The Gayborhood and The Ghetto

Ed Jackson is a photographer, an avid reader of TNG, and lives in Petworth with his "registered Domestic Partner." He is often accused of being a "Pollyanna" and belives that strangers are only friends he has yet to meet.


I think there are some glaring deficiencies in the recent column exploring the origins of "gayborhoods" that are relevant to the ongoing discussions about the relationship between the African-American and LGBT communities. I am also surprised that references to U Street, Columbia Heights and LGBT grassroots activism can be made with no mention of the populations that exist in "gayborhoods" prior to "pioneering" gays venturing into DC's most recently gentrified neighborhoods.

The statement is made that, "Partially born out of disinvestment in the city and partially born out of the pioneer spirit of disco-era gays, a critical mass of policy decisions dating back to the Great Depression left neighborhoods depopulated, but ready for new residents." The problem is that that line of thinking is myopic and ignores a few inescapably relevant facts. In order for this version of "urban planning" to jibe, it has to be based on a shaky foundation of historical revisionism and identity politics.

What you refer to as "disinvestment," has been historically referred to as "redlining." Divestment is an innocuous term for the well-documented practice of denying mortgage, business and capital improvement loans in areas that were predominately African-American. Some of the "policy decisions" to which you refer included denying GI BIll grants to African-American soldiers returning from defending our nation after WWII, men like my Grandfather. Many of those grants allowed whites to purchase homes and laid the groundwork for what was referred to as "white flight" to the "suburbs." The policy decisions also included moving manufacturing jobs out of cities and away from areas with an already dwindling white population. Those decisions trapped Black and Latino families in dying urban areas with a shrinking tax base and no opportunities to spur economic development or move.

Calling these neighborhoods "depopulated," unless I am misunderstanding the meaning, is the equivalent of claiming that the Pilgrims discovered the United States. The neighborhoods were not "depopulated." They were just no longer heavily populated by whites. It seems like gays often forget that there were honest, hardworking families living in Shaw, Logan and along U Street struggling to survive before they got there. When I lived on U Street, I spoke to my neighbors, and they told me how they stayed when the area had been destroyed by the riots and overrun by drugs and violence. They told me about the actions they took to make the areas safe enough for pioneering gays to even consider moving there.

I don't believe that gays move into neighborhoods with "fewer negative urban preconceptions." Otherwise, why would longtime residents of some of DC's most recently gentrified neighborhoods tell me that, "white people move in and change everything. They don't go to our churches or try to become a part of our community. They don't respect us. They move in and just do whatever they want."

And white gays and lesbians have told me, "THEY don't want us here," or refer to the area as someone did in one of the responses to the column as "ghetto."

I could go on, but I want to make a couple of things as clear as possible. I am NOT calling anyone a racist. I am NOT implying that anyone is doing anything that is racist. I am saying that there is a conspicuous disconnect between the LGBT and African American communities.

This limited perspective on "gayborhoods" is one example. Another is the fact that SOME in the LGBT community have tried to make an issue out of the nearly 70% of African Americans who supported Prop 8 (little mention is made of the fact that white people voted for Obama and Prop 8 as well). It didn't surprise me at all.

In 2004, one of my Aunts told us that two Sundays before Christmas a white minister spoke at her church. He told her congregation that progressives and the gay community were trying to exterminate black families. He told them that liberals supported abortion because most of the babies being killed were black. He also said that same-sex marriage would destroy black families, which most African Americans will say are already in peril. It was part of Karl Rove's "Pink Strategy," and during his political commentary on Fox News he bragged about the increase in black voter support for Bush during the 2004 election. Now you know how he got it, and the remnants of his divide and conquer approach were made evident to the mainstream LGBT community on election day.

Some of my white friends have asked me how can Blacks believe that stuff. I replied, "Who is there telling them anything different? Where has the LGBT community been when Black gays and lesbians were trying to come out to our families and needed support? Where has the LGBT community been as HIV/AIDS has waged a full-frontal assault on the Black community?"

And then I hear some of the white gays and lesbians I have known in DC say, "They don't want us here. They don't like us." The reality is that more and more experts are coming out to say that the side trying to defeat Prop 8 had virtually no presence in the Black or Latino communities. It's not that they don't want or like you. I have Black neighbors here in DC who say that white folks "don't speak," which is seen as a sign of disrespect. All it means is that white folks don't say "hello" or "good morning." I ask them, well, why don't you say something, and I am told, "they won't even look up at us. They walk right by us as though we aren't even there."

That's what bothers me the most about this piece. It walks right by the historically Black presence in areas that become "gayborhoods" and the impact the transition has on the people who already live there. To me it demonstrates a fundamental lack of knowledge about the Black community, and reminds me of a story I will share in closing.

A few years ago, HRC issued a press release praising Cracker Barrel restaurants for their treatment of gay and lesbian employees. I emailed them because the NAACP was mobilizing against the chain for refusing to seat African Americans and, in some cases, serving them food out of the garbage can. I got no response. So, the next day, I tweaked the letter, sent it to the Washington Blade and cc'ed HRC. Within an hour, I was getting emails from multiple people in the organization trying to explain their support. But they couldn't get around the fact that their imprimatur meant that the gay part of me could work there, but the black part of me would have to eat out of the garbage can.

