house keeping

The new lesson not learned will be coming this week. It is called Flash of Laughs and I hope everyone enjoys it. More importantly though there are some exciting things happening these next few weeks and a few things I learned this weekend that I want to let everyone know about.

First. The conference is in two weeks and I am pumped. If you have a chance please come down and see me present at GSU and their improvising the brain conference. It is going to be a blast and I hope to see you all there.

With that said the books are really coming along and after the paper is done Trail will be done with its first edit and I will be posting chapters. So please give me a little more patience. After the conference is over the books will get my full attention and be finished as well. (P.S. I think my best friend tyler will be doing some awesome covers)

Finally I made a few observations this weekend:

It should not be snowing right now.... That is right it is snowing in Knoxville right now... It is sticking to the ground in Knoxville right now and it is the first week of spring, the first week of spring break. I would like to lodge a formal complaint, but to be honest this is ridiculous.

My dog is the best dog in the world. He has his quarks like any dog, but after the failed cat adoption I can honestly say he is the best dog ever. He listened to us, protected us when he thought the cat was being mean all the while doing his best to be friendly to shell and make him feel welcome. He is amazing and for his sake I hope this snow stops because this is simply ridiculous. 

Performance Enhancing Part Two: The problem with sports

Sports are one of the most ubiquitous types of entertainment found in the world. In the United States sports make up the largest group of entertainment that we indulge in. Sports is the largest form of entertainment that we invest our time and lives in. Sports lowest on the totem pole (the NHL, Arena League, Minor League Baseball etc... ) are worth millions as teams and possibly billions as entire leagues. The Dallas Cowboys and the New York Yankees for example are both individually worth 1.85 billion dollars (according to Forbes). Think about that for a second, two sports teams are worth more than most states will spend on their education in a decade. Considering how much time and money the world invests in sports the outcry against Performance Enhancing Drugs (PEDS) can be understood. With billions of dollars at stake you want to protect your product from any hint of indiscretion or cheating. Sports are meant to exemplify the best in human performance and many of us believe the use of  PEDS undermines this integrity.

While many would have us believe that there is a fine line between cheating and purity in sports, the truth of the matter is that there is not. As time and sports science has progressed the line between cheating and purity has become more blurred. It is time we took a deeper look into how we understand PED’s and PE (performance enhancers) when it comes to sports. (If you have not  part one of my Performance Enhancing series I encourage you to do so in order to get a complete picture what PEDS are and how they are defined in our society today.)

Our puritan idea of sports is encouraged by movies like “The Natural” and “The Blind Side”. We want to believe that sports are the culmination of hard work, dedication, and practice. A pinnacle combination of mind and body. This view casts a negative perception on PED’s and PE. They are connected not only with cheating the game, but also the process. The man who hits 760 homeruns on his own is a hero. One who does it with steroids is a chump, a cheater. This romanticized notion view of PE(D)’s in sports is seen through a rose covered glass and only becomes important when records are being broken and when titles are being won.

The reason I say this is not because of Lance Armstrong or because of the debacle that took place in Baseball known as the 90’s and 2000’s. While these are both good examples they are both too obvious and too big. You see, to show our selective hate of performance enhancers we need to avoid the obvious and look for the minute. We need to find a place where the only obvious reason for change was directly linked to a title or world records. For this we do not need to look farther than golf and swimming.

“Belly putter.” That is right “belly putter”. I remember sitting in my car driving to Knoxville on a lonely Saturday morning listening to radio personalities talk about a “belly putter” controversy  in golf. For those of you who do not know a “belly putter” is a type of putter that allows a person to anchor into and pivot off of their core for greater control. This putter has been around for decades and while it has been a point of controversy, it has not been a threat until Keegan Bradley captured the 2011 PGA championship using one. After this victory the putter became so much of a threat that both the European and US governing golf bodies have amended their rules and bylaws to ban these putters.

