned a business in town.  I often would go spend time at his office, walking the grounds, or hanging out in a showroom. Across the street was a K-Mart and sometimes he would give me a few dollars to go and buy a new book to read.  
I was a voracious reader and always enjoyed adding to my considerable library.  It wasn’t just Richie Rich, or Pogo Possum comic books. I enjoyed books like “No Flying in the House,” and all the Beverly Cleary books, Judy Blume’s “Then Again Maybe I Won’t” and even “The Hobbit” by J.R.R. Tolkien. 

On one such day, after being given a few dollars, I found myself browsing through the books again.  Suddenly I noticed a novel with an intriguing image that seemed scandalous to my young eyes.  A dark, muscular man in a towel stands behind a young, blond athlete dressed in running clothes ubiquitous in the nineteen-seventies. The older man seems borderline angry, compared to the young man almost meek, his eyeglasses practically a shield from the overbearing presence.  It is not a sexual image, but something in me struck like a tuning fork.  I picked up the novel and read the introduction about the author, Patricia Nell Warren, meeting a young athlete and being inspired to write this story.  My heart beat fast. The main characters were gay. As a young boy raised Southern Baptist, I felt a heat run up the back of neck. Something seemed illicit, probably a sin, and yet familiar. I knew that I could not buy this book, some of the cashiers knew my fathers business, and maybe they’d share their thoughts on my choice of reading material with someone who knew my parents.  And yet I also knew I had to read this book. 

So I did something I never thought I would do. I committed the sin of stealing.  Well, kind of.  I chose another book of the same price, I don’t even recall which one. I paid for it. Then I went back and switched the books out without notice, and quickly left the store. This was obviously before the wide use of UPC and scanners, the small price tag sticker was simply affixed to the top of the front cover.

I remember sitting in an out of the way spot outside of my fathers office and beginning to read the book. I was getting lost in the story, reluctantly sticking it in my pants while my mother drove us home, hiding it so she wouldn’t ask me about it. Once I was safely in my bedroom with low pile, deep blue shag carpeting, did I lose myself in the story again, reading well into the night.

I think I finished reading the novel in less than 24 hours. I was dumbstruck by the effect it had on me. Not just that there were some tragic elements to the story, but just the realness in the emotions I felt. This was different. This seemed less like a novel, and more like I was viewing a true story from a close perspective. I wanted to know more about these people. And the name of the author lodged in my brain. Patricia Nell Warren.

Knowing that I couldn’t actually keep this book on my bookshelves, I hid it under several piles of comic books in my closet. Buried beneath Spooky, the Tuff Little Ghost, and stacks of Disney comics. I read and re-read it several times over the next week, each time more and more nervous that my mother would happen upon me and began asking questions about the book with such a cover. I read it several times over before deciding that I actually needed to remove it from our house. I felt such a connection to the book, as books were sacred to me, that I didn’t know what to do with it. I couldn’t put it in the trash, that would be a real sin. So I buried it in the back yard, less a funeral than the planting of the seeds of my future.

I could not get the story out of my head. And this author, this Patricia Nell Warren, had become a part of my consciousness. So, a few weeks later, on another visit to my fathers office and being given another few dollars, I repeated this exercise. I bought another book, secretly swapped it out, bought small, cola Icee, and hid myself where I could and began revisiting the characters. I hadn’t realized that several passages had been committed to memory, and discovered that at several points, my mind recited the words in the micro-seconds before I read them. After a few days more of rereading the book, again, I found a place to bury this copy in the woods near our home, on the edge of a lake by the “Old Mill” ( an old dilapidated grist mill that must have been from the late 1800’s.) 

I repeated this process probably twice more over the next few years, finally deciding to try and hide my most recent copy from my parents. My mother had volunteered with a group that received overstock books that were to be donated somewhere in town, and the book sellers tore off the paperback covers. I had found several such books that I had kept to read, and figured if I just tore the cover off the front of “The Front Runner” that I could hide it more easily among my other books. I felt a twinge of guilt as I tore the books cover, feeling like I was betraying Patricia Nell Warren in some way.  I tried hiding the cover separately for some time in my sock drawer, but became worried it would be discovered and eventually it found its way to its own make shift memorial. But at least I could keep the book itself, and I read it over and over. I do not think it is an exaggeration to say I read “The Front Runner” cover to cover, at least 50 times in the years leading up to my senior year in high school. 

