ESPN (rightfully) caught some flack earlier this week when correspondent Josina Anderson filed an on-air report about the locker room showering habits of the NFL’s first openly gay player, Michael Sam.

When asked by an ESPN anchor how Sam was fitting in with the Rams, rather than discuss the rookie hopeful’s on-field performance (he did have two sacks against Cleveland this past weekend) or pranks to which first-year players are typically subjected, Anderson proceeded to ramble on about how Sam appears to be delaying his post-practice showers in deference to his teammates.

Anderson’s report began innocently enough, quoting one Rams’ player as saying that Sam was “just one of the guys.” (So far, so good; right?). Things devolved quickly, though, as she went on to quote another Ram as saying that Sam appeared to be “respecting our space” and “is waiting to kind of take a shower” so as not to make his teammates feel uncomfortable. Even putting aside the super unclear “kind of take a shower” phrase (is that like “kind of pregnant”?), this was about the time one started to get the ominous feeling that Anderson wasn’t exactly headed toward Peabody Award territory with her story.

The ESPN anchor back in the studio was either as oblivious as Anderson, stunned by what he was hearing or teetering on the edge of his seat waiting for salacious details regarding hunky athletes in the shower, because he allowed Anderson to continue the demonstration of her journalistic prowess, such that it was.

She went on to share that other Rams players “didn’t know that specifically” because they “weren’t tracking that,” “that,” of course, being when and with whom Sam is showering. (C’mon, guys! How are you gonna whittle the roster down to 53 players if you’re not “tracking that”? Football is a game of statistics! Sure, sacks and tackles are important, but hygiene counts, too, yo. By the way, guys, you may want to check with Sam’s boyfriend; he may have some historical data to fill in the gaps for you on that.)

Anderson continued down the slippery slope (after all, that’s whatcha get when ya drop the soap in the shower), revealing that Kendall Langford (one of the quoted Rams’ players) hadn’t been in the shower at the same time as Sam, though there could be “a million reasons for that” — Sam could be doing extra work on the practice field; he could be riding his bike; or he could be doing extra cardio. (It was unclear at this point if  Anderson was using the phrase “extra cardio” as a euphemism of some sort.)

Near the end of the report, Anderson seemed to remember that she was a professional sports correspondent on live television (perhaps a producer broke out a taser?) as she managed to work in some actual football-related information about Sam, again quoting Langford as saying, “If he doesn’t make our team, I’m pretty sure somebody will definitely pick him up on another team … he’s shown some flashes.”

Blessedly, Anderson didn’t speculate about the nature of the “flashes” and whether or not they took place on the playing field or in the shower, but the damage was done and the story soon exploded on social media. Perhaps Rams’ defensive end Chris Long best summed up the collective opinion about the ESPN report when he tweeted, “Dear ESPN, Everyone but you is over it.”

Alas, ESPN, it’s sad but true that in that moment you became to the St. Louis Rams’ locker room shower dynamics what CNN was to the disappearance of Malyasia Airlines Flight 370. Enough already; Michael Sam is a gay man who takes showers and the plane is still missing. We get it!

Unsurprisingly, and to their credit, given the backlash, ESPN apologized for the report issuing a statement on Wednesday which read: “ESPN regrets the manner in which we presented our report. Clearly yesterday we collectively failed to meet the standards we have set in reporting on LGBT-related topics in sports.”

Really, ESPN? A report based on outdated stereotypes and which proliferated anti-gay paranoia failed to meet your standards regarding LGBT-related topics in sports? Way to set that bar high!

As offensive as it may be, all the hoopla about with whom Michael Sam is or isn’t showering did serve one positive purpose. It made me very happy that I’m a lesbian rather than a gay man. Because despite the relatively recent coming out stories in women’s sports, not once have I heard speculation about Britney Griner’s or Abby Wambach’s shower schedules or conjecture regarding the timing thereof. Nor have I heard pre-draft commentators ponder how an openly lesbian athlete would be received by her teammates in the locker room. And I don’t recall Twitter exploding with hate at any point when two women kissed on live television during a celebratory moment.

They say it’s good to be a girl and that seems to be very true when it comes to gays and lesbians in sports, not that lesbian athletes haven’t faced their share of discrimination or persecution. But we women-loving-women seem to have a leg up in these matters as while the general public — and specifically the largely male-dominated sports-loving public —  seems to find the idea of a gay man in the locker room shower distasteful or dangerous in some way, the idea of a shower full of lesbians is every guy’s fantasy. There’s a down side to that, of course — I could dedicate countless columns to the objectification of women and the male lesbian fantasy vs. lesbian reality — but all things being equal I’ll take being idealized and fantasized about over being demonized any day.

Watch the controversial ESPN report below.

The post How Michael Sam makes me grateful to be a lesbian first appeared on Lesbian.com.

As details continue to emerge in the tragic suicide death of Robin Williams, it occurs to me that one of the things that makes depression so insidious is the stigma (and – judging by some of the reactions surfacing in the media, social or otherwise – ignorance) which surrounds the disease.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my almost 53-years, it’s that there is very little in this human experience that is truly unique – and yet many continue to suffer alone with their challenges, whether that be depression, mental illness or something else – because we are embarrassed, believing our feelings, thoughts or circumstances are exclusive to us. We view others’ lives as more perfect, more in control, more successful; simply put – happier.

We’re embarrassed to reveal our weaknesses, our imperfections for fear of embarrassment or ridicule. So we bottle them inside and our insecurities and negative thoughts become the stuff of which sleepless nights are made and those sleepless nights amplify the insecurities and negative thoughts and the downward spiral continues until those destructive thoughts become our only – and seemingly inescapable – reality.

Taking a cue from an acquaintance who “came out” on Facebook regarding her own struggles with depression, I’m going to take one tiny step toward dispelling the stigma and ignorance of the disease by sharing that I, too, went through a time about four years ago where I required therapy and medication to recover from a period of depression. While I never want to be in that murky, irrational, hopeless place again – nor would I ever wish it upon anyone else – I can say that it provided me with insight I’d not previously had regarding the disease.

We can read all the “10 things not to say to someone who’s depressed” or “5 differences between being sad vs. being depressed” or “10 ways to support someone who’s depressed” articles we want, but – much like child birth – unless someone has actually been there, it is impossible to fully comprehend how the mind functions while afflicted – how alone, how angry one feels; how insurmountable the situation seems; how nonsensical our thought processes become.

I don’t presume that my experience with depression is universal; I feel quite fortunate in that my episode was “event-induced” and fairly easily overcome. (My recovery was actually far shorter in duration than was my initial suffering as I waited ten months to seek help.) I know that there are nuances to each person’s experience and, sadly, some struggle a lifetime with the disease. But I want to share some of the signs I should have seen as I sank further into the abyss four years ago.