Think about how ridiculous this sounds. (from what little I know I do understand  some golfers believe that the only part of the body that should touch the club is the hands and that this is a part of golf and the skill involved. especially when it comes to putting.) With all due respect to golfers everywhere, this is ludicrous. You now have golf balls that have been scientifically engineered to cut through the wind better to reduce drag. You have putters that are created out of titanium for better control and drive. For heaven's sake how is a “belly putter” not just a showcase of ingenuity? Surely if I am allowed to use a driver that was designed in a lab to increase my driving capabilities by 20%, I should be afforded to use the ancient technology of anchoring something to my core for better control. Of course, as with many things in life, I am apparently incorrect in thinking this considering the rules have been changed, the only thing I really ask is why wait till right after the first major has been won using it?

This  is not the only time recently that gear has been outlawed in a sport. Did you watch the Olympics this past year? By any chance did you watch any of the swimming events NBC shoved down our throats? If you did catch it you probably noticed that the swimmers no longer looked like  reject Starfleet officers, but instead like swimmers once again (see pictures below for suits). The reason for the drastic change in wardrobe was not because of a scientific breakthrough, no, it was because the suits worn in 2008 were banned.

     
 

            2008

2012

The reason for the drastic change? No it was not because it took swimmers upwards of 40 minutes to get dressed. And no it is not because Star Trek sued. The simple answer is that the suits on the left were too fast. The suits from 2008 were giving swimmers an edge that was allowing them to make world records look like high school swim meet times.

While I do understand that it takes time for any governing body to implement changes, it is funny that they act only when records are being shattered too quickly. When athletes from days past are made to look inferior that is when we step in. These two examples create a perfect platform to show the larger issue surrounding PE(DS) in sports.

As I said at the end of my first PED post: “A PED is just a performance enhancer and  context is the only thing that makes them permissible or not.” This definition holds true for sports, but more importantly the context that makes them permissible seems to be directly tied to records and championships. You see it just so happens that sports step in to change a rule only when it threatens to hurt their bottom line. Only when there is a chance that people will lose interest and stop watching do league's change the rules. Yes it is as you feared, what is permissible in sports seems to be directly linked to money...

In baseball we all want to say that we have never liked cheaters or performance enhancers, but that simply is not true. During the 60’s and 70’s players were so hopped up on amphetamines that they could have played for days at a time, all the while increasing their ability to focus in a game that is decided by milliseconds.  Batters can use pine tar to get a better grip on the bat, but God forbid the pitcher use it to alter the spin/trajectory of the ball (even through the whole point of the game for the pitcher is to do his best to fool the batter using different pitches, spins, and trajectories).

In the modern sports world we are seeing an identity crisis as leagues struggle to keep up with developments in sports science and medicine. Sports firms spend millions of dollars each year trying to take milliseconds off a runners time; trying to make a pitcher's fastball a tick faster. All the while as a whole leagues are burdened with the task of trying to decide what development should and should not be introduced to their league.

Think for a second about a steroid shot taken to improve recovery or the infamous “elk antler extract” that Ray Lewis took to recover. Is the use of a drug for recovery permissible? If so at what point is it not?. At what point does a new piece of gear go from a acceptable development to an instrument of cheating detrimental to the game?

In sports the context that makes something permissible is tied directly to fan acceptance and more importantly revenue. Not to be cynical, but in sports the almighty dollar reigns supreme and it is only when fear that a new technology will interfere with the “integrity of the game” that it becomes forbidden. When records become mundane, a fan bored, that is when it is time for change and action. A new technology is fine if it does not directly break a record, or if it helps everyone perform marginally better. However if a new technology helps everyone become Babe Ruth or Michael Jordan then something is wrong and it must be banned.

There is something to be said about humanizing and devaluing sports too much. If something makes a sport seem mundane then the entertainment value and more importantly the challenge and mystique of it go away. With that said though we have to be careful where we draw the gray line. We have to make sure that we do not simply ban something because we do not like how it is changing the game. Sports are always evolving and we can not let our romanticized view of the past interfere with this. If you ask me we need to remember that context is what makes something forbidden or permissible and when it comes to sports we need to let the “good of the game” guide our context and not profit of the almighty dollar.
If You Enjoyed this article you will also enjoy: Performeance Enhancing Part OneProtecting The StudentsNot Guilty: Defending the Steroid Era In Cooperstown
Also as always if you enjoyed the article share it. If you disagred with it or just want to say something please express yourself by leaving a comment below. 

