Matthew Annis' Journal

A Day at the Mall

2009-03-04T00:06:00.003-05:00

Today, I took my car to Sears Automotive for a bunch of repairs. I knew it would be several hours before the auto technicians would be finished with my car so I decided to take a tour of the mall. Until this afternoon, I have not spent more than a few minutes at a mall for many years. The reason for this is that I have had a very tense relationship with malls: on the one hand, they are convenient places for people to spend an afternoon to and their money. They offer a wide selection of merchandise, some of which are necessary (like glasses and shoes) and some of which are unnecessary (like designer cell phone cases and certain wall art pieces that depicts water falls in motion). They also have a selection of restaurants, pretzel shops, and cozy coffee shops to relax at, so one may indulge in a complete shopping experience. Moreover, during the Christmas season, shopping malls come equipped with Santa Clauses and Christmas music so its patrons can claim to have been part of a celebrated event or of Americana.

On the other hand, once one gets past the shiny floors and the decorated store front windows, the piped in musak and the salty pretzels, and the carousel ride and the Tom Wahl’s, one will experience a sense of ennui: every mall has an Abercrombie and Fitch, a Victoria’s Secret, a Gloria Jean’s Coffee Shop, a Yankee Candle, and a J. C. Penny, and many other chain stores. Some malls have two stories, some malls have an elegant central court, some malls have a fancy elevator, and some malls have stores that other malls don’t but every experience at a shopping mall is a gradation of a singular base model.

Why do we flock to malls, then? What sort of purpose do malls provide us that we dedicate countless hours of our time there? When I was younger, I would get excited at the thought of going to the mall, especially if I was going to go to a mall which is fancier than other ones. Now that I am older, I realize that I was so attracted to the mall because I wanted to have so many things that it offered, like toys or nice new clothes or electronics. For some while I liked just being at the mall. I used to fantasize I would meet someone interesting at the mall. That fantasy never came to fruition. Nevertheless, one needs not have a purpose to go to the mall: one might feel like walking around aimlessly, killing a few hours before returning home or to work. Older people exercise while enjoying the scenery of the latest shopping ads and of various potted plants and trees. One might go to the mall to seek other people, such as teenagers that go to be seen.

It seems that the mall is more or less a status symbol: it represents one’s position of wealth that he or she can afford the goods that are constantly being replenished there; it represents a scene of some importance that people go there to be noticed. Moreover, the mall is a symbol of middle class America, from upper to lower. The retail stores are very middle-class and so are the people that shop there. Goods are marketed for the middle class (could you expect the upper-class to carry coupons?). One would be hard pressed to find a restaurant in a shopping mall that isn’t a chain. Upper middle-class shopping malls differ from lower middle-class shopping malls because they are not only prettier to look at but they also have higher end retail stores. However, one will find a Pacific Sunwear in both an upper and a lower middle-class shopping mall. One will find a T. G. I. Fridays in both. Every mall is more or less the same, and so are its patrons.

This afternoon, I thought I would see how the mall has changed since I last gave a damn. Most of the retail stores are in the same place. I still call the Macy’s store by its former occupant’s name, Kaufmann’s but the store is there with virtually the same merchandise being offered. Structure changed to Express for Men and then was condensed with Express (for Women) to become one store altogether. Their merchandise, which was once more European stylistically, has now been altered to attract the Gap crowd. I was surprised to see how much Hot Topic has changed—ten years ago, most of the merchandise came in black but now it offers various colorful tee shirts with retro screens of things such as Super Mario Bros. and other 80’s memorabilia—but the people I saw went from that store to American Eagle, so I made the connections. There is a section of this mall from what used to be The Disney Store to the Express Store in which I get so overwhelmed with stimuli that I have to rush past it for fear of passing out. The Victoria’s Secret is a chore to look at with all its colors and décor. Ditto for American Eagle and The Children’s Place. How can people tolerate the loud music, the bright lights, and the loud colors found in each of these stores? I suppose that it is all part of the shopping experience, the scene that they wish to be in.

