Reflections on my Final Day as a Hoosier

In August 1996 (I can’t recall the exact day) when I arrived in Indiana, I was running from a very dark time in my life, a time that very few people know about. Suffice it to say that I was making every effort to emerge from my own private and professional hell. I was simply grateful for an opportunity to start my life over. I was not happy about abandoning my family and friends in New York, but coming to Purdue to begin a new chapter in my life was the best thing I could have done for myself.

The person I am now is vastly different from the Jim who arrived in West Lafayette almost 19 years ago. I will simply list (in no precise order) the changes that have occurred in my life since my arrival in Hoosier land:

•  I am now a non-smoker (I quit smoking on December 18, 2001, partly due to my participation in a clinical trial for Zyban conducted by Purdue’s nursing program). 
• I enjoyed my first two long-term relationships. Although one lasted just a year and a half and the other lasted just a little more than four years, both enriched my life. 
• I experienced the dizzying rush of irrational passion and fell madly (and I do mean madly) in love with one of the most incredible men I’ve ever met. Sadly, that man is also “the one that got away.” I love him still, and I think I will forever.
• I won a large sum of money on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” in February 2000 and enjoyed my Warholian fifteen minutes of fame.
• I survived a life-threatening bout of pneumonia in November 2009, endured a thoracotomy, and rediscovered the healing power of love and friendship.
• I attained better health overall. I’m now committed to working out and bicycling, and I am in much better physical shape at the age of 50 than I was at the age of 31.
• I taught a lot classes at Purdue. I took a lot of classes at Purdue. I learned more from my students and my instructors than I ever imagined possible.
• In addition to my formal education, I earned an equally valuable informal education in the politics of teaching and teacher training.
• I finally earned the PhD I sought when I first arrived, even though it took much longer than I’d anticipated and it was not in the field that I’d originally planned to earn it in. I took a discontinuous path as I searched for the goal that was best for me, and I was the recipient of much gracious assistance from friends and colleagues along the way.

On this final day in my life as a Hoosier, I am feeling a unique combination of emotions. The primary one is happiness—I have accomplished two of my lifelong goals: I’ve earned a PhD and attained a tenure-track faculty position at a fantastic university. Running a close second is excitement—for my new life in San Francisco, which has long been one of my favorite cities in the US. Also strong are my feelings of determination and hope—determination to continue working hard and earning even more success; and hope that I will finally find in San Francisco (or nearby) a partner to share and enrich my life. These wonderful feelings are seasoned with dashes of melancholy and nostalgia—for the life I knew in Indiana, which surprised and strengthened me in ways that I couldn’t anticipate; for the friends and colleagues I will leave behind; for the salvation I found in this most unlikely place. Indiana has nurtured me for the past 19 years, and I wasn’t always satisfied with the way it treated me. As it turns out, however, it’s given me precisely what I needed to progress to the next chapter of my life.

I fled to Indiana to escape hell. I now race from Indiana to a place that holds for me innumerable opportunities and the promise of all that I’ve ever wanted.

An Open Letter to the 10 Pounds I Recently Banished

First, I will not say that I have “lost” you, since claiming to have lost something implies that it’s something worth finding again, as in “I’ve lost my keys” or “I’ve lost my wallet.” Besides, when we gain weight, we don’t claim to have “found” an extra 5 or 10 pounds. So as far as I’m concerned, I have ditched you—you are hereby banished from my life, and you are no longer welcome in my presence. GTFO, and don’t ever come back.

You see, I thought I had rid myself of you permanently a few years ago, but I stupidly allowed you to re-enter my life. It’ll be comfortable, you said. You know I belong with you, you said. We were happy together, you said. Besides, getting back together will be fun, you said—all you have to do is eat all the pizza, bagels, cake, cookies, candy, and ice cream you want, and I’ll be back before you know it.

And, like a desperate lover, I took you back. But you were never good for me, and as soon as you came back into my life, I knew I had made a huge mistake. You made me tired. You made me look bad in public (and in private too). I was embarrassed to be seen with you, and I would make excuses for your presence. Having you around was a tremendous burden. You held me back from doing things that I love—like working out, being active, eating healthy, being productive, socializing, meeting cute guys…and you enabled all of my most unhealthy instincts. We just weren’t a good match, but you insisted on staying around, so I started to see myself as a victim (again) of my own inertia. You were abusive and bad for me.

