Walk Your Talk

Practical spirituality for a complicated world.

***image1***A string of seemingly unrelated recent events have conspired to create this week's column. The first occurred at a Christmas party. I had a most interesting conversation with a very well educated, eloquent, professional gentleman. The gathering took place in elegant surroundings. I had on a brand new pair of Wranglers, carefully starched and ironed with a crease, which, as everyone knows, is always done for formal events! I'd also worn my dress Stetson (Silverbelly, 100 X), which only comes out of the box for special occasions. The subject of college came up. I mentioned that I'd begun college in 1969, mainly as a way to keep from going to Vietnam. The elegant gentleman with whom I was having such a nice conversation told me that I was lucky to have that option, because minorities and poor people weren't able to afford college. I think that because of how I appeared that day, he assumed I was a "fortunate son." Those of you from my generation will know what "fortunate son" means.

The next event occurred just before Christmas. I was talking with a professional about a business transaction in which I'm presently involved. He mentioned my accent by asking me where I came from originally. I told him that I was born and raised in South Mississippi, with tall pines, moss-draped oaks, the Gulf, and near constant 100% humidity. He told me he was surprised because my accent sounded more like upper class, aristocratic Virginia. I assured him that was not the case.

Just after Christmas, I came upon a man with a box of puppies outside the supermarket. He was looking for people who wanted a little puppy, and would, hopefully, provide it with a good home. He seemed as if he were a caring individual. When I came out of the market, he only had one puppy left. I spent much of that afternoon thinking about those little creatures, who'd come into the world so totally dependent upon others. But, aren't we all in the same boat in that respect? We're born into families who may or may not want us, raised by people who are often so wounded themselves, that they don't have much to offer their children. It's a great blessing to have someone, at least one other person, who picks you up out of that box by the supermarket door, holds you close, nurtures you, and allows you to grow and prosper.

A few days after my encounter with the puppies, we were standing with a friend, in the sizeable foyer of a restaurant, saying good-bye after lunch. Nearby, a man and woman, who obviously perceived us as being gay, were mocking us. They made exaggerated flip wrist movements, swished, and put their hand on their hips. My companions didn't notice it at all, and I quickly guided them outside. Thankfully, the two thugs didn't follow us out. For a moment I was tempted to hate them. In my heart, I know that the only way they can win is by making us hate, by turning us into them. I detest what they stand for, but even though it's difficult, I won't agree to hate them back. I refuse to live in fear, however, I do remain vigilant. It was an occasion to remind ourselves that as gay people, we must constantly remain aware of our surroundings, even in tolerant, liberal Santa Fe. I'm sure you remember what happened here last year.

New Year's weekend, James and I went to see the movie

Brokeback Mountain

. This movie has infuriated the fundamentalists, mainly because it portrays us as real people, with strengths, weaknesses, talents, fears, dreams, etc. It's harder to hate us if they see us as actual human beings, instead of the "abominations" they preach about. I read a liberal review which went out of its way to emphasise that

Brokeback Mountain

was a love story, not a gay movie. Well, bygod, whether you like it or not, it is a gay movie. Deal with it. However, gay or straight, if you've ever been in love, it will touch your heart. I sat in the darkened theatre at DeVargas, with tears in my eyes, next to James, the man with whom I've shared the last 22 years of my life. It is a miracle that we found each other. It is another miracle that we've survived against all the odds, in a society that actively tries to destroy us.

In several ways,

Brokeback Mountain

is also the story of my life in the late '60s and early '70s, long before I met James. As I mentioned earlier, I was not a fortunate son. In 1969, when I decided I'd go to college instead of Vietnam, I had to go to work to pay for it. While going to school full time, I hauled hay, fed and herded cows, sold firewood, cut brush, and mended fences, earning 75 cents an hour. It was very much like

Brokeback Mountain

, except that we didn't smoke. Instead, we dipped Skoal, chewed Redman, and drank Dixie beer. When there was not any of that outdoor work to be had, I walked along the road and collected coke bottles from ditches. I got two cents each for them at the grocery store. Once in a while, I worked at the grocery store too, unloading trucks, stocking shelves and bagging groceries. There was no other place to work. I saved my money, and somehow I managed to come up with the $400 I needed for tuition and books each semester. In those days, $400 was a huge sum of money, and it did not come to me easily. One year, my father managed to get me approved for a student loan. I was very grateful.

Looking back on those days is bittersweet. They were hard times, living amongst hard people, in a hard community. I had to lie about who I was, and pretend to be someone else. Still, all those years ago, despite the dangers and threats of the thundering fundamentalists around us, there were also secret moments of tenderness and passion. If anyone had found out, they would've killed us. I mean that literally. They would've killed us. I wanted for us to leave, to go some place else, anywhere. But, he couldn't see that such a thing would be possible. Thank God, I knew it was possible, and I got away as soon as I could. Don't let the critics of

Brokeback Mountain

tell you there were no gay cowboys or country boys. There were. I know.

Somehow, in my mind, these stories flow together, and have a theme. For me, personally, the theme is that we are spiritual beings in the process of becoming. We are, I believe in the process of becoming more human. Every time we choose love, we become more human. If we choose hate, we become something else, something I refuse to name. One final thing: Resist the temptation to look at someone's outer appearance and think you know who they are.

On second thought, considering where I came from, and looking at my life today, I just might be a fortunate son, after all.

OM


To ask Robert a question, visit his website at www.RobertOdom.com, email desertrj@msn.com or send mail to PO Box 33, Santa Fe NM 87504.

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