The people have changed to some degree. I was alarmed to see so many guys sporting such deep tans and stylish hair walking around and standing about looking to be seen. Ten years ago these guys would indeed be seen, not with admiration but with suspicion; now they are the latest in mall fashion. I wondered if I was missing something by not wearing their graphic print polo shirts. Perhaps I should invest in some of the same hair products that they were using. While the guys had changed in their appearance, women did not. They present themselves pretty much the same way now as they did then. Perhaps they are more at ease in a shopping mall than guys are; or perhaps women have fewer choices for expressing themselves than guys do.

I wandered around the mall for about an hour and then I was finished. I thought I might purchase a new shirt but every store has pretty much the same offering: Express has graphic print polo shirts and American Eagle has striped ones, for instance. Every store has the same offering and the merchandise begins to look more bland each time I pass by the storefront windows. Additionally, I learned my lesson years ago that I do not have the right body type to feel good wearing a form fitting dress shirt, no matter how shiny it looks on me. I have hardly been satisfied with the merchandise I purchase from the shopping mall. Shirts fade too easily, electronics become obsolete in a very short time, and DVDs sit on my shelf and become forgotten after I view each of them. There is a feeling of dissatisfaction from shopping at the mall: whatever I purchase during my visit is not enough, I have to go back for more. This tee shirt needs a pair of pants to look good with. I need to get the unrated version of a film. I need more cologne. I need shoes. Socks. A new suit. Designer jeans. A toy for my niece. A replacement for the candle that burned out. I need to be seen.

I don’t think that I will go back to the mall anytime soon. It is a trap, not only to make one spend a lot of his or her money but also to sell and perpetuate a certain image of the consumer with whom I do not wish to be associated. This image is bland and it produces ennui. For every male with a form fitting shirt, a deep tan, and spiky hair, there are a dozen other men looking the same way. For every woman going into Claire’s or Victoria’s Secret, there are a dozen other girls following her. I was fascinated and repulsed by what I saw and after I left the mall, I went home, brewed a pot of Kenya blend Starbucks coffee, opened my MacBook, and immediately began to write about these people and how they live, and post it to my blog before I would eventually bury the experience deep into the crevices of the unconscious.

Bowie's "Heroes"

2009-02-17T21:31:00.002-05:00

This look has got to be David Bowie at his sexiest. Even that mullet like hairstyle works for me.

Queering the Iron Cage

2009-02-08T14:30:00.010-05:00

I have been listening to a lot of Of Montreal's music lately. I've become convinced that Kevin Barnes is the Second Coming, actually. Well, maybe the Second Coming of Ziggy Stardust. For instance, look at this short clip from a performance of "The Past is A Grotesque Animal" from the 2008 ATP vs Pitchfork concert. Barnes' outfit looks like something out of Bowie's closet. But what makes this band so great, apart from their awesome music, is their use of performance art during their shows. During this performance, one of the band members dons a Greek mask and walks to the front of the stage, holding a plastic head in his hands as he surveys the crowd. During another concert, Barnes strips down to nothing but sash and fishnet stockings and performs virtually naked. Or how about this pic of the band? They look like a outer space version of the Village People. Well, maybe not.

Today, I googled reviews of their latest album Skeletal Lamping, and I came across an interview Barnes gave for The New Gay. Since Barnes's stage persona has evolved into some kind of post-sexuality god, Georgie Fruit, I was intrigued with what he might say to a queer-oriented media outlet. Barnes' responses are playful, if lacking in substance:

TNG: That also begs the question of how you identify in terms of sexual orientation.

KB: I dont.

TNG: On the record, you say thing like “I go both ways” and that you're "sick of sucking the
dick." Have you ever slept with guys?

KB: I’ve had experiences.

Thanks for setting the record straight, Georgie Fruit. Perhaps the most insightful aspect of this interview was that it was conducted for The New Gay, a queer media outlet. Although the pictures of a naked Barnes are enough to warrant a front page spread of gay.com, Of Montreal does not seem to fit the tastes of the average, consumer friendly queer. They may be a bit too avant-garde for the consumer queer. To my surprise I discovered that The New Gay is made to appeal those that stand outside mainstream queer culture:

"While we have our differences, our common bond is that we choose to define ourselves instead of letting a narrowly defined mainstream gay culture do it for us. That is what's new about what we're doing here.

