The Reckoning

 [This personal blog has covered a variety of subjects over the years...and I've been careful not to concentrate too much on any one subject. I do this for purely selfish reasons so that I don't become bored with writing about one subject, over and over. The blog has been a truly condensed version of my physical journals--at least for the past few years. I have no interest in a larger public audience so it should be no surprise to anyone that the refinement of my writing style hasn't improved much over time. I suppose that somewhere in the deep recesses of my undiagnosed narcissism it would please me to know that someone out there has derived pleasure from my writing. But, I digress. I've mainly stayed away from politics. But, this is 2020, and the past few years have been hell for me and many of my fellow countrywomen and men. Interestingly, it has been a joyride for an uncomfortably large percentage of an additional number of my fellow countrywomen and men. I've thought long and hard about this and I've heard more than enough pundits to know that there are multiple theories about why we've come to this consequential moment in our history. I offer the following to bring some clarity to myself for why "Trumpism" is a "thing." Perhaps it can help someone else wrap their brain around this craziness as well.]

I spent my formative years in the tiny town of Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. I've written about this place many times. In fact, there are several blog entries you will find right here dealing with my reckonings of being raised in this hamlet...hamlet, yes, my quaint way of referring to a place where my fears and longings regarding the world outside its limits would be formed, regurgitated, confirmed and oftentimes debunked. Interestingly, there would be many additional--mainly--fears about what fate would hold in store for me if I remained there. In fact, it played an enormous role in my decision to attempt to runaway from the place at the tender age of fifteen. Another story. 

In 1977, my devoutly Roman Catholic mother became involved in a Charismatic Prayer Group at our home parish. She was a somewhat reluctant participant--urged on by one of her best female friends to explore this new aspect to spirituality. As she brought home various pieces of literature, I was intrigued. I consumed them with all the fire of an impassioned field preacher. It played well with my attraction to drama...and I needed it. At least I thought I did. I was well aware at this point that I wasn't like the "other" boys so this could be my ticket to change. At first, she was reluctant to take this already problematic thirteen year-old son to the weekly meetings with her but she eventually acquiesced. Perhaps, deep down, she actually thought it might do me some good. As for me...wow!! I couldn't have found a better outlet for my deep-seated self hatred than to find an entire group willing to lay their hands on me in fervent prayer (in tongues as well!) and surround me with a feeling of acceptance and love. I think it would be a mistake to say that this love wasn't genuine. I believe--to this day--that it was. There is so much power in communal prayer. To this day, it impresses me deeply.

There was, however, a much darker side to this involvement. As my weary mother participated partly out of a sense of duty to her friend, I shined! I began to "prophesy" and also "spoke in tongues" and I put both of those dramatic gifts in quotes because I truly possessed neither. It was an enormous act and I played it well. Sometimes, members of the group were so genuinely touched by my words they actually broke down in tears. The group dynamic was more important to me than anything. Once the fever of it all hit you, there was little you could do but be caught up in the "spirit." And, in this case, I do believe that a certain type of spirit was actually present. The whole concept of the Charismatic movement was that one could be "born again" even though the Catholic Church accepted "one baptism" for the "forgiveness of sins." Somehow, Charismatics found a way around this. I was gladly "born again" and soon felt that it was a stamp of honor...and also a stamp of ridicule. It became very easy to become the victim. After all, it was those others who hadn't been saved--made whole again--who were lost and confused. We must pray for them. As I entered high school, I found it easy to explain to myself that my lack of popularity and general awkwardness was the price I must pay for being different.

By 1980, my sophomore year at a private high school, I was so caught up in my religious fervor that I ran away from home. Although I came home later the same day, it took some reckoning to readjust to school and it certainly didn't make my life any easier. In April of that year, one of the Charismatic nuns that had taken me under her wing convinced my mom and I to attend a "Washington for Jesus" rally at the Nation's Capital. It was at this immense gathering of Evangelicals and Pentecostals that the true impact of large numbers of people expressing various degrees of the same fervor could really whip you into a frenzy. It was like the prayer meetings on a grand scale. I wasn't listening closely to one of the speakers--the Reverend Jerry Falwell--condemning women who had abortions as murderers. I particularly didn't pay attention to the condemnation of the "sin" of homosexuality. But when I got home from that rally, I did think about those things. I thought about them very deeply. 