Please bear in mind that I do not purport to be a mental health or medical professional of any sort and the list below doesn’t constitute an official “are you depressed?” litmus test. That said, if you see yourself feeling or thinking or experiencing several of these things and you aren’t already talking to a therapist or doctor, please consider doing so.

“It’s everyone else!”

What I mean here is that as things progressively worsened for me, I found myself with an increasingly short fuse and blaming everyone else for every confrontation. Already not the most passive driver or best sufferer of fools, my tolerance for the even the tiniest mistake or act of incompetence on the part of someone else set me off. I was angry all the time – less patient with co-workers, more likely to lay on the horn for any perceived traffic infraction and far more apt to storm out of a line at the post office or grocery store grousing about ineptitude. Once restored to my more rational self via the wonders of modern medicine, it became crystal clear to me that at any point in one’s life when it appears everyone else is wrong all the time, there is a problem. Because “everyone else” can’t be wrong all of the time. It just doesn’t work that way. The problem was me; I just couldn’t see it.

“Sleep, you are not my friend.”

Or rather, sleep was a friend who abandoned me in my hour of greatest need. I went weeks – probably months – without getting more than a few hours of sleep at night. While some may think that the fast track to productivity, it’s also the express train to hopelessness. My most memorably miserable moments all seem to have occurred between 2am and 5am, for during those hours my mind would shift into overdrive, churning with questions to which I had (and, really, there were) no answers, thoughts of “woulda, coulda, shoulda” haunted me and, as I approached Full-blown Depression Depot, thoughts of ending it all in some form or fashion crept into my consciousness.

If you’re single, there are few times more lonely than 2am to 5am, regardless of the coast on which you reside. I found myself not wanting to “bother” my friends with a call, either due to the late hour or because they’d already heard my rehashing of events too many times to recount. (I should explain that my depression was triggered by the end of an 8-year relationship.) Mostly, though, I knew that there was nothing they could say to make me feel better – if that were possible, they’d already have said it. The standard issue advice – just give it time, you’ll get over her; she wasn’t good for you anyway; you deserve better – just doesn’t register when you’re depressed

In reality, when your mind, and hence your emotions, are completely out of whack, off kilter due to the chemical imbalance that is depression, nothing makes sense; there are no answers and there is no hope. Yet, at least in my case, my mind worked overtime to pose the questions over and over and over again and to search for answers that didn’t exist. As a result, I didn’t get the precious sleep that I needed then, more than ever. And that only made things worse.

“Tears fall like rain.”

Already a sap known to cry at everything from lesson-laced sitcoms to major sporting event outcomes, my tear ducts shifted into high gear as I slipped further into the depression. How I, a normally rather rational individual, didn’t realize that it simply wasn’t “normal” to wake up every morning and cry in the shower, or for a simple work-related question from a colleague to trigger tears, is beyond me now. But I cried morning, noon and night, again with those frustrating hours of 2am to 5am seeming to be my most prolific.

I cried because I felt angry; I cried because I felt sad; I cried for seemingly no reason at all. And many times, particularly late at night, the crying wasn’t of the gentle spring rain variety – it was the torrential downpour of agony, a wailing inspired by an emotional pain so deep, so unrelenting, and – perhaps most revealing of an issue – so completely unrelated to anything that was actually happening in my life at the moment. Unless you’re suffering from a hormonal imbalance of some sort, when you’re sobbing uncontrollably at 3am countless nights in a row for no apparent reason, there’s a problem.

“They’d be better off without me.”

This is where things get really dark and dangerous. In my irrational state, I actually started to enumerate the ways in which those around me would be better served should I no longer exist on the planet. My status as a mom served double-duty here – one minute I was thinking about how my son would be set for life financially if I were to kill myself (making it appear as an accident, of course, so as not to void my life insurance policy) and the next I was thinking how terrible it would be to burden him with the task of clearing out the garage by himself if I went through with it. Mind you, I wasn’t considering how upset he might be that his mom was gone – I’d discounted my own worth sufficiently by then so as not to factor that into the equation at that point – but rather I fretted about inconveniencing him with a day’s work of sorting and purging.

If we’re honest, there’s probably not one of us who doesn’t reach a certain age without having had a momentary thought about suicide. It’s one of those things that, as humans, may flit through our minds quickly, but never truly takes root. But when I was depressed, that thought settled in and made itself comfortable. It branched out from a late night notion about over the counter sleeping medications to broad daylight impulses to gun the engine of my Mustang and point it toward the closest and sturdiest roadside obstacle. And it was on the heels of such a thought that I made a beeline to my general practitioner’s office, unannounced and without an appointment. I’d perhaps not yet hit rock bottom, but I knew if I stretched out my toes it was within reach. I remain thankful that she and her staff welcomed and consoled me that day and set me on the path to recovery.

So those are the notes from my depression story. Yes, the woman many know as the life of the party with the huge smile and the quick one-liners has come out as once having been clinically depressed. Some may find it more surprising than the fact that I was married (to a man) for 11 years, and honestly, it’s a secret I’ve kept from far more people than I have my sexual orientation.

I share these bits of my personal story not to garner sympathy or accolades, but rather with the hope that someone may recognize herself in the reflection of my experience and seek help as a result. If you’re going through a rough time, reach out to a friend or a relative; talk to your doctor; call a suicide hotline. It doesn’t matter what time of the day or night it is, there is always someone to talk to somewhere. And while true depression cannot be healed by mere words – there’s no “cheer up” pep talk to overcome the chemical imbalance – those words may be just enough of a lifeline to hold you over until you can get the help you need.

Most importantly, please remember – regardless of what your irrational mind may be telling you at the moment – you are not alone; you are not weak; what you’re feeling is not permanent; you are loved; and you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed about in seeking help. All you have to do is “come out” about your disease.

You can reach the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline by calling 1-800-273-8255. Their phones are staffed 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

The post ‘Coming out’ to erase the stigma of depression first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY CANDY PARKER

A few weeks back, Bethany Frazier shared her thoughts on reentering the dating world after a break-up in her insightful blog “When to start dating after a break up.” Bethany encouraged single ladies to “listen to your heart and your head” in trying to determine when to get back in the dating game and extolled the bad-assness of embracing one’s single status.

Officially single for over four years now, I find myself evaluating my own relationship readiness. I feel my heart is ready — I no longer pine for my ex in any form or fashion and, with the clear-eyed vision provided only by time and distance, I’m now truly grateful that she ended our eight-year relationship (a period I now alternately refer to as The Soul Sucking Years or The Self-Esteem Eradicating Era).