We all agree that the mainstream definition of "gay" isn't just a sexual orientation, it's a white male culture defined by consumerism, superficiality and anti-intellectualism. We don't fit into this narrow matrix. We don't want to. We choose to unplug. We choose the red pill."

While one may well call into question whether or not The New Gay is actually "unplug[ging]" from the "narrow matrix" or if it is just another form of consumer-oriented media (surely Kevin Barnes is trying to sell a few tickets and a few records by giving an interview to The New Gay), their thoughts in regards to the mainstream queer culture are poignant and necessary. The culture has indeed been shaped by consumerism. For example, since the early nineties, advertisers like Absolut Vodka have marketed a queer culture. Gays and lesbians have been conditioned to subscribe to an identity that can be achieved through the spending of a lot of money. Designer labeled fashion. Ikea. Viagra. Gay themed Cruises. Gay Day at Disney. And so it goes. Television programming has appealed to this new queer: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Will and Grace. LOGO. Films too: The Next Best Thing, My Best Friend's Wedding. Through these various sources, we see how the idea of the gay man has been gentrified to embody acute cultural sensibilities in fashion and food and drink. He has a tight and fit body. Good skin care. He makes women wish that he were straight. He encourages straight men to take better care of themselves. He is witty and popular.A great dancer. Above all, he is accepted and has a place within the larger heteronormative community.

Is the mainstream idea of the gay man superficial? Well, yes. It is manufactured, marketed, and sold to a culture that has been all-too-eager to find a place for themselves. Is it anti-intellectual? Sadly, yes. One would be more apt to find a group of gay men at a bar gossiping about celebrity culture than engaging in a discussion about how best to respond to Proposition 8. Gus Van Sant's recent biopic on Harvey Milk serves to remind us of a former time of political action and social struggle, but today's gay pride parades are less political than they are commercial. But I would argue that the manufactured and consumer friendly sphere of queer culture is a microcosm of the larger heteronormative sphere. How different is the average gay man from the average straight man who has his own tastes in music, fashion, and food and drink? The straight man is also a product of marketing forces, albiet different ones. And don't tell me that I should expect to find average straight guys sitting at a bar discussing much more than a topic like sports and sex. Perhaps a comment or two about the economy. Nothing more.

Nevertheless, I was sold on The New Gay. I have been standing outside the gay mainstream for somewhere between five and eight years now. I too was alarmed by its superficiality, bu its anti-intellectualism. I hated having to stop going to bars and clubs but I could not identify with most of the guys who were going there, and moreover, I grew tired of trying to identify with them. I read this engaging piece written by Ameriwire on The New Gay that reminds me of my own struggles with the queer community:

"As the confident (or drunk?) guys on stage showed us the neat tricks they could do with their bodies and celebrated their near nakedness—and as I caught myself enjoying it alongside the horny, flirty, muscular masses—it suddenly clicked for me why I came to ‘hate the gay scene’ so much, and why I’ve been sitting it out for the last five years or so. The fact is I really don’t hate it and I never really stopped being a part of it anyway; I just participated begrudgingly until recently. How can I deny that I liked seeing cute shirtless guys grinning, rockin out, and parading their neatly packaged groins on stage?! How can I deny that it’s absolutely thrilling for me when guys slip me their numbers or compliment my body, making me feel fantastically attractive? How can I deny that I love being a member of a group that has inside jokes that require no explanation for me, but which would be completely lost on most straight men? I can’t deny those things, they’re great. There are things that I really love about being around groups of gay men. So how did I come to think I hated it so much? What is it exactly that I dislike and how am I different?

I realize now that I’m very different in some ways and not so different in others. Yes, like almost all gay men, I love attention and affection from attractive young men; but no, I don’t appreciate the condescension, hostility, and shallow unfriendliness that I usually have to navigate to get it. I love feeling like I’m attractive and desirable and I like that many (though alas certainly not all) gay guys seem to appreciate my muscles, often even telling me so. But I hate the enormous pressure I feel to be in top shape at all times, or risk losing any value I might have had to them. And yes, like all human beings, I love feeling like I’m a valuable and appreciated part of a group . . . but I hate the fact that in gay circles I so often feel that I’m not.

