June

Over the past few years, the month of June has asserted itself as a month of milestones and achievements for me. It is the month I was pulled out of my mother’s vagina (yes, this crass description is tribute to the ignorance of the Michigan legislature), the month I moved to the United States to start a new life, and the month I became a United States citizen. This year it has also become the month I have been doing a lot of less than desirable and uninvited reflection about my life, my direction and goals, and becoming much more accustomed and comfortable in my new found larger-than-life-dominant-opinionated-and-loving it personality.

 To begin with, I list my birth as an achievement because it almost never happened at all. My parents always planned on only having two children. My mother was a civil engineer, and gallivanted about construction sites during both her pregnancies, leading to a miscarriage of her second child. Her pregnancy with me followed a year later. I noted that I was pulled out of my mother’s vagina, because I was a week late,  the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck, suffocating and preventing me from breaking free of my mother’s womb. It also happened to be the hottest day on record in Cairo in 1979, the air-conditioning at the hospital broke down, and family members had to bring their spare fans to the hospital to help my mother cope with the sweltering heat, and this alien baby that just did not want to get the hell out of her body. The doctor had to stick his hand up in there, cut the cord, and pull me out. I was blue, and barely breathing, but alive, and kicking. My mother tells me that the nurses congratulated her because I was apparently the only boy born in that hospital that day. All the women in labor were on their second or third pregnancies hoping for a boy. My mother’s response? “Boy, girl, who cares, as long as it is out of there!” I love my mother.

So, every 23^rd day of June, I celebrate that fateful day, and the events that have constituted my life from then on. As luck would have it, June also became the month of another milestone in my life, 21 years after that fateful day.  Flash back to May 2001, four months before the world as we knew it changed, I was living in Cairo, minding my gay self, trying to find direction after graduating college. I mean, what the hell do you do with a degree in political science living in Egypt for Christ’s sake? Well, that month also happened to be the month the police cracked down on us gay Egyptians, stormed a nightclub aptly named the “Queen Boat”—yes, the irony of that name has never escaped me, and arrested 50 plus patrons. They put them in jail, interrogated them, beat them up, tortured them, forced them to “confess” on tape whether they were tops or bottoms, and subjected them to “forensic” exams to see if they were “used”. These exams were based on discredited methods from 18^th century France that basically said if a man has a funnel shaped anus, that is an indication that he has been habitually anally penetrated. OK, how many of you went to look in the mirror at your anus? Come on…fess up!!

Jokes aside, these men’s lives were destroyed, their families disowned them, their names were published in the papers, and they were left to rot in jail. Some of them were my friends; and some of the ones that were helping them on the outside were also my friends. It became clear that it was dangerous for me to continue living in Egypt, as an out gay man at least, but I had no choice. Fate had other plans for me in the form of a loving family that hosted me back in 1996 in Chicago. I was telling my host mother, from here on out referred to as Mom, the events that transpired in Egypt, in the hopes she can impart any advice. What came in the mail three days later was a plane ticket to Chicago, and an opportunity that I could not pass by. So, June 11^th, 2001, I moved to the United States, and I have not been back to Cairo ever since.

Nine years passed, and I went from a tourist, to an asylum seeker, to a permanent resident, and finally, on June 17^th, 2010, to a man dressed in a suit, in a Federal courthouse, with my right hand raised, pledging an oath of loyalty to the United States, and allegiance to its flag. In the packed courtroom were 140 others taking the same oath, their families, and friends. With me were my Dad (my American father, and the man I owe my life and a huge debt of gratitude), my then partner Matthew, my then boy philip, and several of my coworkers who came to support me. Unfortunately, Mom was not with us as she had lost her battle with pancreatic cancer four year earlier.  It was an incredibly momentous occasion for me, and probably the proudest day of my life.  The saying goes that one cannot choose their family, but I did. The implication also is that you cannot choose where you are from, but I pretty much chose the location, culture, and language where I wanted to live as well. It was an accomplishment in the sense that I rolled with my life’s punches, played the cards that were dealt me, and accomplished something with it. I can now say that I have lived one third of my life in the United States of America. I guess that makes me two parts Egyptian, and one part American. That, my friends, is one hell of a cocktail, if I say so myself.

So, where am I going with this anthology of momentous occasion in my 33 years of life? As I said earlier, June this year has brought with it a slew of uninvited moments of self reflection. As I look at myself in the mirror and notice the abundance of white hairs making their presence known in patches on my beard, my mustache  and my temples, I begin to reflect at my journey, and the person that I have become. I came here a frightened little mouse, with nothing but my suitcase and the kindness of others to sustain me. I still did not know who I am, and what I wanted to do with my life. Until that point, I had lived a pretty sheltered life, with well off parents (who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, and worked hard to get to a comfortable place in life), a great education in the best schools in Egypt, and a lifestyle that, while not lavish, was still better than 90% of the country. I was a mama’s boy, and I had no direction. Now, toughened by working hard; from mopping floors and stocking coolers, to a white collar job in international education, to student loans and mortgage debt, and building a life for myself, I am more comfortable in my own skin.

I have evolved into a dominant gay man, who has very strong opinions, and holds people to very high standards. In my efforts over the past several years to carve out a place for myself, I became friends with, and kept the company of many men that I did not particularly like, all in the hopes of achieving a sense of belonging. This year, I asserted myself and listened to that voice I have muffled and ignored for many years. I got tired of pretending, and exhausted from keeping the company of people that I thought very little of, and even loathed. My therapist, who I have seen on and off for the past ten years has marveled at this change; this evolution if you will. When he first met me, I was in an abusive relationship with a deadbeat alcoholic because I just wanted to feel loved. A few years later, I was in a relationship with a man that I loved dearly, but who cheated on me, and had his own demons that try as I might, I could not chase them away. And a year ago, when I went back to his couch, I was a man getting more comfortable with his own dominance, in a relationship with a man that brought out my self confidence, while allowing me to nurture and love him in return.