But though the heart is healed, I’m not so certain that my head is fully in the game. I’m actually more than a wee bit concerned that I’ve grown too content being single, a comfort level which appears to have inspired a degree of selectivity beyond what most people would find reasonable. Allow me to explain the typical Candy-makes-a-weak-attempt-to-start-dating cycle highlighted by this past week’s events and you be the judge.

As my interest in dating rekindled (typically a one-time per year or so occurrence), I forked over my credit card number for an online dating website membership. (By the way, they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Well, color me crazy when it comes to online dating as over the years I’ve paid untold quantities of hard-earned dollars in pursuit of soul mate kismet to this specific site to no avail.) In any event, I updated my profile text to ensure nothing was horribly out of date (David Sedaris had published since last I updated my “favorite books”), traded out some older photos for more up-to-date fare and set off on my search.

As is often the case, that search began in my message box, as notes from presumably semi-interested women accumulated there while my account lapsed into non-subscriber status. I eagerly clicked the messages icon to see what I’d missed during the last several months.

I had only a couple of messages to go through as, quite shockingly, “portly” and “age 50+” aren’t all the rage in dating search criteria. One woman I ruled out immediately as she was well beyond the radius which I am willing to travel in order to initiate a relationship with someone. Say what you will, but I learned a long time ago that long distance may work once a relationship has a sturdy foundation, but if you try to build one from scratch from hundreds or thousands of miles away, you may as well be building sandcastles on the beach before a hurricane. So it was one message down, one to go.

The next missive was from a local woman, a humor-laced note penned months ago expressing her interest in getting to know me. She earned points for personality and persistence as she’d followed up with another dispatch a few days prior to my membership renewal, bemoaning the fact that she’d not heard from me and wishing me a happy summer.

Interest piqued, I wandered over to her profile to take a peek. That’s when things went from “let’s really try to do this thing this time!” to “Gosh, I love being single and how can I get my $44.97 back?” in a mere 30 seconds (and this is where my perhaps being overly selective comes in).

While Renee Zellweger may have had Tom Cruise at “hello,” I didn’t get through the first sentence of the woman’s profile without mentally waving “goodbye.”

“I’m an easy going woman…”

My first instinct was to hit the back button. Stick a fork in me; I’m done. Call the bellhop; I’m checking out. But determined to really give it a go this time, I plowed on past the first five words, letting my own easygoing nature prevail.

A few sentences later, though, I hit deal breaker city. She owns seven dogs.

Believing easygoing is two words rather than one, I can (sort of) handle (if I breathe deeply and clear my mind for 30 seconds or so). But being single and owning (not fostering or pet sitting or otherwise looking to re-home) seven of any pet is too much. Proclaiming in one’s profile that “there’s no way I’m getting rid of any of them” gives the impression that one might be a teensy tiny bit defensive about said pack o’ pooches.

Don’t get me wrong. I love animals. But I’m also a libra; I love balance, too. So unless there’s a sign out in front of your house that includes the word “shelter” or “rescue,” chances are I’m running like someone left the gate open the second you tell me you own more than a half-dozen of any animal. Well, except maybe fish — small fish that fit in a reasonably sized tank.

Now before all the animal enthusiasts out there jump on me for this, let me say that I’m not without basis in taking this position. In fact, a couple of years ago, as chance would have it, I’d met another woman through this same dating site and we’d agreed to meet up. We’d talked on the phone quite a bit, so I agreed to pick her up at her house before we headed out for a drink and bite to eat.

That old-school act of chivalry turned out to be fortuitous, for what I learned immediately that night — and what then set the tone for a “how fast can I get out of here?” evening — was that the woman owned four dachshunds. Four wild little dachshunds that were apparently encouraged or trained to relieve themselves on newspapers strewn across what should have been the dining room floor, but was instead a giant hardwood-floored puppy potty training pad. Did I mention the smell? Just be happy that online technology hasn’t progressed to the point so as to allow this to be a scratch-and-sniff blog, OK?

So, yeah, when I saw that this latest prospect had almost twice the number of dogs that were all probably six times as big as the dachshunds (they were all Labradors) I promptly clicked the little X in the upper right-hand corner, grabbed my television remote and gave thanks for the fact that I presently share it with no one. Candy’s annual attempt to muster an interest in dating has concluded; move along; nothing to see here, folks.

I joke about it, but how does one really know when she’s being too picky versus simply not settling? And would I be less picky if I wasn’t so doggoned (pun more intended than you could ever imagine) content being single?

What is the maximum number of pets one can own and remain a viable dating prospect? Should someone using “peeked” instead of “piqued” in their dating profile (as in “If I peeked your interest, drop me a line”) really be as much of a deal breaker for me as is smoking? Can I become emotionally intimate with someone who chose the user name “HappyGurl” yet has a furrowed brow in every one of her 15 photos? Can I ever possibly manage to have sex with someone who lists the “Twilight” series among her favorite books? These are the burning questions of my non-dating life.

So let me have it, folks. Am I too picky, simply not settling or just not really ready to date? And if I am too picky, how do you suggest I break free from my cocoon of contentment long enough to take a chance on someone with a baker’s dozen pets, an ironic user name and a poor grasp of the English language? I’m not getting any younger (or less portly) so I’m all eyes and ears. Feel free to leave your comments in the “leave a reply” box below.

The post Dating dilemma: Too picky, too comfortable or simply not ready? first appeared on Lesbian.com.

San Marcos fire
(Photo courtesy of Zoe Amos)

BY ZOE AMOS
Lesbian.com

When your city is on fire, where do you go? What do you pack? How do you leave your home knowing you may never return? These were the questions I had to deal with last week as North County San Diego was aflame.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve been in this situation, and it probably won’t be the last. The good news, thus far, is my home has been outside the formal evacuation areas, albeit not by much. In the past, I’ve received evacuated family, friends and pets, and so it was again last week as I played host to two concerned friends and an orange cat while waiting out the latest firestorm.

Anytime we have Santa Ana conditions — high heat, low humidity and strong easterly winds — there is the possibility for trouble. Any spark, whether accidental or intentional, and we had both, has the power to turn into a blaze that sweeps up hillsides in a matter of minutes. In May, San Diego weather typically brings a moist, cool weather pattern, but for the second time this month, temperatures rose above 100 degrees. The humidity dropped to 2 percent. Strong winds blew through the area and knocked down two eight-foot fence panels in my yard. The next day was worse.