The disdain I have had for Washington’s gay culture was misplaced; there was no need to throw out the gay baby with the designer bathwater. The value I get out of being involved is bound to outweigh the isolation I’ve felt by living in (halfhearted) protest. I’ve decided to re-engage the scene on my own terms. The things that frightened me into exile before won’t matter now, because I’m not gay anymore. I’m New Gay, baby."

Ameriwire's issues with body image mirror mine. When I regularly went to bars and clubs, between 18 and 22, I tanned, bleached my hair blonde, and kept my weight down to around 160 lbs. In short, I looked like a twink:

And

Although I felt attractive, I could not escape the issues that came with it. For instance, there was a common perception that I must have also been brainless (I was naive, rather) and that I was constantly looking for sex (on the contrary, I may have hooked up with someone once or twice in all my years of going to these places). On more than one occasion, I would share a drink with someone sitting by me, and after having had an interesting conversation with this person, about topics like philosophy and education, he would ask me to go home with him. I would say "no" and then this person would then leave as though we never had this conversation to begin with. Or I would be on the dance floor, enjoying the music, and then be approached by a guy or a group of guys and then have to fight to keep their hands off of me. Perhaps I was a prude and needed to loosen up. I definitely should have gotten laid more often. But back then, I was more interested in finding friends, soul mates, and good conversations than I was in looking for random hook ups. I could not shake the feeling that people did not take me seriously and I connected my failures to finding what I was looking for to my body and what perceptions about me it created within the mainstream. So, I stopped bleaching my hair, I stopped tanning, and I put on a gross amount of weight.

And

Of course, there were plenty of other reasons for the dramatic change in appearance and weight--a love of beer, for example, contributed mightily to this new me--but a need to separate myself from the mainstream was a primary factor in my need to drastically alter my appearance. I wanted to be taken seriously, even at the expense of my looks. Moreover, I wanted to concentrate on my studies. So, sure enough, the opposite happened: nobody hit on me at the bars and clubs. Then I stopped going out to these places altogether and I quietly disappeared from the scene altogether. But was I ever there to begin with?

What is interesting about Ameriwire's piece is that he acknowledges he was in error to "disdain" the mainstream queer culture. He decided to "re-engage" it on his own terms. Likewise, I was in error to disdain and then reject the culture altogether. Even if the mainstream is defined by consumerism, superficiality, and anti-intellectualism, it is a reality that one cannot escape from as it is the prominent aspect of queer culture. I would even go so far as to allude to Max Weber and his writings about bureaucracy in describing the queer culture for people like Ameriwire and other contributers of The New Gay, for myself, and for some other people as an Iron Cage that one struggles with but cannot escape from. We must learn to do with it what we can. For me, it begins with dropping a few more pounds. Maybe going back to the bars and clubs. Not worrying so much about the mainstream. And then in the cultural sphere, while acknowledging the dominance of consumerism in mainstream culture, we may also incorporate new aspects of communal identity that are less superficial than meaningful and less anti-intellectual than intellectual. We may start by looking to historical figures like Harvey Milk, whose taped last words provide a wonderful meditation about how far we have come. And then by engaging with forums like The New Gay, we may may achieve such aspirations.

A Plea for Better Bathroom Reading Material

2008-12-02T22:37:00.007-05:00

To my disappointment, I noticed that someone scribbled "FAG" on the wall in the men's room stall. While I realize that such language is to be found in any public bathroom, this particular bathroom is located on the floor of the English department. So, I expected something more creative than "fag", something like "piss-drinking cum sargeant" or "dirty whore lips". These insults are so much more interesting and so much more fun to read than something as plain as "fag". Ugh, it's like I'm in the showers with the other boys from our high school swimming class again: everyone has kept their swimming trunks on except for one boy who just didn't care. The other boys taunted him by calling him a "faggot" and teased each other for looking at his naked body. It's been done to death, people. If I had any sense then, I would have insulted the length of this boy's pubic hair or something much more interesting than simply calling him a "faggot". I might have dismissed the chance of using a strand of this boy's pubic hair for flossing, for instance. Ha! Take that you disobedient little wretch!