A new chapter

To all of my loyal followers I am now taking new steps in my writing career and hope that all of you will follow me along the way. First I will be writing/interning for ARCHAIC CANNON. I am excited at the opportunity to become a member of their writing team and will post links to my articles/ reviews on my blog so please check them out.

Also in the following weeks the blog will be evolving. So please keep an eye out as you share and follow my work. Coming up this week will be part two of performance enhancing and in the near future I will be posting my GSU conference paper along with the latest installment of the LNL series.

For now though I would appreciate it if all of you would check out my first album review at the link below:

Aaron Childree: above the norm review

Out of Sight Out of Mind

Looking back at pictures, my own journal, and friends blogs from my trip to Greece I am reminded of the phrase: “out of sight out of mind,” especially in respect to how the different cultures approach and address their problems. While there are many things that contribute to how an individual confronts their problems, I do believe there are some fundamental differences in the way that our cultures view, understand, and address their problems.

Strikes. I want us to think about that word for a second: Strikes. It bears repeating to make sure that the point gets across. Strike. I am not talking about baseball here, but instead the dreaded work stoppage that can seemingly strike (no pun intended) at any time in our modern world. In the United States strikes are almost exclusively thought about in regard to their relationship with  entertainment and most specifically sports. It has become so commonplace these past few years that a strike is almost a certain stage in a business cycle for leagues such as the NFL and NBA. A forgone certainty for the NHL.

Due to the nature of sports the idea of and true reason behind a strike becomes skewed. Strikes are a workforce’s way of disrupting labor/the way of things to make sure that their needs are heard and addressed. In the U.S. though strikes have become synonymous with whining crybabies, specifically billionaire cry babies arguing over millions of dollars supported by a large constituent of people who will never earn a million dollars in their lifetime working 40 plus hour weeks. This is a problem, since strikes are meant to show us the imperfections of our society.

The reason I rag on our cultures adopted view of strikes is because of how it showcases how we address our problems. Within the U.S. protests are one of the few permissible ways to address change. Protesting has a long history of being about ideals instead of the rat race of business. We indulge protests as way to express one’s voice, well, we indulge it until it becomes  inconvenient (I am talking about you Occupy Wallstreet). The problem here is that we have created a line between protests (permissible) and strikes (forbidden) because we associate one with civil rights and the other with Tebow, T.O.

These associations are unfortunate when you consider that strikes are the working classes way  to express their voice. Strikes have done great things in this country from improving labor conditions to improving compensation. Many strikes occur for legitimate reasons that are disregarded by association. Strike is an evil word in our vocabulary and it does not have to be. When recognized, reported on, respected, and done properly strikes become a thing of beauty in doing what they were created to do.

During my time in Greece strikes were a part of the norm. Utility workers would strike leading to non-functional faucets and a lack of electricity. Cabbies and public transportation workers would strike in unison creating a day where the quickest way to get from point a to point b was your own two feet. Air traffic controllers would strike shutting down the airport for hours at a time, inconveniencing flights around the world while improving business at the docks. To most people this type of disruption, this type of intrusion into their everyday life would ruin their day. In Greece it is a part of life and an effective way to make a change.

I remember sitting in my math class waiting for the teacher the day the public transit went on strike.  We all sat at attention as people straggled in. Some drove, others took cabs, many of us  walked or rode bikes,  in the end we all got there. Was it a pain: yes. Were we inconvenienced: yes. Annoyed: yes. Did it work: yes. In the end a compromise was reached, their problems heard. In the end their strike had meaning it had a purpose.