From my house I could see smoke from three separate fires. The largest one was on Camp Pendleton where Marines frequently set the brush on fire with their live munitions training. It’s far enough away that I don’t worry about it when I see the tell-tale clouds of smoke arising from the northwest. To the west of me, a fire in Carlsbad was close enough to cause concern, though it was burning in the opposite direction. It was another cloud of smoke that had me worried — the San Marcos, or Cocos brushfire to the east of me, which was rapidly gaining acreage and moving in my direction.

Evacuation orders were sent out via reverse 911 calls. I did not receive one, but I packed my bag in case I needed to make a quick getaway. I had time to think about what to pack. I would definitely take my computer, but not until I had to go as I was using it to get current information. I threw together two bags of clothes and toiletries. I took items I liked to wear and others that would be hard to replace. I tossed in my bathing suit thinking I didn’t want to shop for another. Tops are easy to buy, a good swimsuit — not so much. I packed my favorite scarf, my cute jeans, a favorite t-shirt I bought last summer in Eugene and my comfy black ankle boots. It wasn’t what I would have imagined.

Early on, the westerly progress of the Cocos fire made a quick turn-about when the wind shifted. The Santa Ana condition was losing out to the on-shore breeze and the flames blew away from my home. It could have become smoky from the Carlsbad fire, but I was just far enough north to miss it. Helicopters from local and state fire departments, as well as marine helicopters flew overhead and I knew more help was on its way.

I walked to the top of a nearby hill at dusk to watch the flames roar up the hillsides. The power of fire is as frightening as it is awe inspiring. Nature clears the underbrush and makes room for new growth. I thought about the creatures that live in those hills: deer, bobcats, mountain lions, squirrels, rabbits, birds, snakes, coyotes and lizards, knowing many of them would not find refuge.

For several days everything stopped. I watched live-streaming coverage on the Internet and clicked back and forth on the sdcountyemergency.com map page to stay on top of the latest evacuations and the course of the fire. Being at-the-ready with adrenaline running through my body was exhausting, especially with the heat bearing down. My home does not have air conditioning. This is San Diego. Those of us who live close to the coast don’t need it — or do we? As the wind continued to shift, the smoke settled and I closed my windows tight to keep out the rancid, burnt smell and choking ash.

We’ve had hard lessons here the in the San Diego area when it comes to firestorms, but these were lessons learned. Affected residents adhered to the evacuation orders. Other neighbors stayed inside and did not put a drain on needed services. Fire agencies around the state came together in a coordinated effort. The result: one death (which might not be fire-related), no major injuries, minimal loss of property with thousands of acres lost to fire, no reports of looting and several arrested and charged with arson. We applaud the firefighters and law enforcement for a job well done. The media kept a positive attitude, reminding us of the hundreds of homes saved. Mandatory evacuations have ended. We are all so grateful.

Zoe Amos brings her lesbian point of view to articles and stories on diverse topics. Connect with her on Facebook and Twitter. Read her stories on Kindle and Nook. Check out her other life at www.janetfwilliams.com.

The post From A to Zoe: When your city is on fire first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY CANDY PARKER

I’m not terribly happy right now. In fact, one might be able to classify me as bordering on furious at the present moment, a rare state for this easygoing Libra.

Why am I on the verge of spitting nails? Well, I’ll tell you – I’ve about had it up to here (insert mental image of me with my right hand, palm down, extended just above my head) with middle-aged straight guys, in the form of sports radio talk show hosts and bloggers, whining about “thought police” and the “LGBT mafia” and “bullying” in the context of discussing Michael Sam, the reaction to his being selected in the NFL draft and the resulting disciplinary actions taken against high-profile sports figures who spoke out against the move via social media.

I just ran out to get lunch and heard yet another sports radio talk show host bantering with his guest, a FOX sports blogger, carping about how the world has become so politically correct that people can’t even say what they think anymore. What a terrible world it is we live in when people can be fined, fired or publicly taken to task for merely voicing their opinion! Shouldn’t we all be scared to live in a world where corporations and monopolized organizations like the NFL and NBA can squelch the personal beliefs of their employees?

The not-good-enough-to-play-so-I-write-and-talk-about-sports twins went on to compare the Miami Dolphins’ Don Jones’ tweets following Sam’s on-screen kiss with his boyfriend (“OMG” and “Horrible” – that Jones is an eloquent and loquacious fellow, after all) to someone voicing an opinion about gun ownership or the legalization of marijuana. If Jones doesn’t want to see two dudes kissing on television shouldn’t he be able to say that? Shouldn’t people be able to speak up if they believe drugs should be legal or that the right to bear automatic weapons in Chipotle is inalienable? (Don’t even get me started on the yahoos who did that over the weekend!)

The always-picked-last-for-kickball duo went on to extoll the virtues of free speech and the importance of open discourse in society. Isn’t that how we solve our problems? Shouldn’t we be discussing our differences in order to reach agreement? For a brief moment, I think I may have even heard American flags gently flapping in the wind as it swept over amber waves of grain.

Of course, the guest made a point of mentioning that he was Libertarian in his views on gay rights or, more specifically, gay marriage. Hey, if those gay people want to get married, then we should go ahead and let ‘em. The ol’ “Hey, I’m not prejudiced; I have black friends”-like disclaimer. (I personally find these types maddening as they’re typically the ones claiming they’re “fine with the gays,” but don’t think we need any “special rights,” having failed to actually familiarize themselves with the actual issues at hand.)

But what these guys don’t get is that talking about my basic rights to be treated like a human being isn’t the same as talking about whether or not someone should be able to spark up on the street corner or own a grenade launcher (solely for hunting purposes, of course).

Yes, there should be public discourse and sharing of opinions regarding matters such as legalized marijuana, gun ownership, abortion, taxes, religion and any countless number of other controversial topics. If an NFL player wants to hop on Twitter and tweet “Taxes suck” then by all means let him. (He certainly won’t get any argument from me on that one.)

But what all the middle-aged straight guys on sports radio don’t understand is that when someone like Jones tweets “Horrible” or when former Ole Miss hoopster Marshall Henderson tweets “Boycotting sportscenter til this michael sam nasty ass s—t is off…My brothers are 7 and 11 and saw that!!! #sickening” what is really being said is “I hate gay people.”

And when people say that they hate gay people, what they’re really saying is that they don’t think gays should have the right to marry; that it’s OK for people to be fired from their job simply for being gay; that they’re all for allowing businesses to discriminate against gays; and, in some of the more extreme cases, that they don’t believe gays have the right to live. And none of that is OK.

If you’re among those bashing us “thought police” types, try substituting the word “black” for the word “gay” in the prior paragraph and see how offensive it sounds. Ooooh, so that’s what we’re all upset about! (If only it were that simple to persuade them, huh?)