It may seem simplistic to compare the fervor at a Trump rally to these youth experiences of mine but I choose to see my experience as an early "wake-up" call. I was caught up in something that made me feel better about feeling bad about who I was. It wasn't long after that April day in Washington, D.C. that I came to some terms with my identity. It would take a few more years for me to come out but I think this early reckoning did me some serious good. I couldn't blame myself or others for who I was. I didn't have to blame anyone. What a relief that was. I can only hope that Trump supporters can someday come to a similar reckoning.

Washington for Jesus March, 1980. (UPI)

Thomas Boylan · Introeatingwords2.WAV

Thomas Boylan · Thereckoning.WAV

Grownup

I always wanted to be a "grown-up" when I was a kid.

It was the 1970s and I felt like I was missing out on so much. Not only did I live in a small town away from all the action, I knew that the things I really wanted to do would be gone by the time I was "legal" and, hopefully, living in a city. Any city. I like to think I was a pretty astute observer as a young teenager. I turned 13 in 1977.

I spent a lot of time watching television. As much as I enjoyed the sitcoms of the 70s, I'd often find myself watching old black and white movies from the golden age of Hollywood. I became such a fan that I could match star name recognition with my mom--who actually lived through the era. Often, I'd watch these old films with a sense of nostalgia as well as loss. How could that be?  I mean, one can't be nostalgic for something they've never experienced right? The behaviors and mannerisms--as well as the beautiful clothing--were all lost to time. So...you would think I'd be dying to escape the tackiness of the 70s. I did recognize the outré art of the time. I hated the faux wood paneling, the thick dark carpeting, the avocado green appliances and the bulky living room furniture. Now I almost have a sense of nostalgia for all of that.

Thinking back on my adolescent years I feel nostalgia for all kinds of things. The town of my youth doesn't resemble what it was while I was growing up so going back to visit doesn't feel like a trip back in time anymore. I say "anymore" because, for many of the years I lived in Texas, a visit to the small Pennsylvania town of my youth was indeed a trip back in time. In fact, it was a place where time stood still. All of that changed in recent years as the same devastation that decimated large cities of the rust belt rippled out to rural communities as well. As my trips back to Pennsylvania increased in frequency as my parents aged, I couldn't help but notice how irreversible changes were taking place--none of them good. The newsstand closed. Small shops on the main street were boarded up or torn down. The only grocery store that remained actually closed for a few years as well, forcing residents to travel several miles just for food staples. I found that returning to my little town as an actual grown-up was quite depressing. Being "grown-up" wasn't all it was cracked up to be after all--even living in the city.

My grade school years were spent at a parochial school adjoining our Parish--Holy Rosary. At some point in the late 1980s, even that closed down and the empty halls where my behind was paddled more times than I care to remember were now ghostly images where memories would have to suffice out of necessity.

Being grown-up didn't turn out to be anything as I'd expected--well, at least not as my teenage mind imagined. But I suppose I had a few prescient ideas when I realize that I was in fact correct. Those things I wanted to do and see as a grown-up really didn't exist anymore.

Holy Rosary Grade School. 1978.

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Thomas Boylan · Introeatingwords2.WAV

Thomas Boylan · Grownup.WAV

Quarantine Musings On Day 43

Today marks quarantine day # 43. With the exception of two outings--one on April 5 and the other yesterday--I haven't ventured more than one hundred feet from our little apartment. COVID-19, colloquially known as "Coronavirus", has changed life as we knew it. My fear is that the change will be permanent in some way or another. It's hard to imagine how that change could be positive.

Here in Georgia our governor has mandated that restaurants and theaters are allowed to open beginning today. Though many have opted to continue a suspension of in-restaurant dining, there are many that will resume with "social-distancing" orders to be followed. As much as I personally want things to get "back to normal" I can't help but think this could backfire with cases and deaths on the increase in this state.

I began my day on March 16 with bold aspirations. I was going to tackle all of my boxes with family photographs and continue the time-consuming task of digitizing them. I was going to do a lot of baking and cooking. I planned on journaling each day and writing regularly for my blog again. There were lots of classic movies on my DVR and I intended to view them on leisurely afternoons after reading numerous books that had accumulated on my bedside table or near my sofa. I was going to faithfully read the daily newspaper that still arrives on my doorstep each morning. There were so many good intentions. To my credit, I didn't squander all of my time. I mean, I actually did either start or complete a number of these things.

Less than a week into this new "abnormal" my husband began working from home. It's a two-bedroom place, our apartment. He typically travels quite frequently for work and, since I teach part-time, we go for stretches without seeing one another. Normally. He now must maintain communication with all of the South American countries he does business with. In Spanish. Out loud. Let's just say it's not an ideal situation for reading--even with my headphones on. Still, it's nice to be spending more time with him--and it beats being alone in isolation I'm sure.