Years later, as a college graduate, I found another copy at a used book store, and happily paid for it and it was allowed to remain whole and intact, happily on my shelf between copies of other books I was reading at the time. Every so often I would reread parts of the story, if not the whole novel once again.

Much later, in 1994, I was a volunteer co-producer for a radio talk show called “Family Values” on WPRK 91.5 FM, the “best in basement radio” on the campus of Rollins College in Winter Park, Florida. The term “family” referring to the LGBTQ community of Orlando, Florida and surrounding area. I even co-hosted or hosted the show once or twice. The host, Chris, was a former Marine who came out later in life, and he hosted weekly and interviewed a variety of guests from the local community. One night he called me letting me know that he was not feeling well, and could I please host the show.  I asked who the scheduled guest was going to be, and if he had any notes he could fax to me.  He said “its an author, her name is Patricia Nell Warren.” My heart stopped, and I actually felt dizzy. “Who?” I asked, not believing what I had heard. “Patricia Nell Warren,” he said. “She wrote a book…” 

I interrupted him. I was breathless as I explained I knew exactly who she was and I did not need any notes at all. Although I had never heard or read any other interview with her before, I had read a little about her in an authors bio once, and I certainly KNEW the questions I wanted to ask her.  I was ecstatic. 

When I was in the station and she called in, I could barely breathe as I set up the phone link and begin to broadcast the show. What I can recall is how easily I felt talking to her. She was gracious, funny, comfortable, and insightful. There were to be some long awaited sequels to the story begun in “The Font Runner” and she was on a working vacation of sorts. I also recall that I had asked her about being one of he first women to finish the Boston Marathon, as she was a runner herself. I asked her about being recognized by the National Cowboy Hall of Fame. As the interview ended, we were talking about her personal life, and how she enjoyed staying involved, a third novel was coming in the Front Runner series and it was about young people. She said something to the effect of “not having children” and I blurted out that she indeed, had thousands of LGBT children who felt she was every bit family. She seemed touched.

After the interview (which I wish desperately that I had recorded) she mentioned she was in town for a day or so. I mentioned that I also worked at Walt Disney World and if she was anywhere near the parks, I would love to be able to shake her hand. To my amazement, she agreed to come out to the park and say hello.  

The whole next morning I was on a cloud.  I had not seen real recent photos of her, and scanned every face of women in their sixties for some sign of recognition. When I finally saw her, my entire being melted. She was motherly, but could not hide the strength of a lifetime of being a person of clear intent. She and her partner decided to join me in the park during my lunch and to just stay and enjoy Epcot for the afternoon on their own. 

As we stood in line to ride “Spaceship Earth” we talked about so many things. I had typed a “thank you” letter to her and gave it to her. We talked about my background, and she had thoughtful questions and comments of her own.  We discussed my desire to recommit to my authentic self, and being raised “in the church” as I mentioned, I felt a desire to use the sacrament of baptism, but knew the church would not consent to my specific request. She urged me to gather with friends and perform the ritual for myself, to claim the power it represented without the narrow minded ideology imposed by those who would not accept me as I was anyway. I told her about my early practice of buying her book, and how happy I was now to be able to buy her work proudly.

When it came time to part, she offered me a beautiful, powerful embrace. I didn’t cry even as my skin could barely contain me. I felt as if I could burst into light. It was a truly incredible moment for me.

I never saw her again in person. Many years and a serious life event, I decided to pursue getting a book published, and when I was lucky enough to reach that goal, I included her in the acknowledgements. I researched a contact address and sent her a copy and she actually called me once, saying she most certainly remembered me and was touched by the mention in my book. We spoke just briefly but through the magic of Facebook, she would encourage me a few times over the past few years. She was a woman of true compassion and strength of spirit and she is still my idol.

We lost Patricia Nell Warren on February 9 this year.   W hen I read the news on her Facebook page, I had to stop and perform a moment of real gratitude. All I really can say is “Thank you” and “I love you” Patricia Nell Warren. You touched so many people through word and deed. You inspired more than writers and running clubs. You were the spiritual parent, aunt, sibling, and friend to so many of us.  You will be missed. 