If a white NFL player had commented on an image of African-American NFL quarterback Robert Griffin III kissing his white wife by saying, “I don’t want to see that nasty ass n—-r kissing a white woman on ESPN!!! #hanghimhigh” I’d venture a guess that the NFL would have acted swiftly in fining, suspending and/or sending said ignorant white player to “sensitivity training.” So why is it so unreasonable to expect the same in the instances of anti-gay remarks? Answer me that, Mr. middle-aged straight guy sports radio talk show host and blogger!

What it comes down to quite simply is one word – discrimination.

Just because marijuana isn’t legal everywhere doesn’t mean it’s being discriminated against. And just because every gun hasn’t yet found a home doesn’t mean it’s being discriminated against either. It’s OK to voice your opinions “for” or “against” such things. Heck, you can even be for some types of guns and against others; I don’t care. And you can be pro-medical marijuana, but anti-recreational marijuana – tweet away about such things and be as self-contradictory or irrational as you choose. We in the “LGBT mafia” won’t care.

But note that we are not “things;” we are people. And it absolutely isn’t OK to discriminate against people or to be “for” some and “against” others simply because their DNA differs from yours.

You know what’s most remarkable about all of this is that while we’ve made it illegal in this country to discriminate against items that are simply “beliefs” (e.g., religion), we have yet to make it illegal from coast to coast to discriminate against people for simply being born with a given genetic composition. Sure, we took care of it in regard to skin pigmentation (at least from a legal standpoint), but we have yet to do the same for those born with the gay gene.

So middle-aged straight guy sports radio talk show hosts and bloggers, I’m sorry. The world it is a-changin’. It’s not OK to use the “n-word” anymore, wives aren’t the only ones cooking dinner and taking care of the kids these days and it’s not alright to discriminate against the LGBT community either. We’re here, we’re queer and we’re demanding our inalienable rights as human beings. If that makes us “bullies,” so be it. (Actually, we know it doesn’t make us bullies and we’re amused by your attempts to misappropriate the word in an effort to bolster your feeble argument.)

We’re not trying to squash anyone’s right to free speech or stifle open discourse. But our rights are not subject to debate, and, yeah, we’re going to be a little sensitive about the whole thing until it is no longer legal to discriminate against gays and lesbians (and all the other initials in LGBTQIA) in regard to employment, housing, marriage, business services or in any other fashion.

You have to understand that we’re not trying to change minds, we’re trying to change laws and, as I’m sure the African-American community can tell you, the former is far more difficult to affect than the latter. So the small-minded can hate us all they want; we realize that’s not changing any time soon. But just know that we’ll likely be much more tolerant of bigoted rants and social media posts once our rights are fully protected under the law.

So, middle-aged straight guy sports radio talk show hosts and bloggers, do you get it now?

The post Thought police, the LGBT mafia, bullying in the wake of Michael Sam first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY CINDY ZELMAN

If you’d asked me twenty years ago about LGBTI people in Uganda, I would have said, “Where is Uganda?” Today, I count some Ugandans as good friends, and my friends are in big trouble.

On a recent Sunday, I texted with Bryan, a 32-year old gay man from Uganda, who said, “I feel great today, not stressed at all. I ate a good meal.”

Bryan does not always feel so good. Often he cannot fall asleep and is up in the middle of the night worrying about what will become of his life. He does not get to eat a good meal every day. Some days he has no food at all. He said, “I’m embarrassed to admit to people that I don’t eat because I don’t have money to buy food.”

Where once he had a home, Bryan now lives in this slum of Uganda, in a one-room shack.

Bryan was chased out of his job when his co-workers discovered he was gay. He now lives in the slums of Kampala, the capital city of Uganda. Often Bryan is starving and scared because being gay in Uganda is dangerous, especially with the passage of the Anti-Homosexuality Bill that punishes gays with up to a life-sentence in prison. The bill also punishes anyone who knowingly rents apartments to them or hires them for a job, so the LBGTI population is essentially left poor and homeless.

Many gays are now in hiding in Uganda, or trying to escape the country altogether, since passage of the bill late in 2013.

Bryan once held a solid job as a secretary for an organization in Uganda that helped people in need. He played soccer. He had a home and a lover and a regular life. Today, the best he can hope for is a good meal. “It’s because of you, Sis,” he said to me, about his full belly because I am the one who wired him money so he could afford food.

Although the money helps him to eat, it isn’t yet giving Bryan a better life, and it is not a long-term solution.

I have come to know several gay and lesbian Ugandans via Facebook (Facebook has to be good for something) and I have grown very fond of them. I got to know them well before the Anti Homosexuality Bill was passed, and for a long time, they tried to fight for their rights in an extremely homophobic society.

Gay Ugandans supporting gay rights for Russians. But who is supporting the gay Ugandans?

Harold, the other man I am trying to help, was once a gay activist in Uganda. He took part in pride parades and various events to improve the lives of the LGBTI people of his land. I have heard from his peers that he tried to do everything he could to help gay people in his country. He was jailed and beaten more than once for his efforts. The last time I was in touch with Harold, he was borrowing someone’s phone so he could email me. He was homeless, near-starved, and wandering the streets of a small city in Uganda. “It’s 3 a.m. here,” he wrote. “It’s freezing in the streets. I will get pneumonia.”

He had no shelter. “I don’t know where to go. I’m not asking for money, just asking if I can share food with Bryan.”

I wired Harold money to get him to Kampala where he has a friend to stay with, to buy some food, and to get healthy. The plan is for Bryan and Harold to meet up and escape Uganda for South Africa once funds are raised. There are other Ugandans waiting for them in South Africa, offering their new home as a place to stay. Although the Ugandans who fled to South Africa are refugees, they have successfully found work and apartments. The only country in Africa I know of that is offering asylum and refugee status to the LBGTI people of Uganda is South Africa, a country that protects gays by law, thanks in large part to the legacy of human rights activist Nelson Mandela.

Uganda is among the worst of the worst countries in which to be queer. How did things get so out of control? As is usually the case, white colonialism in the past, and current misguided American religious fundamentalist missionaries, have had a hand in making life miserable for these people.

At the prompting of such American missionaries, the Uganda Parliament had been trying for several years to pass a “Kill the Gays,” bill. They toned down the punishment due to international pressure, but the Ugandan Parliament passed the Anti Homosexuality Law instead, calling for severe prison sentences (up to life in prison) for being gay.