This is where the rubber truly hits the road for me. In our country (myself included) cancel the bus system, turn off the power, close down all the roads, we shut down, pack in the day, and wait for the norm to return. We do not like change or disruption which leads us to avoiding the true issues and talks that can make a difference. In Greece when someone had a problem they talked about it. They dealt with it, head on. Strikes, the butcher shop, protest about the austerity  measures; to discussions about religion and politics were done with open arms. I can not tell you how many local people I talked to in Greece about issues that would be considered politically incorrect here.

All of this relates back to the statement: “out of sight out of mind” and is something we should meditate on for a second. When we want to deal with a problem most of us put it right in front of us, for everyone to see. We post our bills/debt on our fridge or weigh ourselves weekly while posting the results on facebook. This to me reminds me of Greece where issues were put on the front burner so they would get resolved.  In the United States we ignore many of our problems because we do not want to inconvenience ourselves. More to the point it has become a part of our culture to shy away from from our problems, in favor of the status quo. When we do not like a jacket we put in the back of a closet, when we do not like a project it goes to the bottom of the pile. A work out video back in the case, our credit card in the freezer. We dissuade temptation and avoid our problems through abstinence and forgetting it, more so than dealing with the issue. We have become so good at procrastinating on our problems we have whole industries based on self help and attacking them head on. We spend billions on shrinks, work out gear, self help books, and other items all to tell us what we already know. To tell us that for something to change, for something to make a difference we must make note of it. We must confront it, acknowledge it

This is the issue as I see it and why I feel we really should try to avoid things becoming “out of sight, out of mind” Do not think that I hate shrinks or self help, I fully support many of their services and do believe them valuable, but I think we have lost something in our culture today. We have become so disconnected from our food that we allow pink slime to fill our burgers. Most of us, once we see a industrial slaughterhouse, would never eat meat again. If you could visit the island of trash floating in the gulf and off the pacific you would probably recycle everything you possibly could. It is funny because as I write this, even with knowledge of the problems I do not do all that I can to prevent it because it is an inconvenience and it is out of sight. To all of my readers I challenge you to take one of your problems that you have in your life and approach it like the Greeks. Do not put it aside or forget about it. Make it important and become connected to it. Once you do that I truly think you will find what most of the world already knows, something we forgot long ago. Problems are only problems when you are ignorant to the solution. Many times the solution  though is not hidden or a riddle, no many times the solution is waiting to greet us. All we have to do is open our eyes to our problems and let the solutions in.

The Third Lesson Not Learned

To all of my loyal readers here is my new lesson not learned. If you are new to the site I invite you to read this story and the other two (which you will find in the short stories section) I will also be adding a few of my previous posts to permalinks in published articles.

Finally I will do my best to keep up with content, however with my impending conference most of my work will be coming after tax day.

So without further ado here is the latest installment in: A Lesson not Learned: Relationship Advice from the Deep South.

Alec Degnats

A Lesson Not Learned:

Relationship Advice from the Deep South.

“You here Tom?” I hear Lauren call out to me. Arriving home from a long day of work.

Staring at our chipped porcelain sink, full of my own blood, I can not bear to face Lauren right now. Our relationship is responsible for my current condition and Lauren will take it to heart. Lauren will take my attack to heart and make a foolish decision that will doom us both.

“Tom? Where you at?” Lauren calls out again. Still scouring the house trying to find me.

Wiping the last cut clean I look into our scuffed mirror to see a muddled face that I barely recognize staring back at me. My dark complexion obscures some of the blood as it melts into my chocolate skin, however even that can not cover up the carnage on my face. My eyes have newly minted cuts beneath them. Cuts that run the length of my chin. Feeling my skull I can make out the letters “Slugger” from where the bat made contact. I'm not good in a good state, I can even see that through my swollen lids. However with how limited my VA benefits are all I can hope is that these are superficial and aesthetic wounds. All I hope is that they are not as cruel and serious as the hate that inflicted them.

