I germinated in a small pot layered with rich loam. The respirating testa split, whispering softly to my now differentiating cells to trust. With radicle and root hairs, I explored, while my plumule sought the light above. A seedling was coaxed to life through a marvelously and massively intricate and interactive process that proved that the photosynthesis of life is neither accidental nor incidental. Hope was an aroma breathed out by a world of cosmic possibilities, caressed within a world of multiple universes. Unfortunately, in time, the world around me grew small, and I become root-bound. The nutrients that once nourished me dissipated, and although I valiantly sought reconciliation, the oppressive forces decimated my strength. Such was my life as a gay man struggling to embrace my sacred core. In time, with the kneading touch of gentle hands and with the alchemy of divine consciousness, the base kernel of a prosaic mundane life transmuted into the radiant gold of dawning light.
I was about eight-years-old when I first saw my father wear a tie. I looked up at him as he interlaced the snaking fabric into a credible Windsor knot. Because his job at a local trucking company as a dispatcher did not warrant any pretentious attire, I concluded that only a certain class or men brandished ties, namely professional white men I saw on our black-and-white Zenith, men whose fingernails were always immaculately manicured. Such men came home at the end of the day and sat at an easy chair, shielding themselves behind the newspaper as they awaited their supper and lorded over their kingdoms. Thus, as my father clumsily manipulated the knot, I knew it was an important day. Little did I realize the significance of the moment, for on that morning he, and in a sense I, earned our wings of citizenship. He was on his way to the federal courthouse, where after 40 some years of living in this country as an undocumented man born in Mexico, he was transformed, by his own choosing, into a new American. A few hours later, he proudly walked through the threshold of our 3-room adobe. He had left an invisible man weighed down by misidentity and had emerged like Nestor returning to Pylos. He was now free to bathe in the golden font channeling redemption upon the newly baptized although, in fact, he remained a working stiff drained by corporate vampirism. I don’t think I saw him wear a tie again until I graduated from high school a decade later. On that morning, as I fumbled with the manipulation of my own tie, he walked up to me, took the tie in his hands, and proceeded to show me how to be a man of learning, a man whose palms, unlike his, would never know the callouses of hard and dingy work. And I stood patiently as he metaphorically let me know my destiny would be different than his. Decades later, on those occasions when I still wear a tie, I can uncannily feel his fingers interlacing with mine; I can still feel his warm breath on my cheek. I can still see his eyes proudly declaring, “This is my son.”
In time, I did achieve my father’s expectations, becoming the educated man denied him. Throughout my youth he had encouraged me to be priest, even a Mason, a man to whom the world would genuflect, rather than one destined to be victimized by planned obsolescence. Instead I chose to become a teacher, not because I really wanted to be one but because my delusions of grandeur of being an architect did not see eye-to-eye with my lack of left-brained mathematical reasoning. And thus, for the next four decades, I taught generations of young people to wade through the shoals of Dickinson and Shakespeare, Lincoln, King, and Garcia Marquez, as well as how to write with urgency, with conviction, and with a need to let Spirit itself know that human reasoning is inspired by life itself. And every day I wore a tie because it was my father’s dream, because it was a symbol of the American quest, and because it purportedly conveyed confidence and power. I knotted ties around my neck that were whimsical, yet political in scope, as was a polyester sporting a lone black sheep daring to thrive amidst a flock of white sheep. I wore stately cravats that were door-openers as was my blue silk or my burgundy I’m dangerously-sensual cashmere. On occasion, I wound a black satin noose that bespoke of the renting of my heart, as when I stood before my father’s bier, straightened the tie festooned around his neck, and closed the casket lid. The sound of the latch was like the shattering of dewy ice crystals on a frigid night.
Not long ago, I accepted a position at a local college. I was ready to close my eyes, look within, and contemplate time’s Source. One of the first things I did was to shirk the tie. The first time I walked on campus liberated of my silken noose, I felt somewhat fragile. But like Francis standing unadorned before Pope Innocent III, I stood my ground, convinced my tie was not the sum of me, confident that my being would sufficiently address the crux of my truth. For decades I harbored internal doubts because as a gay man I bore witness to the stars rather than to the sun. It sapped my energy to walk on eggshells, valiantly trying to deflect the assaults around me. On the surface, I thrived, but when a man is gay and exists in a world where he has been acculturated to believe that only the validation and approval of others can give him substance, I struggled with self-acceptance. My reservoirs were diminished as sleepless night after sleepless night I sought unattainable rest. And all of this resulted to please those who imprisoned me in reduction, accusing me of infidelity because I was not the man of their vision.
It took time to reject the infernal scenario as I whittled away at the incrustations I had permitted others to impose upon me. I married the man of my dreams publically and with pride. I honed my voice before peers and strangers alike, casting down the veils that had previously denied me my holy tabernacle. I cut the umbilical cord to those in my tribe who loved me only on the condition that I spoke not my name. Of course, it has been difficult to tear into the carapace of fossilized layers I once so passively accepted. However, acceptance is like breathing in the aroma of freshly tilled spring earth pungent with the living energy of seasons no longer in repose. I was always a part of the garden around me, but only when I gave myself permission to cauterize the wounds resulting from death of a thousand self-imposed cuts, did I send shoots up into the stratosphere.
I have shunned the ties that I once wore like a scarlet letter around my neck; in addition, I have banished my shame and doubts of being gay to a domain of shadows. Only fools believe the adage that old dogs cannot learn new tricks. The fact is we, we proud gay men and lesbian women, are mutable beings capable of adapting to the undertows always swirling around us like a Mad Hatter. Awakening to my spiritual power is the equivalent of enjoying a piece of rich rum cake, listening to Bach, or sinking my toes into the sands of a Florida beach. As the Buddha found his enlightenment by sitting in immaculate Emptiness, I have found mine by dancing in radical Fullness, sans my tie.
© 1 June 2015
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