The speaker of the Parliament, a woman named Rebecca Kadaga, said passage of the bill was a “Christmas gift” to the people of Uganda. The President, after failing to get scientific “proof” that homosexuality is a defect at birth, signed the bill. The national tabloids in Uganda published photos of the “Top 200” suspected gay and lesbians in Uganda (which included Harold and Bryan) so they could be identified, punished, arrested, beaten etc. At the end of March this year Uganda had a “pride” celebration, which meant they had a parade to celebrate the passing of this heinous law.

Bryan said the atmosphere during the parade was terrifying, as the media and the authorities encouraged a mentality of animosity and hatred, and encouraged the beating and torture of the gay population, even of those just suspected of being gay.

Recently, I had a chapbook published, “What’s in a Butch’s Purse and Other Humorous Essays.” For the most part, this is a book about my special talent for having dysfunctional romantic relationships, told in a wry and light tone. It didn’t occur to me as I was writing the essays, or when the book was accepted, that someday, I would connect it to the atrocities being thrust upon the LGBTI population of Uganda. But I am using the book as a “perk” to raise money for Harold and Bryan – and others after I can get these two friends safely out of the country. There are two ways to give – on the Indigogo Campaign where I am looking for just $5-$10 contributions from numerous people to raise enough money to get these men to South Africa. Or for a $12 contribution, you can get a copy of my chapbook as a perk.

Although it is a slower way to raise funds, I am also donating all the proceeds from “What’s in a Butch’s Purse and Other Humorous Essays” to help the persecuted LBGTI population of Uganda by feeding those left in poverty until they can find a way out or until I can raise Indigogo funds to get them out. You can pre-order a print book or download the eBook by ordering here.

Either way you decide to help will be deeply appreciated more than you know. The gay Ugandans I have met are some of the kindest and most grateful people on earth.

Note: Bryan and Harold are real people, as I’ve described them, although I have changed their first names to protect their identity while they are still in hiding in Uganda.

The post Helping to save my troubled gay Ugandan friends first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY LISA GRANITE

Two years.

That’s how long it had been since I last had sex.

A two-year dry spell would drive any dyke to desperation, and I passed desperate months ago.

So when I first saw my future wife across the proverbial smoky bar and thought “Wow, she’s gorgeous,” the cynic in me questioned my judgment. It was dark. I’d had a couple of drinks. Maybe she wasn’t really that cute. And if she was? She was probably one of the crazy ones.

We’ve all been there at some point, right? Where you meet a really hot chick, have a blissful couple of weeks and then, boom. She drops the crazy on us.

I’m no exception. I drifted from one likely prospect to the next, and those first heady weeks of discovery invariably gave way to discovering we weren’t at all compatible. I couldn’t figure out why I kept getting involved with women who seemed so amazing at first but in retrospect were so completely wrong for me (and I completely wrong for them).

Being prone to even more processing that the average lesbian, I finally realized what was happening: it was all that wonderful sex! Soon as I was attracted to someone, I was jumping into bed with her because — well, why wouldn’t I? It had taken me long enough to come out and I wanted to enjoy every minute of it. But getting tangled up in someone’s arms and legs was keeping me from even noticing her obvious red flags, let alone heeding the impending warning. Flags? What flags? I don’t see any flags. Then I’d be in the middle of a fight I didn’t understand and wondering once again what happened.

That realization was the start of that dry spell. Which was utterly terrible. I mean, nobody wants to go two years without sex. But I was tired of drama and wanted to make sure that the next time I went into a relationship, it was with both eyes open. No more sex-tinted glasses for me.

Obviously, I did wind up talking to my wife that night. She really was gorgeous, and funny, and smart, and all the things I wanted in a partner. But isn’t everyone perfect the first night you meet?

In our next few dates, we joked about how all the hot chicks we’d been with were crazy and we were just waiting for the other to bring the drama. I’m not quite sure who suggested it first, but there it was, the obvious solution: we’d hold off on getting physical — at least until we felt reasonably sure that the other wasn’t crazy.

So we didn’t jump into bed. We dated. For about two months.

Seems kind of precious, doesn’t it? More the kind of thing you’d find suggested for straight women trying to “get your man to propose” rather than something a pair of freewheeling lesbians ought to try. And there were more than a few nights when I wanted to toss the idea altogether.

But it was also oddly freeing. We spent entirely too much time talking, planned surprise outings with the sole purpose of delighting the other, and we met and hung out with each other’s friends — instead of disappearing from our respective social circles for a month. The more I learned about her, the safer I felt in being completely myself around her. Postponing sex just uncomplicated things in some beautiful and unexpected ways.

And when we finally stopped postponing it? Well, we’d had two months of foreplay, so you do the math.

That dry spell was quickly a distant memory.

The post In praise of delayed gratification first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Ask Natasia anything!

BY NATASIA LANGFELDER
Lesbian.com

Natasia is back to answer your questions about love and life. Got a question for Femme? Drop her a line!

Hi Femme,
How do you know if you are bisexual or lesbian? I have identified as bisexual for several years and now I am questioning it. I am in a committed three-year relationship with my boyfriend whom I love a lot. I love spending time with him, hanging out, having intimate conversations, I even like cuddling him to sleep. However, these last few weeks I have not been sexually attracted to him. I’ve even come to the point of faked enthusiasm when having sex with him and the only way I was able to enjoy myself was to pretend at different points that I was with a woman. I’ve never been with a woman before, but I have occasionally watched lesbian porn.

I am really confused and heartbroken. I would be devastated to leave him because he is my best friend and I can’t imagine not having him in my life. I’m just completely bummed out in the bedroom department.

Signed,
Bisexual convenience?

Hey BC,
Thanks for writing. I get a lot of questions asking me how to tell if you are lesbian or bisexual. This is the last one I’m going to answer. Mainly because no one can know the answer to that but you.

Sexuality is a personal thing and no one can tell you what you are or aren’t. I’ve written about this a little in past columns. I truly believe that labels are there to help you, not make you more confused. Labels can help you identify with others more readily, make you feel like part of a group and less alone, it can help you describe yourself to others in the light you want to be viewed in. The label doesn’t control your life, you live your life and label it whatever makes you feel true to yourself. You define yourself and you use your label to describe who you are. Or don’t. Who even says you have to label yourself. It seems to be a natural human instinct to do so, but if you want to be a free-spirited fairy queen without a label, then go for it.

Now, let’s get to the heart of your problem, BC. The problem isn’t if you are bisexual or a lesbian; the problem is that you aren’t attracted to your boyfriend. Let’s look at some of the facts, you’ve been with him for three years and you haven’t been attracted to him for a few weeks. Many couples who have been together for multiple years have ebbs and flows in their sex life. There could be other things in your life that are affecting your libido.