It’s not all fun and games of course, and I am by no means the ugly caterpillar that turned into a Monarch butterfly. I have had to cut ties with people, and I have had to assert myself, express my opinions and views even if that made me uncomfortable; and in the height of my Egyptian-ness, I have marked my territory, and stared men down with my best Achmed the Dead Terrorist impressions. Throughout this journey, the people that mattered, and my true friends have stood by me, shown their love and imparted their welcome advice. I am still growing, evolving, and discovering who I am as a person, as a man, and as a member of this community and society. But, I am more comfortable now than I have ever been, and I am grateful to all those who stood by me throughout my continuing journey.

June is a month of milestones and accomplishments. As I celebrate my 33^rd birthday, and coincidentally gay pride in Chicago, I know I will be looking forward to many more Junes, and many more accomplishments to come.

The Dash for the Sash

As the mother of all leather contests wrapped up, and contestants headed back to their respective communities, I found myself contemplating the purpose behind these annual contests, and the rituals they spawned in our community. In his speech marking the opening ceremony for International Mr. Leather 2011 last year, I recall Chuck Renslow saying that this annual festival is not about choosing the best looking body, or the most handsome face, but it is about who is the most suitable ambassador for us as a community. In his opening remarks for IML 2012, Renslow stated, “What we do tonight right here in this room will be history by morning. The very fact that you are here in this room tonight is an amazing story. It is your story. I want to encourage you... each of you...to begin recording your personal history and the history of those around you.”

One of these statements talks about the winner of IML as an ambassador to the community at large, and the other places emphasis on the individual. The two of course go hand in hand, and speak of the tremendous impact one person can have on their individual family, local community, or even their international impact. However, these statements also make me ponder the reasons one would run for a title, and compete in such a contest. Does one run for the sake of their community, their state, or country? Or does one run for their own personal reasons? Or is it both?

I am reminded of a conversation I had with a, then acquaintance, as he was contemplating running for a leather title. When I asked him why he wanted the title, he recounted service to the community, elevating the status of the state in the larger community, and spouted off all these community service projects and events he would like to start. While I admired his—what I can only describe as nationalistic zeal—for his state and community, I remember looking him straight in the eye and saying, “fuck the community, why do YOU want the title?”

My question was not because I don’t believe in the importance of community service, and using one’s awarded title to make a difference in the community; because I do. And, as we have seen from the repertoire of community service projects this and past years’ contestants have, community service is a highly important aspect of any contestant’s resume. But, I do believe that running for a title is a very personal decision, and one has to have a solid foundation of personal reasons for seeking a title in order to be a strong and effective titleholder.

A couple of years ago I decided to run for a title, way before I was ready to I think. In discussing it with several friends and acquaintances, I was struck by one person in particular. I have since come to call that person Cartman. As I went through my spiel about running for the title, Cartman kept throwing me curveballs in order to dissuade me. I spouted off community service reasons, competing at IML, and other similar justifications. After listening, and interjecting liberally, Cartman finally yelled, “IT’S A BAR TITLE”. That comment alone jolted me out of this fantasy about winning that leather title. It is a bar title, and it is just a piece of leather with letters on it, that on their own do not mean a damn thing. It is the person that makes the sash. It is the person that makes the title.

Running for a title is an intimately personal decision. It takes courage, motivation, ego, pride, humility, and a whole other basket of contradictory emotions to want to run and win a leather (or any) title. Otherwise, why the hell would anyone want to subject themselves to a furor of scrutiny, judgment, hazing, and hundreds upon hundreds of people saying “this is what you should/shouldn’t do”?  

It also takes honesty, clarity of vision, and most importantly, the ability of a person to cut through their own bullshit. Why did I run for a title a couple of years ago? In all honesty, I can say it was for validation. I was turning thirty, on the verge of becoming a US citizen, struggling to convince myself that I have found my place in the world, and wanting desperately to  believe that I mattered. I wanted people to see me, and listen to me, want me, lust after me, and validate me. I said then that I wanted to use my experience as a gay asylee from Egypt to show others like me that was OK to be gay, into leather, and be out of the closet to your community, and family. I said I wanted to be a spokesperson and a role model for that cause. While this was true, the most important of all reasons…the deeply and intimately personal reason, was that I needed to be validated. I wanted this proverbial community to pat me on the back, hoist me over its shoulders, and hold my hands as I smashed through my insecurities, and validate my choices.

And you know something, that’s fine. Whatever one’s reasons for running are fine, because it is not I, or the next guy, or the bar owner, or the guy down the street that are up there on that stage. But own it! If you are running for a title because you want to have sex, and using the title is your ticket to getting laid, then own it. If you are fat, and want to run to validate your size, then own it. If you are insecure, and want the title to validate your life, and your decisions, your looks, or otherwise, then own it. If you want the title for visibility to promote a community service project, or draw attention to a cause, then own it. You don’t have to own it publicly, or acknowledge it on stage. But, you do (if you want to be a strong contestant), have to own it privately, to yourself, looking yourself in the mirror.

As we enjoy the lull between the end of IML and the fall contest season; and as current title holders continue their community work, or whatever it is they plan on doing with the rest of their year; I invite people to think of why they ran, or plan to run for a title. Cut the crap, scale your walls, and chisel away at the protective wall you built around your pride, and your insecurities. Because, at the end of the day, it is you naked (well, almost naked) on a stage in front of hundreds of people, being judged on who you are.