I demand a lot while sitting on the toilet, and a badly drawn picture of a cock and balls (with the head looking like it was split in half) and other middle-school insults like "fag" just aren't cuttin' the mustard, people; especially in a place like the English department men's room. Come on, people! Where is the sense of style? Where are the allusions? How about a drawing of the shield of Achilles with phallic images drawn on it! Arrows that point to this drawing could be tagged with something like "fag". That would be so much funnier to me. I would use that stall all the time. I would go to school as an excuse to use this stall and to see what the latest addition to this shield is.

I don't think that I am being at all unreasonable with this request, by the way: in other buildings (the ones that contain those boring sciences sudents), bathroom graffiti offers intricate arguments for and against racism, misogyny, homophobia, and just plain bad grammar. They are much more entertaining to read than the pathetic material being offered where I was sitting today.

Immediately after using the bathroom, I went to class and told my classmates about this disturbing discovery. They were not quite as alarmed as I had expected them to be. Perhaps they need to be sitting in the stall to fully understand what I am getting at. Perhaps they need an example of superior bathroom graffiti. By a person with the intellectual and creative abilities to create something of substance. Why, I have a marker. And I need to use the bathroom.

29

2008-11-29T02:40:00.007-05:00

Ten years ago, I had a habit of looking in the mirror to try to imagine how I would be in ten years. Would I have overcome my difficulties in life? What path would I have chosen? What kinds of friends would I have? Lovers? Where would I live? How would I look? Ten years later, I am looking into the mirror: I have some grey hairs now; my eyes look older, framed by deep wrinkles that formed from years of laughter (and of stress); my skin has lost a touch of its glow; I am heavier now. I see where I am in life: about to finish my bachelor's degree; gearing towards a Ph.D.; living at home with Mom again; still struggling with money. I look at my friends: they are different people now but of similar spirit. None of us are exactly where we want to be in life (are we ever where we want to be?). Some of us have accepted this sobering reality; others are hardly aware of it. Yet we cling to each other like family. I look at my ambitions: I still wish to do grand things with my life, only now I know more limits.

If I had known ten years ago, looking in the mirror, what I do now about the path I would have chosen to get to where I am now, would I have tried to alter things by changing my ways or avoiding making certain decisions? Yes. And no. I would be proud of myself for certain aspects about who I am now and I would be unhappy with myself for other aspects. I would be happy that I am still trying to do now what I wanted to do then and I would be unhappy about my continued efforts to shake off aspects of my personality that I found unfavorable even then. I am both embarrassed and proud of myself for what I have done in the past ten years. Most importantly, though, I would recognize myself, ten years later. I would be glad that I finally have a ground to stand on, and I would be glad that I am finally starting to put my thoughts into focus; even if there were plenty of bumps and bruises along the way.

Happy Birthday to me.

Ellen Hamilton

2008-11-26T01:23:00.000-05:00

I was busy filling a drink for a table when I noticed that I had missed a call. The number seemed familiar to me but I was not sure where to place it exactly; so, I ignored the call. Fifteen minutes later, I noticed that I missed another call from the same number. I called it back and reached an operator who told me that the medic alert bracelet that my Grandmother Ellen was wearing had been pushed. Suddenly, all things became clear to me and I thought that this incident had been like several others in recent memory where Grandma accidentally pushed the button while falling asleep or while getting dressed. Even though I did not take this incident so seriously, I told the operator to send a dispatch over, to be safe. I tried to get in touch with my mother to see if she knew anything, but she did not answer. After a few minutes of uncertainty, I began to panic. After a few more minutes, I left work, ran to my car, and sped to her house. I could make out the familiar lights of the ambulance as I approached her house. I ran in and found her lying on the floor, in a small pool of blood, surrounded by EMTs. When Grandma saw me, her pained expression grew cross and she yelled at me for taking so long to get there: "Where have you been!"

It has been three months since I saw her crumbled on the floor, but I cannot shake that image from my mind. I cannot go to sleep at night without thinking about the state of pain Grandma was in. I can hardly sleep at times. The "what ifs?" come to mind: What if I answered the phone on the first ring? What if I hadn't hesitated leaving work? What if I had spent more time with her in the weeks prior to the accident? More importantly, I am haunted by that hour or so that Grandma spent on the floor, with her body broken. What thoughts were going through her mind then? Did she think of her husband, Robert, my Grandfather, who had recently passed away? Did she feel alone? Did she fear?