Before you throw away your relationship with your best friend, do some soul searching. Ask yourself some of these questions:

1. Have I been more stressed lately? Stress can affect your libido. Have you been under more pressure than usual at work? Are there issues with family members or friends that are draining you and affecting your love life.Remedy: Find a positive outlet to relieve your stress so it doesn’t bleed into your relationship. There are tons of fun me-time things you can do: work out, walk the dog, meditate, play video games, read a book, watch your favorite TV show, go out with your BFF. Anything that helps you release tension and clear your mind will do.
2. Are my boyfriend and I treating each other like family members? Relationships that are as intimate as the one that you are describing with your boyfriend might have started to change his place in your life. Do you guys act more like friends or buddies than two people in a romantic relationship? Do you coddle him like you are his mom? Does he tease you like he’s your brother? There’s no faster way to kill your sex life than by treating each other like family members.Remedy: Take some time apart, maybe a night or two and rekindle the romance. Go out on a few dates together, next time your are together make it special and romantic. Don’t take each other for granted, make sure you treat each other like the sexy beasts you are.
3. Am I bored with my sex life? If you’re constantly slipping away into fantasyland during intimate times then the answer is probably yes.Remedy: Get a little crazy. What are your fantasies that don’t involve women? Is there anything you want to try with your guy? What about trying to find a “unicorn” (a bisexual women who is into threesomes) who might want to help you fulfill some of your fantasies. Or, barring that, just ask your boyfriend if he would be OK with you exploring your attraction to women in real life.
4. Am I not attracted to any men, or is it just my boyfriend that I’ve lost interest in? This is a pretty important question if you are trying to ascertain if you are lesbian or bisexual. Again, I can’t answer this for you.

The most striking part of your email is that you haven’t felt attracted to your boyfriend for a few weeks. A few weeks out of three years isn’t anything to get too upset about, especially in a relationship that is as strong as yours is. Try to look within yourself and understand yourself better, try to get more romantic and stay present with your partner instead of slipping away into a fantasy. If a few months go by and you still adore your boyfriend in a platonic way, then call it quits and strike out on your own to discover who you are.

Good luck, BC! Let us know how it goes.

XOXO,
The Femme

Have a question for me? Shoot me a message on Facebook!

The post Ask the Femme: I’m not attracted to my boyfriend, am I a lesbian? first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY HEATHER SMITH

You’ve filled your phone with the latest Melissa Etheridge, k.d. lang, Indigo Girls, Brandi Carlile, and Tegan and Sara. So that’s it? You think you’re all set in case there’s a spontaneous queer music party on the next block? Not even close. While those more mainstream artists certainly have their place in the lesbian music collective, the multitude of new artists is growing by the day and the level of talent isn’t lacking. Don’t get overwhelmed. I’m here to get you started with a look at five artists that are sure to expand your listening horizons. Whether you’ve got a broken heart or you want to dance around, there is something for everyone on this list. Your ears will thank you.

Meshell Ndegeocello
Meshell Ndegeocello has always pushed the envelope with her music. From blurring the lines of musical genres by incorporating rock, jazz, R&B, funk and hip-hop into her sound to writing songs about provocative topics like race, sex, politics, religion and feminism, Ndegeocello, over the course of the last 20 years has consistently put out some of the most authentic and honest songs possible.

She has a new album called, “Comet, Come To Me” coming out in June. Here is one of the new tracks, “Conviction.”

Mal Blum
With quirky, self deprecating lyrics along with perfect melodies, it’s easy to connect with Mal Blum’s music. Her 2013 release “Tempest In A Teacup” manages to show vulnerability and be funny at the same time. It’s this characteristic that has given this album earworm status for me. It also helps that she is friggin’ adorable.

One of my favorites off the album is “Valentine’s Day (Let’s Stop Cheating On Each Other),” which highlights Blum’s sense of humor.

Allison Weiss
Allison Weiss’ “Say What You Mean” is full of songs that say the things you wish you could say, but you just can’t find the words. Weiss does this without an overabundance of analogies and platitudes. The songs lament about broken hearts, but over a catchy beat with completely relatable scenarios.

The skill with which Allison Weiss is able to articulate the angst over a broken relationship without sounding depressed is quite a feat and even if you’re not in the midst of a breakup, the album says something and remains fresh. This album has been in a constant rotation for me since it came out last spring, even though I was not suffering from a broken heart. Weiss is, however, saying some of the things I wish I had during my last breakup.

Check out this acoustic version of her song “Making It Up” from her latest album “Say What You Mean”.

Hannah Thomas
Georgia girl Hannah Thomas can’t be pigeonholed. Part rock and part country, she brings an energy to her music that cannot be contained. She’s been touring and writing relentlessly since she was 16, kicking ass and taking names along the way. I think that her talent truly shines when she performs live, so if you get a chance to see her perform, take advantage of it.

One of the highlights from her last release, “Goodbye On Wasted Time” is “Watch Out For the Deer,” a fan favorite that makes hanging out in a parking lot sound like a hell of a lot of fun.

CocoRosie
Sisters Bianca and Sierra Casady, form the core of this group whose music has been described as “freak folk” and “New American Weird.” Their sound, at first listen can sound a bit baffling, but the more you listen, the more haunting and lush it sounds.

What I love about CocoRosie is that they pay no mind to what they think others might want to hear and are doing this for themselves and seemingly, loving every minute of it. I had the chance to see them in New York knowing very little about them. My first thought was that it was a cacophonous spectacle. Then I really listened to them and paid attention to the layers of their sound and saw it for it’s beauty.

Check out “After the Afterlife” from their latest release, Tales of a GrassWidow.

Heather Smith is the creator and producer of Rubyfruit Radio, a podcast featuring the best in female artists.

The post Five musicians you need to know first appeared on Lesbian.com.

By the time you see this on Friday, I’ll be somewhere between Virginia and Florida, cruise-controlling it down Route 95 to visit family I’ve not seen in eons. How long is eons, you ask? According to Dictionary.com, it’s “an indefinitely long period of time,” but in my case it ranges anywhere from two years to a whopping 34 years, depending on the family member. Yeah, I wasn’t really exaggerating too much when I said eons.

So why did I tell the office “be back when I get back,” load up the car and point it south now after decades of estrangement? The answer lies, in large part, in this photo, delivered by a half-sister I’ve not seen in over thirty years.

Caption: L-R Cindy (2), Candy (15) and Sharon (4) with a cairn terrier whose name I can’t recall – circa 1977

Not exactly “The Waltons”

To say that I’m not close to my family would be an understatement of mass proportions. Time, distance, family dysfunction, disparate political/social views and lifestyles have conspired to render us family in name only. We share DNA, but not details on each other’s lives. We share faded memories, but make no time together to create new ones. We have become, in effect, strangers.