It’s taken me almost three weeks to get rid of you, and I’ve decided to end it. I don’t want you in my life. Let’s face it—we’re a bad match. I’m not happy when you’re around, and you could probably do someone else some good. I’m not sure who…maybe some malnourished homeless person, maybe an anorexic teenage girl—just anyone who needs you in his or her life. But I certainly don’t. And my resolve is firm this time. I’m not letting you—or your equally unhealthy and unwanted friends—back in my life. Ever.

And speaking of your friends, don’t despair. Wherever you wind up, you won’t be alone, because I’ll soon be sending lots of them to join you.  

My Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I know you’re about to get very busy soon, so I’m sending you my Christmas list early. There’s just one item on it.

I’ve done my best to be very good this year—I’ve done more than my fair share at work, I’ve made some progress on my prelims, and I’ve tried to be the best son, brother, uncle, godfather, friend, colleague, tenant, and neighbor that I know how to be. I’ve done an extra-good job taking care of myself this year, and now I’m probably in the best health of my life.

By now, you’ve probably guessed the gift that I want for Christmas. And yes, I would truly consider it a gift, especially if it lasts for years and years and brings me the kind of joy I’ve always dreamed of having in my life. It’s been a very long time since I’ve written you a letter and asked for a Christmas gift, but what I want this Christmas is something I just can’t seem to get on my own. I’ve been trying for a very long time to give myself this gift, but for some reason I just haven’t succeeded.

Now, please understand, Santa—this gift is not something that I need—it’s not something that I can’t live without. It’s just something that I’ve wanted for a very, very long time—and something that I honestly believe that I deserve.

Lots of people I know have already received this gift at some point in their lives. Some of them have had this gift for a very long time, and others have had this gift for just a few years. All of my friends who already have this gift really enjoy having it, and—as far as I know—they work quite hard to hold onto it. I can only imagine how important it is to them, because, as I mentioned earlier, this gift is something I’ve never had in my life.

So please, Santa, would you be kind enough to bless me with a partner this year? I promise to treat him with respect, to make him as happy as I possibly can, to support him, to encourage him, to help him achieve his goals. I promise to grow old with him. And most of all, I promise to love him. I know that having a partner is a huge responsibility, and I’m ready for it. I just need your help meeting him.

Thanks, Santa, and Merry Christmas.

Jim

The Love of My Life

So here’s something I’ve been struggling with for a long time, but it’s gained some renewed urgency since the recent death of an acquaintance.

A couple of weeks ago, I heard about the death of a guy I knew. I wouldn’t presume to call him a friend, because we didn’t know each other well enough to share that title, but he was certainly a strong acquaintance. We’d sometimes run into each other socially, we had lots of friends in common, and we shared a mutual—if limited—respect for each other. He was well-known and well-liked in the community, considered attractive, came from an affluent family, was successful, travelled a great deal, had lots of friends, widely acknowledged as an all-around great guy…and he died single. Yes, he was surrounded by family and friends, and a reported 1500 people attended his viewing, but as far as I know, he left behind no partner, no significant other, no “special someone” with whom he shared life, love, and home. He died, at the age of 44, never having met “the love of his life.”

This very circumstance has haunted me on a subconscious level for quite some time. Friends and family members often tell me what a “catch” I am. They assure me that any guy would be lucky to have me as a partner. They promise me that “the right one” will come along, probably soon, while I’m not expecting it, and almost definitely when I’m not actively looking for it. I spend a lot of time and energy trying to meet good guys, I’m selective about the guys I spend my time with, and I refuse to “settle.” I have a pretty high opinion of myself, and I think I deserve someone who’s worthy of my time, energy, heart, and mind.

But it hasn’t happened yet. In fact, it’s never happened. Last month, I turned 47. I’m one of the smartest guys I know, I’m fairly successful, I’m a responsible person, I’m healthy, I’m attractive (especially now that I’ve busted my ass getting into shape), I’m well-groomed, popular, have a variety of interests, good sense of humor…the list goes on. Let’s just say that I would definitely date me.