Sunny Thoughts

On this day in history, October 14, back in 1977, I was a 12 year old boy, living in Melbourne, Florida.  To fully understand how this particular day impacted me, I need to give a little background. 

My grandfather had been a contractor during the construction of Walt Disney World, and we visited the Magic Kingdom during Christmas of the opening year.  I remember a few things very vividly about that day.  Seeing a giant Christmas tree, watching the parade, the Jungle Cruise, the Haunted Mansion, and so many others.  I remember the souvenirs we got as well.  I got a sweatshirt with Winnie the Pooh, along with a toy version, stuffed with sawdust.  A glass mug with “BIg Al” the slow talking bear from A Country Bear Jamboree. But maybe my favorite was an LP (long playing) record of the story and songs of The Orange Bird, starring Anita Bryant. My grandparents home, where we lived often, had a large console stereo with record playing turn table in the front room, and I would play it over and over again.  The title song, written by  genius duo the Sherman brothers of Mary Poppins fame, became almost an anthem for me and my young imagination.  

The Orange Bird was a combination Disney character and mascot of the Florida Citrus Commission, in exchange for their financial support in opening the Enchanted Tiki Room at the Magic Kingdom. 

Over and over I would listen, until I had memorized the words and songs.  I would try drawing, and coloring my own version of the Orange bird incessantly. I would further imagine that the little Orange Bird would come visit the orange, tangerine, and grapefruit trees in the back yard.  I was entranced by the story.  I would get excited when I would see the occasional television commercial of Anita Bryant singing about Florida orange juice, with the animated Orange Bird flying around her at the Sunshine Terrace in Adventureland. I felt as if Anita Bryant was practically a distant relative.

For years, this LP and story became so identified with my grandparents home, Florida, my trip to Walt Disney World, and childhood overall. So on a day in October of 1977, once again at my grandparents house, we happened to be watching the evening news.  There was no air conditioning in my grandparents home, so the jalousie windows in the back room were open, a warm breeze still coming into the room.  I was laying on the terrazzo floor, probably drawing or reading.  Then I heard that familiar voice.  Anita Bryant was giving an interview of some sort.

It seems she had been addressing a group in Des Moines, Iowa, and they showed a replay of a man coming from off camera and hitting her in the face with a pie, which appeared to be a lot or whipped topping or meringue. Covered in the pie topping, she made a quip that “At least it’s a fruit pie.”  I didn’t quite understand. She then started praying for the young men who had been there to protest, I understood that, having been brought up “in the church” and fully aware that people were sinners, and you needed to pray for them.  Although I didn’t understand exactly what made these men “evil” and worthy of such animosity.

Intrigued, I started to pay attention over the next few days to this story, which was covered a few more times.  She was condemning the “homosexuals” and their lifestyle and had been celebrating the reversal of a decision in Dade County, Florida that had offered some sort of “protection” for Homosexuals. This was being championed by Anita and others.  Something in me fractured in those few days.  I was too young to fully grasp in what way, but instinctively I knew that she was talking about me.  Something in me was broken.  I know even at that young age, I had been aware I was not only a “sinner” but that I was fundamentally damaged. I had been reminded repeated at church that I was guilty of something, born into sin as a consequence of just being human. 

It was years and years before I could even approximate any form of self worth, and that lifetime struggle continues to this day.  But on that day, October 14, 1977, I did awaken to a deeper sense of self. A profound clarification that I was different than what was expected.  While I now find that to be more of a gift, than a curse, I look back at that young boy, locked inside my psyche, and wish for him to know that the magic that he experienced prior to the impact of that news story, will someday actually save him.  

I lost my copy of the LP years ago, probably in a garage sale after my parents divorce. But thanks to online auctions, I obtained a copy a few years ago and it hangs in an album frame as a piece of art. I am able to view it now with a sense of reverence, and forgiveness to those who would condemn me.  And more than that, a deep appreciation for myself and the history I share with others who are like me, and with those unlike me. And I can still sing every word with conviction. 

Little Orange Bird, 

In the Sunshine Tree. 

Won't you think of something sunny just for me?

Think of funny thoughts. 

Or a sunny word. 

That will make me happy, little Orange Bird.