You see, my dad and sister each moved to Florida in 1979 and 1981, respectively. My dad relocated from Northern Virginia shortly after my high school graduation, accepting a job and starting a new life in Tallahassee with his third wife, my two half-sisters [then ages 6 (Sharon) and 4 (Cindy)] from his second marriage and his wife’s two young kids.

A couple of years later, my sister followed her high school sweetheart to the sweat and mosquito capital of the United States, as well. (Anyone picking up on the fact that I’m not a huge fan of Florida?) They settled in Palm Bay, married, had two daughters they worked hard to keep from “becoming too friendly with the black kids” at school and settled into a lifestyle of which Glenn Beck and Sean Hannity would be proud, but which I personally find distasteful.

What? Oh, you’re wondering about the “becoming too friendly with the black kids” line. I suppose I should explain that I come from a long line of bigots — the “N-word” and other (even more) objectionable terms for African Americans were bandied about with ease by my paternal grandparents (and, no, they weren’t hip-hop recording artists).

I’m afraid that two generations removed, my sister continues to be less than progressive in her thinking. While neither she nor her husband belong to the KKK (at least as far as I know), they weren’t keen on the idea of their eldest daughter (now 24) developing friendships with black children when she was in grade school. So in fifth grade they had her moved to another classroom, admonishing her not to make the same “mistake” she’d made in the previous class. I really can’t make this stuff up.

In any event, my aversion to Fox News-brand ignorance, heat, humidity and giant flying roaches (no one’s fooling anyone by calling them Palmetto bugs) combined with my father’s inability to talk to me about anything except work, my car and the weather since 1995 (the year I left my husband and came out as a lesbian) combined to create quite of bit of distance amongst us in the ensuing years.

Heading into 2014, I’d not spoken with my dad in two-and-a-half years nor visited him in 19; my sister was someone with whom I exchanged emails about my insane mother (she’s another column — or book — unto herself) but not much else; and Sharon and Cindy were complete strangers with whom I’d not spoken in over 30 years.

Extending the olive branch

After a good bit of hounding from a close friend over dinner in mid-January this year, I called my dad for the first time since April 2011. The conversation was awkward, though he was elated to hear from me. Caught up in a moment of inexplicable nostalgia, I casually tossed out, “Maybe I’ll come visit for your birthday this year, Dad.”

At the time, it seemed very distant. Early April was three months away — he’d forget by then, right? Memory is the first thing to go, after all, and he’d be turning 76.

Flash forward two months: my dad’s mental faculties appear to be fully intact and news of my offhand proposal had circulated through my siblings like parvo virus on a Carnival Cruise ship.

My sister and her daughters arranged to visit for my dad’s birthday and Sharon, now 41 years old and living outside Seattle, booked a flight with her husband and toddler son for the same time. (My other Oregon-based half-sister wouldn’t be joining us to make it a full-fledged family reunion as she has apparently married someone from the early 1900s who believes air travel is the work of the devil or something along those lines.)

At any rate, my fate was cast a month or so ago when I learned that my sisters had rallied. I was going to have to do this. I was going to have to get in my car, drive 14 hours to a swampy wasteland of a state to visit people I barely know. I was going to have to burn vacation time and money and get my estranged ass to Tallahassee whether I really wanted to or not.

Second thoughts

As I write this, my departure date is just three days away. I’ll confess that I spent the past weekend bouncing potential trip-canceling excuses off friends — what’s more believable: I fell down the stairs and sprained my ankle, something came up at the office, I have strep throat or my back is acting up?

As of this morning I’d not mentally or emotionally committed to make the trip, though I continued to make the necessary arrangements — getting my ducks in order at work, lining up a pet and house sitter, allocating funds from the monthly budget.

Of course, my friends, unfamiliar with the particular brand of dysfunction prevalent in my family, implored me to go. But I had a response for every appeal.

“Candy, you should go. How are you going to feel if you don’t go now and something happens to your dad?”

“I’ll actually feel worse if I do go — I’m not attached now and I’ll be more attached if I go!”

“Candy, you’ll have a good time. Maybe you’ll get closer to your sisters after this.”

“Why do I want to get closer to my sisters? They’re strangers at this point! I have friends. I work two jobs. I don’t have time to invest in getting to know more people.”

“Just go, Candy. It’ll be a nice break.”

“It’s not a nice break to go somewhere with humidity of 90 percent. Besides, I’ll just be stressed out about work the entire time.”

My mind was cranking, thinking of the best excuse to get me out of the trip, the timing with which it should be delivered and how best to assuage the guilt after delivering the news.

You’ve got mail

But then I got to the office this morning and received an email from Sharon.

The email was brief with a simple subject line of “Soon” and the following short sentences: “Wow, it’s coming quick. We are flying Thursday! Hey, are you bringing your pup?”

There was no mention of the attachment she had included with the message. I clicked to open the file, not knowing what to expect, and found that damned photo.

Instantly, I was drowning in a deluge of emotions as I sat staring at the screen, transfixed and transported to 1977. I was 15. My half-sisters just two and four years old and living with my dad a half-hour away from where I resided with my sister and mom.

I immediately remembered — no, not just remembered, but felt — how crazy I’d been about those kids when they were little. I’d had such plans as the big sister — to teach them to play softball and take them to Kings Dominion amusement park and help them with homework as they grew older. But those times never materialized as they left for Florida — and then went on to California to live with their mother — well before it would have been wise to put an aluminum bat in their hands.

From the instant I clicked on that damned picture, I knew I had to go on this trip. There’s a part of me that still doesn’t want to, really, but I know that sometimes the periods of greatest personal growth are borne from things we didn’t really want to do in the first place.

There’s clearly some sort of connection that remains amongst us. That unannounced photo and my emotional reaction upon seeing it are proof of that.

I’m also realizing that there’s more to my familial estrangement than state borders, prejudices and differing world views. I’ve found myself questioning my role in maintaining the more-than-physical distance amongst us and finding that my own insecurities may have played a part, as well.

So, yep, I’m on 95 South right now, likely with my iPod cranked, an eye out for the next Starbucks and a mind struggling to fill in the gaps left by time. I hope to fill in those memory fissures and discover a little more about myself, too, over the course of the next few days.

I’ll be back here at the keyboard to share what I’ve learned in part two when I return. Meanwhile, someone go ahead and get me on the schedule with a therapist, will ya?

The post Dysfunction, distance, disparate views: A family lost in time first appeared on Lesbian.com.