There is a balcony. I've been able to take advantage of it on the nice days and I've filled the birdfeeders with a new selection of seeds designed to attract a larger variety of birds. The new mixture hasn't disappointed and it's so cool to see the huge variety of colors and hear the different songs.

I really can't complain. We aren't hurting. We have food in our bellies and a safe, comfortable place. We have wi-fi and smart phones and Zoom. We have clean water and the ability to take daily showers even if we haven't worked up a sweat. I check myself often when I want to complain because--really--I have very little to complain about. The fact that I recognize this may set me apart--perhaps just a little--from some of my likewise privileged counterparts--who may not have recognition of their blessings.

Am I scared? You bet. But I can't even begin to grasp the fear that some are feeling right now. For that, I'm grateful.

Easter Visit

I want to visit with you two for a bit so I'm virtually visiting your resting place. I can look at this photograph and be thankful I had the foresight to have you both pose for it.

Dad, you recently turned 95! I thought a lot about you on your birthday--although I think of you very often when something activates my memory. Even though we lost you when you were 87, I like to think about what you would be like at this age. What new wisdom would you have gained? What do you think about COVID-19 and our current political situation? You always had an opinion. I miss them--whether I agreed with them or not. I thank you for your unwavering unconditional love.

Mom, you are 97 today! Happy Birthday! You are part of my every day. Not a single one goes by where I don't think of you and grieve for you. Yes--even after 2 plus years. I watch the birds come to our birdfeeder and remember what you said about the cardinals. A male and female come faithfully every day and I like to think they are you and dad. Your prayers and your prayer journal comfort me daily. But God, how I miss our talks! There are still so many unanswered questions and family photos to identify. I'm glad we covered as much as we did when you were still with us but I can't hear you anymore--save the vain imaginings of what I think you'd say.

I'm okay. This staying indoors affords me the opportunity to do so much reading and writing. I can imagine you saying "this is your dream come true, you lazy bum." Of course, with a smile on your face. I know you are taking good care of dad and Eva. It must be great to have Aunt Kay, Aunt Bernice and Aunt Bow with you...and now René. Is there weed in heaven? If there is, I'm sure she's still smoking. Give her a hug for me. Give them all a hug for me. We can't hug anyone down here right now although personally, I've never been big on hugging. But you know that.

It's time for me to get back to my journal. I write about the memories of the last four years we had together while still fresh in my mind. It was an honor to be your caregiver.

I love and miss you both so much. I look forward to the day outside of time when we will meet again. I hope it's not too soon. I still have some traveling I'd like to do. Eduardo is treating me exceptionally well. I can see now why he became your "favorite."

Bye...for now. I hope you like the virtual flowers. I love you.

Thomas Boylan · Eastervisit.WAV

Travel Holiday Inns --All The Way

(Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. June, 1976)

The anticipation had started sometime in January--after Christmas break.

I waited patiently for the remainder of the school year to end and then the glorious days of summer would be upon us. My parents usually had at least one or two trips lined up every year and it didn't matter where the trips would take us. Just having the opportunity to spend any time away from the tiny town I'd grown to hate was enough to make celebratory fireworks go off in my head. This particular year-- 1976--was a true reason for fireworks. The nation's Bicentennial Celebration of Independence was an inescapable once-in-a-lifetime event and it was touted as such. This wasn't just any July 4th celebration. Television specials, school projects, advertisements of every sort and more than the usual red white and blue were everywhere one looked. It was impossible not to get swept up in the excitement. And we were on our way to Washington, D.C!

My sister's fiancé was graduating from the Naval Academy at Annapolis. We were to attend the ceremony but our trip would include excursions to Colonial Williamsburg, the nation's capital and the obligatory stay at my paternal grandparents house in Bordentown, New Jersey. My two brothers were busy with other things that summer. John had been attending college and working and my brother Bill had just started his post high school educational journey. This left my sister Amy and I as the backseat occupants for the road trip. Mary was already in Annapolis enjoying pre-graduation festivities with her intended, Doug. I'm pretty sure Amy would have rather been anywhere else but being the nerd of the family, I was excited!