“Here you are....” Lauren trails off as I feel my hand slip from the sink. My consciousness fading as Lauren’s face comes into view. Rushing over to me I know there is no need to explain what happened here. My condition is a product of our choices. Choices we pay for everyday.   

. . .

“Ya know if you stopped hanging round that white girl and her friend’s this wouldn't happen,” My grand mother reminds me. Examining my assailants handy work from the day before.

“ Lauren and Pat had nothing to do with this,” I lie. “I tripped when I was jogging yesterday.”  

“Mhmm... I'm sure that is it,” she remarks. My grandmother sees through my lie as clear as she can see her reflection in the sterile, metal that lines my hospital room. “You know in my day we didn't broadcast these type of things...”

“Ma, Dr. King has changed all that.  So please don't remind me of some tall tale back in the day when you were some disgraced piece of meat. Thing's are better now, that is what I fought for. I’m home, the war is over, and thing's are finally getting better.”

My grandmother scoffs at my dismissal of her. Looking away from me she goes back to her book with both of us thinking the same thing. Dr. King has done a lot, but not enough for what I face. For what I sacrificed. It has taken a long time for people to think of us as any thing but dogs or property. Let alone equals. Ideas that are the product of ignorant hate, carried over from generations before. It took my fellow soldiers weeks to accept me into their battalion. It took them weeks once they knew what Lieutenant Thomas Johnson actually was. Many of them simply tolerated me, but never accepted me. Considering how long it has taken people to get this far I don't know what Lindsey and I have will ever be accepted.

My grandmother leaves without breaking the awkward silence between us. Even in this silence I can tell that we each ponder the what truly motivated the attack.  My grandmother thinks it is part of God's mysterious ways. She thinks he is sending me a message to change my ways. I do not think that divine intervention spurred my attack. It was a product of the world of hate we live in.

Watching her leave I can not help notice that she is carrying a new old hand bag. Purchased second hand or taken out of years of storage. Seeing that purse I can not help but think about the problems that plague this small town, the problems that plague the neighborhood she calls home. The neighborhood I grew up in. The neighborhood I fought to save.

Its funny that I would sacrifice so much for a neighborhood over run by petty crime and gangs, but in the end it is my home and where my grandmother still lives. It is a rundown house in a rundown ghetto. Of course ghettos pretty much make up everything our small town has to offer. Ironically enough regardless of how backwards and racist our town is I can say one thing when it comes to money- our politician's do not discriminate. Their money never comes to these run down Hooverville neighborhoods. Black, white, Hispanic or other, the money in this town will only goes to the areas that don't need it.

Laying in this hospital wing I see the fruits of my towns labor. I lay in the latest bed designed for comfort. Televisions have been recently added to every room bring patients a luxury they really don’t need. A new communication system connects us too much, considering the old system was more than sufficient. I will never be able to afford the bill and nor would I want to. The money that supports the T.V.’s and lobby renovation could have gone to books and desks or repaving the roads.  

Looking at this new color t.v. all I see is inequality and ignorance. This inequality and ignorance is what my Purple Heart protects and stands for. The first time I walked  my old streets when when I arrived home I was reminded of this. My old “friends’” eyes were full of  disgust, arrogance, and a little pride. Like the people who beat me into this bloody pulp and the men I served with, the people I grew up with share a portion of their feelings. They think I’m unnatural, different, and unworthy. I am unworthy of respect or humanity. To them I live in sin which is a crime that justifies all of their hate.

. . .

“Lauren, Pat...” I greet my friends as they arrive in my hospital room.

“You can press charges,” Lauren reminds me yet again as Pat investigates my fresh inflictions for the first time.

Looking back at my friends I do not want to break their caring hearts, but know that there will be no justice for me. Staring back at me Lauren is beautiful as the day we met overseas. We me the same day I was treated for my injuries that awarded me my Purple Heart. The first day that Lauren treated me was the first day I fell in love for the first time.  

“It is not worth it.” My response comes after a minute of silence, as I look back at Pat our greatest friend in the world. Our rock.  