On paper, I would seem to be a strong contender for Lafayette’s (or Indiana’s or the Midwest’s) Most Eligible Gay Bachelor. So why is no one beating down my door to ask me on a date? Why do I seem to draw interest only from guys in their 60s, or guys who are grossly overweight, or guys who’ve never had their act together? Why the hell am I still alone?

In a recent email to a former contender for the “Love of My Life” (he is now happily partnered to someone else and living many, many miles away from me—and I’m totally happy for him. No, really. I am. I swear), I wrote the following, in response to his question, “What do you think will make you happy?  Do you think adding anyone to your life will improve it?”:

“I want someone I can turn to when I need support. Someone I can pour my heart out to. Someone who will help me and love me. Someone for whom I’m a priority. Someone to fall asleep next to every night and whose embrace in the morning will make the start of my day just a little happier, a little easier. Someone to call when I have good news to share. I don’t honestly think I’ve ever had that in my life. I’m tired of being lonely. I’m tired of always being the strong one. I’m tired of being the only person I can ever really rely on. Even friends keep leaving. I want someone who will choose to stay with me.”

Yet even admitting that makes me feel weak. The last thing I want is to come across as a gaping black hole of emotional need. But, in the words of a great singer and lyricist from Manchester, “I am human, and I need to beloved—just like everybody else does.”

I see lots of happy couples—both gay and straight—and I’m thrilled for them. I certainly don’t begrudge anyone the love that he or she deserves and the love they’ve made together. I just want it for myself—and for my future husband. Who I have to believe is still out there somewhere. I just haven’t met him yet.

I Did It

On January 16, 2012, I weighed 237 pounds. Today, a mere 4 ½ months later, I weigh 177 pounds. I’ve lost 60 pounds, or over 25% of my body weight. I wish I had some secret magic formula to share with you that explains how I did it, but the truth is pretty boring—I exercised a lot, I ate a lot less, and I believed in myself (an iPhone app called “Lose It!” was a huge help, too). The interesting part—to me, anyway—is the effect that my body transformation has had on almost every aspect of my life.

First of all, I feel great. Amazing. Outstanding. Magnificent. Every aspect of my physical being has improved as a result of my weight loss. My digestive system feels better than I can ever remember it feeling (probably because I’m not stuffing it with absurd amounts of carbs and other toxic crap), walking and moving around feel almost effortless, and my sleep is deep and peaceful. (I also tend to get chilly more easily, and because there’s a lot less padding on my formerly ample ass, I’m learning anew how to sit comfortably.)

My appetite has changed as well. I still enjoy sweets and cakes and ice cream and other rich foods, but I enjoy less of them. I’m fairly certain that my stomach capacity has shrunk and that I’m far more in tune with my internal organs, so I’m much better at estimating how much food will make me full—before I’ve actually eaten it. And that’s definitely a good thing. Because, in the past, Big Jim (that’s what I’ve chosen to call the pre-January 16^th me) wouldn’t realize he was full until he’d already eaten more than enough to make him full. Now, when I do get full, I’m more likely to load up on fruits, vegetables, and high-protein foods. Fear not—I promise not to become a macrobiotic food Nazi.

I’m now addicted to physical fitness in a way that would have horrified sixth-grade Jim, who trembled in abject terror when it came time for gym class. If I don’t break a sweat at least once a day, if I’m not cycling 15-20 miles (often more), or if I’m not lifting weights, my body just doesn’t feel right.

I’ve also noticed that people I encounter are much nicer to me—they treat me with more respect, smile at me more often, and are just more pleasant in general. Now, I’m not sure if this happens because I happen to be in a much better mood nowadays and they’re just responding to my increasingly charming demeanor or whether they’re simply treating me better because I’m in better shape. Whatever the reason, it’s proof that our society is biased toward fit, attractive people (shocking, I know).

My transformation has also triggered some introspection. I’m now training myself to think of myself as Fit Jim rather than Big Jim. Perhaps this is my version of a Mid-Life Crisis (hey, it’s a lot more affordable—and healthy—than buying a sports car), but it’s tough, at the age of 47, to alter my perception of myself. Yet I have no choice—I’ve donated all of my now clownishly large old clothes to Goodwill, I’ve purchased an entirely new wardrobe of clothes I never would have been brave enough to wear before January 16, and the mirror (which I seem to be unable to resist nowadays) constantly provides incontrovertible proof that I’m no longer the man I used to be. I’m now a much more fit and attractive—one might even say better—version of myself.