As it turned out we were to stay at a Holiday Inn in Alexandria,Virginia for a couple nights and take in the sights of D.C. during the day. The humidity and heat were excessive that year--even by D.C. standards. As a kid, it bothered me and this was long before heat was an issue for me. These days I can last maybe five minutes without air conditioning on a typical summer day before a litany of profanity cursing the heat automatically rolls off my tongue. Our first day included the Lincoln Memorial and the Smithsonian Institution's various museums. When I look at pictures taken on this day with our handy Kodak Instamatic camera, I look miserable. I seriously doubt it was due to the heat though because I could always find a reason to pout--especially when I didn't get my way. I'm sure there were several instances of that on this scorcher of a day. I was a true test for my mother. My primary goal was to get as many free brochures as I could get my hands on. I had a growing collection back home and was eager to add to it. Pictures in front of Lincoln's imposing statue at the Lincoln Memorial captured the fashions of 1976 perfectly. Mom's well-coiffed hair fared well in the humidity--copious amounts of hairspray being the essential ingredient. There is one photo of my parents with mom in a lovely blue and white polyester dress and dad with his tight-fitting stylish short-sleeved dress shirt which emphasized his imposing beer gut. Amy looks pretty normal as a high school teenager. I chose an ensemble consisting of a short-sleeved pocket dress shirt accented by slacks--not shorts--and a red white and blue themed fisherman's cap.

(Mom and Dad at the Lincoln Memorial. June, 1976)

Holiday Inn motels were my parents' preferred lodging for road trips. Like Howard Johnson's for others, the Holiday Inn chain provided affordable accommodations which were usually consistent in regards to cleanliness and service. Every time we stopped for an overnight or two, I'd quickly set to work gathering all the small free toiletries. In those days, it wasn't unusual to find a complimentary shoe polish cloth or two. I would grab all of these items before anyone had a chance to use them and stash them into my small suitcase. I was always fascinated by the strip of paper adorning the lid of each toilet bowl reading "this toilet has been sanitized for YOUR protection." For me, it was always the little things. For my father, it was apparently also the little things...such as whether or not the motel housekeeping staff had cleaned our room and made up the beds. In this case, after a long and hot day of what had to have been miles of walking the nation's capital, we arrived to see unmade beds and no "sanitized for your protection" strip. My father was generally a pretty jovial character and especially so if he'd consumed a few beers and had an audience for a story. On the other hand, when he got "riled up" as mom liked to say, his face turned beet red and I swear there were times I saw smoke coming out of his ears. With mom's feeble protests ignored (they always went something like "now Bill, don't make a big deal out of it") the old man was on the phone asking to speak with the manager. "I don't care if they're gone for the day! I want someone in here to do the job they're supposed to do!" There were always a few expletives peppered into the rant but he was always clear to avoid the "f" word. Jesus Christ was totally acceptable. I think mom must have told herself this was his version of prayer. When he was finally satisfied with a good dose of apology from the manager, the lighter red (normal) color had returned to his face. 

"Grab your purse. Amy and Tommy, put your shoes on."

"Where are we going?," mom asked almost hesitating to hear the answer.

"We're not going anywhere. We're staying right here at the Holiday Inn. We're going to the restaurant."

It was a short walk outside to the Holiday Inn's version of a Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge style restaurant. The hostess quickly seated us and was exceptionally friendly. Handing us the menus, she said that Mr. so and so (of course I don't remember the name of the manager) will be taking care of our check. Dad had an ear-to-ear grin as he looked directly at me and said, "Order anything you want." Satisfied with my dad's smugness, I ordered fried popcorn shrimp. We all ate until our bellies were full. We were well energized for whatever adventure the next day held. 

(the one time advertising slogan: Travel Holiday Inns all the way)

Just A Small Hit

I've made it through Lent (with just a few days to go) abstaining from Facebook. Well, mostly. I mean, I still communicated with my students with another Facebook page of the "professional" variety--but my truly pleasurable addiction is to my personal Facebook page and I was certainly missing it by the time Holy Week got here. It is an addiction and it's a generally pleasurable one so it was indeed a sacrifice to give it up for Lent. I also amped up my use of Instagram in the process but, as much as I love to share my photos, it doesn't provide the same satisfaction of putting my thoughts out there in Facebookland. My lesson for future Lenten sacrifice: true sacrifice would be all social media. That would be a tough one.

One of the things I realized about abstaining from Facebook was that I was spending so much time watching other peoples lives that I didn't spend as much time on my own. My personal journey has been on hold for the past ten years. Well, not entirely but certainly for the huge chunks of time consumed by Facebook voyeurism...and of course posting both short and lengthy diatribes, positive thoughts and quotes and far more than anyone should really know about my own life claimed additional chunks of time. Was it really ten years ago? Facebook reminds me constantly with the tempting (and often irresistible) "memories" that it was indeed. The sorcery they use appeals to those of us with a nostalgic streak as well. Ten years. I wouldn't remember many of the things I was doing on this day in 2009 if it wasn't for Facebook. Fortunately, Facebook didn't stop me from my regular practice of journaling...but my journaling did become less frequent after it came on the scene.

