I'm. Coming. Out.

So, I've been coming out at work though a long, intensive, very hesitant process. Initially I told the two people I was closest to. Then I didn't say anything to anyone for a while. I told my supervisor on Monday. The conversation pretty much had the tone of me explaining that I would be switching from Exxon to Shell gas from now on... As I told my friend, my supervisor just kind of nodded... it seemed like she was thinking, "Why the fuck are you telling me? I don't care what kind of gas you use!" Fortunately, she also told me to make sure I didn't allow people to harass me in any way because I felt too intimidated to do anything about it. I love my supervisor. :) Anyway, my final plan was just having the two people I told initially spread it for me. It's not that I'm lazy... seriously, as outgoing and happy as I am a work, I was deathly shy for the first two weeks and probably spoke a total of 3 words in that time... I really don't like being the center of attention (contrary to popular belief) and I don't like to disappoint people or have them dislike me... particularly for petty shit. Hopefully after this initial 'excitment', people will just call me Ethan, and we can move on from there. Even more hopefully, there won't be any excitement, can just finally be myself around them and no one will notice. We'll see.

Do Black Men Eat Bananas?

This past weekend, I moved from my parents' house in the heart of suburban Northern VA to my decently sized apartment the next city over. But where I was one of a handful of minorities in my old neighborhood, people of color tend to dominate my new dwelling space (mostly Hispanic... which means I will have to dig up some Spanish from my 8th grade memory..."Hola, Jose!" There are a lot of hot guys in my neighborhood. I digress...) Em... oh yes. So, I don't know if it has to do with going from seeing very few men of color to suddenly seeing them everywhere, but I've recently rediscovered my racial self-consciousness. Wait, maybe that's not the phrase...but I've become very aware of my color and the gender I am presenting and comparing myself to those around me.

In typical day, I ask myself, "Do grown black men often babysit autistic white boys?" "Do grown black men put their hands on their hips when they pump gas?" "Why am I the only black man in the produce section of the supermarket? Do black men eat bananas? Why are those women staring at me?" That last question could actually be attributed by the fact that an increasing number of women of reproductive age have been looking at me, trying to guess my gender. I'm sorry, but I have no sperm, ladies. Nor a particular desire to procreate... with you... Hmmm. They could also be looking at the fact that I'm the only black male handling bananas. (They could ALSO be curious to know why I have not 3 or 4 bananas, but 10-12 bananas in my basket. Because I'm a vegan, and that's how I roll...)

I have often lamented how my dad and I were NEVER close, and how now more than ever I need him to teach me the Way of the Black Man. It seems, though, that more often than not each must find his own way. And I suppose that I could get hung up on separating negative stereotypes from positive stereotypes... but in the end stereotypes are stereotypes, and I gotta do my thing. (Okay! I gotta do my THANG! Geez...) For serious, it's not a bad thing to be a black man who eats healthy, who tries his best to support those with special needs (regardless of race or gender!) in his community, who doesn't drink or do drugs, who spends more time in academia than prison, and who DOESN'T GIVE A SHIT WHAT PEOPLE THINK ABOUT THEM.

I mean for real. It's time to get crunk, G.

A NEW Miss Theresa!

One of my jobs involves babysitting a high-functioning 10 year old autistic child. He's really awesome and constantly surprises and amuses me with the observations, connections, and conclusions he makes in his daily life. For instance, back in the winter his mom had his bathroom (along with a few other rooms in the house) remodeled. With the walls painted, a new bathtub, vanity, and tiled floor, he insisted on smiling and saying, "it's a NEW bathroom!" (One of the lightbulbs in the room was out--it wasn't screwed in all the way-- so when I screwed it all the way, he was laughing hysterically about having "a NEW lightbulb!" He also woke me up at 3 in the morning with his giggles when I spent the night because he was so excited about this concept of 'new'.) He also has a really great memory and ability to discern difference. If I change the pizza sauce on his pizza even slightly, he will notice, get pissed, and of course, not eat it. (And 10 years from now he will be able to tell me the exact date that I fucked up his pizza sauce! LOL.)

So what does this have to do with me? This past weekend I spent the night while his mom was out of town. Sunday morning we woke up, had breakfast and such, and got ready to go to Barnes and Noble when he suddenly turned to me, very excited, and said (pointing to my face,) "It's a NEW Miss Theresa!" Haha, so he had finally noticed that there was a very distinct difference from the person whom he met back in August when I first started working with him, and now. Fortunately, of the things he does obsess over, my physiological change isn't one of them. One good thing about working with him (for me, not for him) is that he mixes up "I" and "you" all the time, so he just uses names to differentiate who he's talking about... which is great when he's at the store and begins talking about "Miss Theresa" (in 3rd person) and I can just pretend that she's someone who's not there.... (and not me.)

The problem is, observant little child isn't the only one... and as my facial hair (read: sparse sideburns) is growing in, I will be forced to come out sooner or later. It's much easier to explain to children than adults, "Really, I'm the same person. I'm just a NEW me!"