The EMTs struggled to position Grandma on to the stretcher. Unfortunately, she fell in such a way that they could not put her on the stretcher without having to turn her 90 degrees. Since Grandma broke her hip and her shoulder, this move would not have happened without her having to deal with immense suffering. I sank to my knees and guided her through this painful process as I explained to Grandma what the EMTs were going to do, and to bear with the pain as they moved her. Grandma nodded her head impatiently and uttered a restrained cry as the EMTs made each attempt to move her. I held her hand and repeated words that she always told me: "Be strong. Be brave." After several attempts, the EMTs placed Grandma on the stretcher and put her in the ambulance.

Even now, I cannot fathom how much strength she must have had to endure such suffering. I suppose that Grandma's endurance was inevitable. She had no choice. None of us would if faced with a similar circumstance. Grandma's suffering during that moment, though, was the climax of the suffering that she had been dealing with since Grandpa's death. She could not accept that he left her. She could not accept that she was alone. As a family, we tried to offer ourselves as consolation. My cousin Amy stayed with her during the first few weeks. I offered to move in with her. My mother, my aunt, and my uncles helped take care of her. And yet, she was never the same. She wanted to be alone. When Grandpa died, Grandma could not move on but suffered in reserved silence, only now and then expressing her immense sorrow to an eager ear.

I sat by Grandma's side in the ambulance while we were on route to the hospital. I held her hand the whole way. At one point, Grandma looked at me and thanked me for being there with her. I smiled and, fighting back tears, told her to "be brave." She had to be brave (how else could she or any of us be?) At the hospital, we waited for quite some time before a room was available. Every hospital was code red that night, so we had to understand. A four-hour wait was to be expected. We only waited for about an hour but it would be another hour or so before Grandma started receiving painkillers. Once the painkillers were administered, she drifted off to sleep. A day later, she died.

A month before the accident, I took Grandma to a birthday party for her dear friend Ken Fenton. I felt so honored to escort her to this party. She trusted me like I was Grandpa himself driving her to the beauty shop or to Wegmans. When I arrived at her home, Grandma, who was dressed and asleep on her recliner, awoke with a startle and scolded me for being late. I corrected her: I was ten minutes early. I had meant to fix that clock for her (it turns out that the battery was dying). I helped Grandma put on her coat, grabbed Ken's birthday card, and drove her to the Chili Country Club. While driving down Chili Avenue, I reminisced about the times that Grandma and Grandpa took me and my brother Eric for ice cream. We would stop by Abbott's and each of us would order an ice cream cone. I had to have sprinkles on my ice cream cone. We would eat our ice cream sitting in the car but Grandma made us keep our doors open so we could hold our cones away from the car seat. I never understood why we just didn't stand outside and eat. While I was trying to figure out an answer, I realized that we had entered the town of Leroy. I missed a turn somewhere and got us lost. I tried to find a way to turn around without giving away the fact that we were lost but Grandma began to question where we were. She forced me against my will to stop by a gas station and ask for directions (even after I produced a map and pinpointed where I missed the turn). We got to Ken's party, half an hour late, and Grandma was greeted with a matriarch's welcome. As everyone there took their turn to say hello, I stood behind and watched Grandma receive everyone's kindness with grace. I hardly admired her so much as I did in recognizing how much everyone loved her like one of their family.

I could not bring myself to deliver a eulogy for Grandma at her funeral. Having delivered one for Grandpa the year before, I felt that it would be unfair to again represent in words how everyone felt. I would set subjective parameters around a grief that was so communal. Therefore, I chose to participate in the mass as a minister of the Eucharist, to be a part of this ritual that was so important to Grandma. By delivering the Eucharist to each person that loved her like I did, I felt like an agent in helping alleviate their grief. However, three months have gone by and I still find myself wanting to go up and say some words about her, about how much I adore her. About how much she means to me. These words then, represent my eulogy, a tribute. Thank you, Ellen. I hope that these words--and my life--do you justice.