No one responds to me as silence overcomes us allowing my nurse to care for me in silence. My nurse is a clone of the waitress at our favorite coffee joint: Young, beautiful, and ignorant. They share the same twinge as Lauren takes my hand; biting her lip and giving us that look of unnatural disgust. They try to be polite and accept us, but in the end they can not see us as anything but sin. They visibly fight against their upbringing as they try to serve us with servility and cordially.

A twinge of pity forms in my stomach as the hospital coffee’s bitter taste reminds me of why we pay the outrageous prices charged at our favorite hang. The coffee and the food is not much better there, but in the end we are accepted. No matter what the server believes we get taken care of with a smile. We do not have to worry about people talking behind our backs or someone spitting in our food because of the people who own the joint are just like us.

The owners of our little hang blazed a trail similar to Lauren and mine years ago. They were the first open interracial couple in our small town. They did not hide their relationship from the world, but challenged it head on and won.Instead of hiding from the world they opened a coffee shop together. They run it with open arms and an open heart, mirroring the beliefs they hold about life. They have shown everyone in our small town that love and life goes far beyond the color of ones skin.

“Lauren may be right this time. I can draft the papers in the morning, so when they catch the....”

I cut off Pat as she breaks me out of my daydream. I know the offer is coming from a loving heart, however I can not bear to hear any more of my friends fable. The cops in this town will never find my assailants. Coming out of a bar at eleven o'clock last night dozens of people observed my attack and a single witness does not exists. I can guarantee you a video of my attack will show up on a Klan website within the week. It's existence will not make a difference in finding justice. That video could appear on the six o'clock news and it would not make a difference. That is why I did not report my assault because justice is impossible for someone whose life style is considered sin and corrupt.

“This can not go uncounted for. We have to stand up for ourselves. We have to show them that g...”

I do not hear any more as my head goes woozy.  My sight blurry. A sharp pain on the back of my skull is all I feel before I pass out again.

. . .

Waking up, more tubes are connected to my arms and my head is pounding. I wake up alone in the sterile room trying to figure out what happened.  Looking around there are no cards or flowers; it appears that I have changed rooms once again.

“You are awake Mr .Johnson, and that is good to see.” A faceless doctor says to me as he enters. My vision still blurry I can barley make him out as he continues to speak to me.  

“You had a complication and were taken into emergency surgery last night. You had a slow bleed that would have killed you if you had not been here last night.”

My eyes may be blurred, but my ears make out the accent of my new neurologist. He is Indian and struggling with mastering a new language. I chuckle, daggers striking my head with every laugh, this doctor is one of the few people in town who does not hold a  horse in the civil rights struggle. He is simply trying to assimilate himself as quickly as possible. Trying to overcome his accent and master the English language. My doctor wants to become part of our small town before America assimilates he and his people as an axis of evil.  

The doctor’s struggle to assimilate himself reminds me of how hard it is living in the deep south. Even though my platoon never truly accepted me into their brotherhood, we had a common enemy at least. Here at home my “friends” from the neighborhood,  family, the towns people, hospital staff, and even my own grandmother share the same feelings about my lifestyle that my platoon did. The only difference is that here my choice is the common enemy.

Its funny- after I returned from the war I thought it would be different. I gave everything to my country and my people, I found my love in the war. I was injured and almost killed. I sacrificed everything and yet nothing changed. I always thought that with so many men returning from war the fighting would subside. You would think that they were tiered of seeing blood shed and pain after being immersed in it for so many years. I was wrong. In reality soldiers are soldiers no matter where they are its seems. All that changes are the targets. When we returned home they shifted their focus from a malicious, militant dictator to a war on morals and race. Their guns replaced by petitions and pickets; ammo by sermons and speeches. Their new war is a war to condemn everything that Lauren and I have together.

. . .

Opening my eyes from an eternal slumber the light in the room blinds me. Stirring slowly I hear a voice  scrambling in.