And I worry a bit too—not because I fear I might revert to my old ways and erase all the progress I’ve made. The habit change feels permanent, much like it did when I quit smoking over 10 years ago, and I enjoy the benefits of being fit too much to give them up now that I’ve worked so hard to achieve them. I worry that losing 60 pounds might not be enough. And I’m not alluding to a desire to lose more weight (although an additional 5-10 pounds would be fine). I’m worried that I’ll no longer have any excuses for being single. Full disclosure here—before I lost the weight, my default explanation for why I’ve never really been in love, why I hadn’t met the love of my life, why I’ve never really had a partner who was mad about me…well, I always figured it was because I was a chubby guy who might have been sexy in the abstract was never really physically sexy. Now that my inner sense of sexy is fairly accurately reflected on the outside—and let’s face it, I look DAMN hot now—I’m fresh out of excuses.

And so it’s with some trepidation that I face the future that awaits me as Fit Jim. I am quite excited to meet lots of people who never knew me as Big Jim, and I’m eager to kick off what I’m hoping will be a fun summer with this weekend’s trip to Chicago, where I hope to meet lots of hot men who will fall madly in love with me, throw themselves at my feet, and beat each other to a bloody pulp just for the privilege of my company. But I’ll be happy if just one good man is interested enough to want to get to know me.

Queering Religion

As difficult as it was for me to come out as gay when I was not yet 23, it has been even more challenging to come out as an Atheist. A comparison of the two coming-out processes has left me with some interesting insights (ok—at least I think they’re interesting).

Although self-identifying as an Atheist has resulted from a process of struggle, reflection, seeking knowledge, understanding, and self-acceptance—just as self-identifying as gay or queer did—one important difference emerges.

For as far back as I can recall, I have always known that I am gay/queer; I have always been attracted to men and masculinity, I have always lusted after attractive guys, and I have always wanted to have a boyfriend/partner. Although I tried and tried to be heterosexual—I flirted with girls, dated them, made out with them, even had sex with them—it just didn’t work. It wasn’t for me. It never felt right. It was always awkward, forced, unnatural. Coming out meant, in part, that I finally gave myself permission to stop trying to act as if I were heterosexual and that I could begin to enjoy being myself. It was a huge first step in a lifelong journey that continues today (if you don’t understand “coming out” as a never-ending process, we should talk—or maybe I could blog about that some other time). The real transformation in coming out lies in its incredible power to allow me to celebrate and rejoice in the very aspect of my identity that once caused me unbearable misery and emotional pain—my sexual orientation. As my good friend Will once said, “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

I grew up thinking it was good to believe in God. I attended Catholic school through 8^th grade. I was even offered a full scholarship to one of the most prestigious Jesuit secondary schools in NYC—Regis High School. I turned it down. I’m not quite sure what my reasoning was at the time, but I do remember feeling that it was not the right fit for me. I was also simultaneously terrified and thrilled at the prospect of attending an all-male private secondary school in Manhattan. But ultimately, I was more terrified than thrilled, so I said “No thanks.” I also declined admission to at least three other Catholic high schools (St. Francis Prep, Archbishop Molloy, and Christ the King). I attended a public high school, Hillcrest, in Jamaica, Queens.

I’m pretty sure that turning down a scholarship to Regis was the first step in my “coming out” as an Atheist, although I can recognize that only in retrospect. Although I would continue to self-identify as a Catholic for many years, I know that’s when I began questioning the value of faith in religion. Any number of circumstances surrounding my childhood and family life could have served as a catalyst for this doubt, but the death of my father—and the subsequent hypocrisy of allegedly religious friends and family members—accelerated my journey to Atheism.

So here’s the crux of the difference between coming out as gay/queer and coming out as an Atheist. Whereas I am sure that I have always been gay, I am likewise sure that I have not always been an Atheist. I used to be Catholic; now I’m an Atheist. Based on what I learned, what I observed, and what I thought, I decided to abandon the Catholic faith, and all religion for that matter (for numerous reasons—again, that’s a topic for another blog). I used to think that this was a pretty simple matter. Belief in religion is a matter of choice; I chose not to believe. End of discussion. Or so I thought.