They Just Want to be Normal

2008-11-26T01:07:00.000-05:00

The queers are angry and they're not letting the recent victory in California against gay marriage slide. All across the country, activists are mustering their forces to protest against the latest effort to marginalize them. And yes, passing Proposition 8 marginalizes the queer community by telling them that they do not fit in with the standards of normal society--and yes, marriage has long been upheld as a cornerstone tradition in American society. In fact, marriage is such an important aspect of society that people tend to frown upon others that do not marry. So, one could well understand the frustration from the queer community over their exclusion from this aspect of normal social living. They have been telling America for decades that they are normal people (like doctors, lawyers, teachers, neighbors); so why can't they be treated as such?

I am encouraged by the response over Prop 8 from the queer community: far from being passive, queer activists are looking to tear down fences, church walls, and government buildings to be treated equally. Locally, there have been demonstrations with more to come. Nationally, queer activists and their supporters are coming together like never before. Perhaps the most effective (and emotionally wrenching) tactic I am seeing began right after the election: I received an e-mail from HRC that encouraged queers in California to voice their disapproval to their neighbors who voted for Prop 8. By bringing the fight down to the home front, by tearing down the fences that separate neighbors from each other, and by forcing those who voted against civil rights to look their neighbor in the eye and explain why they voted "No", this fight for equality has escalated to a level that has not been seen since before the AIDS crisis. And I couldn't be happier.

As Michael Warner effectively points out in his book The Trouble With Normal, for too long, the gay rights movement has been making efforts to be "normal." What is "normal"? According to the direction of the movement, it involves gentrification; it involves the tuning down the loudness, the campiness, and the lewdness of the queer community; it involves the marginalization of those within the queer community who don't fit the description of the first two definitions (all of those that are promiscuous, people of color, and more often than not, women). You don't have to go too far to see how these efforts to be "normal" had been playing out in American culture. In television, there are the shows Will and Grace and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. In film, there's Rupert Everett's character from My Best Friend's Wedding. There's George Michael for music. And even though Ellen Degeneres is a much adored lesbian, she is hardly the butch lesbian that would call into question how "normal" she is.

Is it worth trying to be "normal"? Being queer these days is not as big a deal as it used to be; in fact, Americans have grown comfortable with queers. Well, to a point, it seems. They are comfortable having queer friends but not seeing then marry (ask Sarah Palin). And they are not very comfortable seeing them adopt children. There is a difference between acceptance and equality, and I dare say that the queer community found that out the hard way on election night. So, why try to be "normal'?

I have been out of the closet for over ten years now. I went through a phase where I was flamboyantly gay; I went through another phase where I tried to be "normal". When I was flamboyant, I was told to tone it down; when I was "normal", I was told that I was a rare breed of queer that wasn't "trying too hard", that was "normal". Well, in retrospect, I was much more true to myself when I wasn't trying so hard to fit in with the dominant heterosexual culture. Even now, I constantly hear comments about those who are too effeminate or too butch. I hear offensive gay jokes. I see homophobia that plays out in the way that straight males tease each other. And we want to be "normal".

I hope that this defeat in California wakes up a group that has been too comfortable for far too long with the idea of being "normal". This defeat in California (and other states too, I should add) serves as a painful reminder that the queers will never be "normal"; they will always be Other. They will always be compared to the dominant heterosexual model. They will never be equal but subservient. Is that "normal"? Hardly.

If queer couples wish to marry, then so be it. If they don't wish to marry, then that is fine too. What is most important is for them to have the opportunity to achieve happiness. That opportunity will not be realized through this model of society--in which marriage is a sacred institution that should be maintained by heterosexuals, nor will it be actualized through a queer movement that is too focused on fitting in with this model. Walls need to come down and bridges need to be built before equality is achieved. But before that happens, the queer community needs to acknowledge...no, embrace who they are by way of divorcing themselves from the ideology that they should aspire to be something that they are not. Rather, they should be be exactly what they are. And they should be anything but passive: they should destroy the dominant social model and erect a new one that incorporates a new sense of equality that does not still require those who are "equal" to maintain subservience to white male ideologies. There is a new America on the horizon that is more inclusive than exclusive and it makes sense for the queer rights movement to adjust their viewpoints accordingly.