“Good Lord boy.. you are finally awake.” My grandmother's genuine concern for my safety is a nice change from her usual covert disappointment. “When Ronnie came by and told me you were here I could not believe it. He said he saw that boy and girl here earlier today when you crashed.” Her concern is replaced by disappointment as quickly as it had appeared. “I wish you would hang out with people like Ronnie more often. He is a good boy, comes from a good home, has a nice sister. You two would make the cutest kids...”

My grandmother trails on as I stop listening. Right now I can not take any more of her bi-polar approval. If she only knew the truth about Ronnie she would not speak so highly of him. Ronnie is our neighbor hood king pen. He runs the gang and the drugs through most of our small town and he recently expanded his business by opening an “escort service” on Middle Avenue. Ronnie calls himself a people-pleaser and knows how to keep up appearances. Whether it be with the grandmother next door or the heroine addict down the street Ronnie always knows how to say the right thing. It is amazing how some people can lead such double lives. Amazing how they can be so dishonest to themselves, fully aware that they are showing the world two different faces. Of course I can not blame him considering I wear a mask myself.

“Ma, have you seen Lauren?” I ask, interrupting her continuous babble about the beautiful children Ronnie's sister and I would have. Curiously wondering where my love may be.

“I haven't seen that boy since I left the house to visit you. He was walking in the neighborhood when my cab  left. He may have been coming to see me now that you mention it. Probably to tell me about your surgery.”

My monitors jump to life as fear grips me. “Coming to see you...” My grandmother does not know the truth about us and there is no time to tell her now. Straining against my tubes, doctors and nurses rush in to restrain me as they sedate me. Yelling in terror I am trying to get my thoughts across before I lose consciousness. I have to get to my neighborhood. I have to get to Lauren before he dies.

. . .

Welcome to the service for

Lauren Thalemes

1978-2013

“In memory of a loving friend and loyal son.”

Rolling thought the church doors I am in tears the entire way. Ashamed, lost, and missing the one man in this world who I loved more than anything. Looking around the chapel there are some genuine tears and a majority fake. Inside these holy walls the greatest irony does not come from the fake mourners or the fact that many people are here to see a dead faggot. No the greatest irony is that today Lauren will be accepted into a place we both have been shunned from for years.  

That is the problem with people like Lauren and I; we are on the edge of acceptance. On the edge of morality. Some may think that what killed Lauren was just blind, ignorant prejudice and hate, but I know better. It is our entire culture that killed him and there is nothing ignorant about it.

I served my country in many wars, in the Gulf, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I was a decorated soldier and the second I came out I became an outcast. If they had not been in such desperate need for soldiers I am sure I would have been sent home during my last few tours, especially after I came out. In the end though fortune shined on me and I took that bomb for my platoon. I received a Purple Heart, and met Lauren, instead of a dishonorable discharge.  He was my nurse and never saw combat, but from the moment we saw each other I knew he was the man for me. We both knew of the struggles the other faced and in the end he was the only one who got me through everything.

Overseas we prayed together and went to church. Over seas the sermons were about war and the enemy. Church held us together, it gave us a reason to fight. Back here when we go to church our preacher tries to talk me out of our choices through his sermons. Every week I scoff back at him wondering how a man of God could turn his back so quickly on one of his flock. I always knew it would take time for the churches down here to adjust and accept us. Here in our small town it took decades for people to accept a black and white sheep walking together. Two men sharing God’s love would of course be resisted more, however I never expected this. After all that we had done though for this country and all the love we gave them I thought we would have been shown support and compassion instead of  abandonment. I wish that my small town and so many like it would see beyond our attraction, our skin color and instead see the gift of true love God has bestowed upon us.

Lost in the sermon that means nothing to me I am waiting for my chance to speak. Without a prepared statement I do not know what to say. Everyone expects me to keep the statement short and sweet, to discuss what a great man he was, but I’m not sure I can do that. I do not want to disgrace his memory today, but I also do not want to support this facade any further.

“My children now I would like to invite our son Thomas to the pulpit to share a few words.”