My emerging Atheism has paralleled my growing knowledge of queer theory and what it means to be queer (and not just gay). Although I might feel (emotionally, in my gut) that I will always be unequivocally attracted to men only, intellectually I do believe in the unstable, ever-changing sexual orientation/sexual identity posited by queer theory—the idea that neither sexual orientation nor identity is permanent and fixed and that we all inhabit various loci on the sexual continuum at various times. Therefore, yes, I do believe that it’s possible for someone who identifies as heterosexual to, at some later point, identify as gay or lesbian. In fact, I have seen it happen numerous times. So sexuality is fluid.

Then I watched an episode of “Our America with Lisa Ling” on the Oprah Winfrey Network (please bear with me on this—I promise it will make sense). In the episode, entitled “Pray the Gay Away?”, Ling focused on Exodus International, the infamous religious organization that (depending on which propaganda you choose to believe) does or does not promise to help gay men and women “become” heterosexual. Although much of the rhetoric spouted by the leaders of Exodus and other “ex-gay” ministries was ignorant and revealed a rudimentary (at best) understanding of human sexuality, I began to question the underlying assumption upon which Exodus International’s mission is based—that a gay person can become straight. And then my analytical brain kicked in—“Well, smarty pants, if a straight person can ‘come out’ as gay, why can’t a gay person ‘come out’ as straight? Does coming out only work in one direction? If you really do see queer theory as a useful framework for understanding sexuality, shouldn’t the fluidity of sexual orientation and identity account for all variations, whether it be straight-to-gay, gay-to-straight, temporarily bisexual, bi-curious, heteroflexible, pansexual, omnisexual, etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum…?” Or does it all just boil down to behavior, and labels be damned? (Ah, yes, I can hear Judith Butler whispering in my ear…”Performativity, Jim. Performativity…”).

So now I’m in a quandary, which, some might argue, is precisely the point of queer theory. You can’t truly be a queer theorist until you know what it is that you don’t know.

Everything But The Gay

This blog entry will be a blatant violation of my “scholarly” self—it will describe a severe disconnect between my academic, professional beliefs and my personal preferences. So allow me this disclaimer, in the words of America’s great gay poet, Walt Whitman:

“Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)”

My scholarly self believes in queer. I believe that any absolute can easily be undermined, any essentialized identity can easily be queered—in fact, I believe that queered identities are more common than absolute identities. As an academic, I believe in transcending binary thinking. I believe that we are never either one thing or another—we all occupy shifting positions along any conceivable spectrum: gay-straight, male-female, masculine-feminine, intelligent-ignorant, neat-messy. You get the idea. I truly believe that if more people on this earth understood and promoted these ideas, as a human race, we would have far fewer problems than we do now.

That’s what I want for the human race, for the world—I want everyone to accept and celebrate diversity and difference, to fight for inclusion, to open themselves up to the possibilities of difference.

As for myself, I want a man.

Let me be more specific—I want a masculine man. I want a man who reeks of testosterone. I want a man who looks, acts, sounds, smells, and feels like a man. I want a man whose body is covered with hair in all the places where you’d expect a man’s body to be covered in hair. I want a man who loves sports, theater, film, literature, music—culture of all kinds, really—who loves to cook, kiss, cuddle, and do romantic, thoughtful things for me. I want a man whose identity and behavior encompasses the full range of masculine, whose every cell permeates the various dimensions of masculinity. I want a man who’s more of a man than I am.

Usually, when I encounter a man who approximates this idealized vision of mine, that man turns out to be straight, which means—to me—that he’s not quite masculine enough for me. My idealized vision of masculinity is a masculinity that desires masculinity—a gay masculinity, so to speak. Most of the men that I’m attracted to fall just short of this—they’re Everything But The Gay.

Now I know that these desires are heretical to my queer sensibilities and that I am making myself vulnerable to accusations of heteronormative complicity—but I ask you—isn’t admitting these desires, these desires that counter the fluid ideations of queered identity—isn’t that admission a pretty queer thing to do?