Big question: Will I now spend less time on Facebook? Who knows? I would like to think this sabbatical has impressed something meaningful and that I'll be more cautious about the time I spend checking in and checking out others' checking in. We'll see.

Abdomination

I haven’t looked at my abdomen since March of 2016.


It’s not that I don’t take care of it. I mean, I shower daily and wash without looking. It sounds strange and I’m sure it is strange but I just can’t bring myself to look at the disfiguring scars and resultant hernias I’ve developed from three major surgeries. I am working on it. Wait…that’s bullshit. I’m not working on it at all. I’m planning to never look at my abdomen again. At least for now.


I’ve written about my surgeries and near-death experience (even though I never saw any white light or, for that matter, any proof of a life hereafter) on these pages before so I won’t bore you with any of the details.  If you really want to read those, you can certainly use the opportunity to seriously check out my blog…it can be interesting at times. In 2016 I had major surgery after what was supposed to be a routine laparoscopic procedure to correct a case of diverticulitis. Major infection occurred and a subsequent series of surgeries followed by a 70-something day stretch of time in the hospital. That’s the short version. I nearly died. So…I’m extremely grateful to be typing these words out on my computer in the month of April. Year: 2019.


Back to the abdomen. I have to say that by the time I reached 51 years of age it wasn’t what I would have called a pretty abdomen. It was just “standard,” for lack of a better word. The skin was smooth—very little hair. A furry patch of graying hair covered my upper chest and then a smooth ribbon of hairless skin—very white—followed by a seemingly normal “insie” belly-button. Below that, a single line of hair worked its way down to…let’s just say a very neatly groomed and trimmed area that had seen plenty of action well into my descent from the peak of a gay man’s life: somewhere around 25 years of age…usually. There was a period of time in my late 30s to early 40s where I actually took an interest in working out. At the time, I’d experienced some success with improving my overall physique without much professional training. I’d reluctantly (I really want to emphasize that word so I’ll say it again: reluctantly) go to the gym three to four days a week and when I wasn’t at the gym, I’d work out with a modest set of weights at home. I had developed—for the first time in my life, mind you—arm muscles and actual defined pectoral muscles! It was truly a shock but it got me some much-needed attention. At least I thought I needed it. One thing that didn’t happen however was any development of the gay man’s dream. A six pack was never in my future. But let’s just say I was happy. After all, I could still look down and actually see my penis every time I peed. It pleased me at the time to be able to look down at fairly well-developed pecs each time this happened. My mid-40s saw that zeal to work out fade away. But I was generally happier with my appearance than I’d been all through my awkward 20s and early 30s. I’d worked hard to overcome a never diagnosed illness that I’m now certain was body dysmorphic disorder. In March of 2016, I still had a full head of hair, a little paunch but definitely not the big gut so many of my fellow travelers were burdened with and a still strong and now alcohol-free libido. I wasn’t complaining. That is…until the worsening pain in my gut became unbearable.

By that time, I was married and was the primary caregiver to my still very vital and relatively healthy 92 year old mother. For me, I guess the important thing was that I’d finally felt at peace with my body. I think that’s the most troubling aspect of this “setback.” I find myself struggling to use an alternative word—something less weighty than setback but I think it’s appropriate here. This truly is a type of setback for me and I’m not over it. While the substantial portion of my colon that was removed to rid me of the diverticulitis pain worked, my resultant hernia pain has contributed a daily reminder that the weak pain management medication (thank you, opioid crisis) does little to alleviate. I’d just like to feel as close to normal as I can again but the fact that I cover myself before looking in the mirror reflects a clear message to me over and over again. This isn’t normal.

****

On a cold January day in 2015, I recognized the fact that I was single and relatively happy in my new environment. Although selfies had by that time become a regular part of my social media experience, I rarely took photos of my shirtless body. I could gladly leave that indulgence to the proud gym bunnies out there. Regardless, on this particular day, I was freshly showered and somewhat surprisingly—and perhaps a bit modestly—admiring my body, perceived flaws and all. I have no idea why I suddenly found myself on my bed snapping a few selfies. I certainly didn’t plan on sharing them with anyone. As it turned out, these would indeed be the last pictures of my abdomen, pre-disfiguration. Maybe I had a clue. It would be a year before surgery and I had no idea what was on the horizon. I’m just glad I froze that moment—digitally speaking.

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Thomas Boylan · Abdomination.WAV