Caught off guard I feel the congregations attention turn to me as I roll up to the stage. Looking across the congregation the church it is as segregated as ever. Dr. King would be ashamed to see that his message fell on deaf ears. My injuries, Lauren’s death were both caused by the same thing. The two factions that attacked us were united around a singular cause of hate. Part of it was about race, but at its core we both know that it is because we are gay. Finally up here I feel dirty and dishonest, still struggling with what I want to say. I put my hand on his casket one last time to tell him I love him before I let him go.

“Lauren was one of my best friends. We met in a....” I lose my place as my eyes tear up. “Sorry... This is just very hard for me. We were very good friends and...”

I hear a chuckle in the church that stops me. A quick scan shows me all I need to know as I locate Ronnie and his crew admiring their handy work while chuckling at my misfortune.

Even though it will never be proven I know that a week ago while I strained against my tubes, Lauren was being beaten to death by Ronnie’s gang. Lauren went there to spread the news of my health, but never got the chance. On his way there Lauren’s car broke down. He grabbed a cab and took it as far as it would take him. The cabbie would never drive through my old neighborhood and  Lauren was forced to walk the rest of the way on his own. My grandmother was gone by the time he arrived at her house, but Ronnie and his gang weren’t.

Despite their hate for me, Ronnie and his crew could never stand by and watch someone from their neighborhood get beaten.  Ronnie had to protect his turf and more important had to retaliate for what had happened to me. Bottled up anger from my attack boiled over into an interracial gay bashing that started the second Lauren entered the ghetto.

Lauren’s teeth were kicked in to the point where they scratched his throat as he swallowed them. His arm's and faced smashed with tire irons. Knees blown out by baseball bats. Cut, tortured, murdered the cops tried their hardest to find those responsible, but they were never able to find the alley Lauren’s brutal attack happened in. Lauren was dumped in the river a corpse. He became a sacrifice to the artificial sins our community placed upon us.  

“Lauren was a fagot.” I scream out to the congregation, not able to hold back the anger any more. “Don’t look so shocked. Don’t recoil. We all knew it. Hell anyone here who denies it is more delusional than the facade that this funeral really is. We all know the real reason most of us came here today was to watch the sinner, to watch the fagot get what he deserves.”

An eerie silence settles over the congregation as they wait for me to say something. Out of the corner of my eye I see preacher getting up to stop me, but nothing can stop me from finishing my peace.

“I wish I was dead. Instead I am crippled into a wheelchair to watch the worst that mankind has to offer. Everyday I have to live with the fact that the shrapnel that sits and inch from my heart stands for nothing more than hate. Over forty years ago Dr. King gave his own life so we could all live in peace together. Myself and countless others have given their lives in countless battles so each and every one of you can be free to practice and live how you want. And how do you use this freedom? By showing ignorance and hate. People in this city would have hated us even if Lauren had been female. All that this small town, has shown is ignorance, hate, and disrespect. You are all the same regardless of what your skin shows. If anything you are a perfect hypocritical example of Dr. King’s vision. You are all the same, united by ignorance and hate. You are all responsible for what happened to Lauren and me. It is your teachings that encouraged these attacks and more importantly it is all of you who showed up here today only to get one final kick out of seeing the fagot buried.”

The congregation hangs on my every word as I am transported back to the day that I jumped on that grenade for my platoon. The day I watched the faces of those I killed flash before my eyes before I thought I was about to die.

“I hope you all feel the disrespect that you have shown not only to Dr. King and your Lord, but also to yourself. You have all shown that you do not know what to do with the freedom Lauren and I gave you. I have fought in three wars, killed countless numbers of people. For a long time I thought I had seen the worst of humanity overseas, but I was so wrong. You people here today, the people who put me in this wheelchair and Lauren in this casket have demonstrated the worst this world has to offer. In war there is a goal an enemy, but in your war against fagots and dikes what is your goal? To delay the discovery that we are people just like you. No matter what you say I know what all of you are and have to live with it. You are ignorant and blind. You have shown that you are poor students of everything this country stands for. Prime examples of a lesson not learned.”