The point I made in the letter was that I am perpetually being put in positions where I am forced to defend the LGBT community to African-Americans and to defend the African-American community to LGBT people. The HRC press release, the results of Prop 8, and this article are all indications that neither side is talking to the other, and I am pretty sick of having to constantly play the role of referee. There is so much the two communities can learn from one another, and they are natural allies in anti-discrimination fights. I am just wondering if the recently formed marriage group and the group formed to stop violence against LGBT people in DC have reached out to any African-American organizations. If not, I would strongly encourage you to do so.

And as it pertains to urban planning, please try to remember that the word "disinvestment" represents the destruction of dreams for millions of poor, minority families. "Depopulated" flat out ignores the struggles of people who stayed in the "ghettos" after they were abandoned by businesses, banks and the majority population.

I don't say any of this to "play the race card" or to place blame. There are countless LGBT youth of color whose acceptance depends on the LGBT community having a consistent and respectful presence in our communities, and the passage of Prop 8 demonstrates that when the civil rights of LGBT people are put to a vote, having a supportive and respectful African American community in our corner can make a critical difference.

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Philadelphia Feeling

I wrote most of this in Philadelphia, on election night. I have written about Philly before.

More than 300 years ago, a pacifist Quaker named William Penn suffered great persecution in his native England for expressing beliefs that differed from those of the state-imposed religion. Arrested many times, jailed, labeled a heretic, and exiled from English society due to his beliefs, Penn traveled across an ocean to establish a new Quaker settlement in North America, where religious and political outsiders could live free. This settlement was known as the Pennsylvania Colony, and Philadelphia, a name Penn chose for its Greek meaning—City of Brotherly Love—was founded as its progressive center.

Even in a land where many traveled to escape persecution, much existed. Penn’s colony, a grand experiment of enlightened thinking where all were guaranteed free and fair trial by jury, freedom from unjust imprisonment, free elections, and freedom of religion, attracted not only Quakers but immigrants from around the globe, such as Protestants, Mennonites, Amish, Catholics, Lutherans, and Jews. Penn’s ideals also led him to support equal rights for women and acquire lands for his colony through business rather than conquest; paying local Indians fairly for their lands and creating laws that protected the rights of the native population—actions unheard of at the time.

Mr. Penn was an early supporter of colonial unification, as well as the principles of freedom and equality that he championed in the final draft of his colony’s frame of government. Writers of the U.S. Constitution, such as Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson were inspired by Penn, and the atmosphere of liberty created by his ideas and efforts allowed Philadelphia to emerge as an intellectual center of printing presses, newspapers reflecting a multitude of opinions, and ideas and subsequent actions that gave birth to the broad intellectual and social shifts known as the American Revolution, and eventually American Independence. As I sit here in my hotel room on Broad Street, listening to the TV punditocracy detail the ominous shades of crisis that threatens this country, I look out my window toward the top of City Hall, where a statue of William Penn surveys the city, and I wonder what he would think of Barack Obama.

To a great extent, I’ve checked out of this election. I’ve written about my doubt before, as it relates to the ignorance of the American people, but while my Presidential prediction (Obama will lose) is likely to be wrong, I still can’t shake my considerable angst and cynicism about the possibility of not just change, but success. Our national debt is considerable, ignorance is epidemic, greed blinds the masses, critical thinking is replaced with consumption, and our presidency lies in the hands of a fantastic marketing campaign with little experience and a plan short on details. Change? Sober analysis says we’re fucked. However, in spite of my doubts and numb countenance, I feel…grateful.

Of all American cities, to be in this one, at this moment of Republican party repudiation, appeals to my better nature. It’s election night, and the birthplace of American progress feels like a sleeping giant that threatens to wake. Philly is quiet in spite of surrounding noise, as my favorite old cities tend to be, but I am affected by the loud momentum in every Obama button, sticker, and get-out-the-vote door flyer that I pass on the street. The potential energy of change reverberates in every aged brick and narrow alley of Philadelphia, a slumber of densely packed joules accustomed to projecting itself through history, if given the right push. Hope is everywhere, in a way unseen four years ago, or eight, or twelve. I’ve only been here a couple of days, but long enough to sense that when this old giant is ready to open it’s eyes, it won’t be to simply roll over and return to rest, as it did four years ago. The city that speaks the language of great men is rousing, as if its ear has been pricked by familiar voices.

Sitting here, trying to find my heart, I would like to think that perhaps these voices whisper to me as well, encouraging me with a wisdom born of history and struggle for a more perfect union, and vision that can’t be imagined by reliance on solely my own ethic.

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It’s late. I go to a campaign party at the Philadelphia Marriott, but leave after 15 minutes. Back in my room, Charlie Gibson of ABC tells me that Obama has won the presidency. I’m jerking off to porn at the time, moments from orgasm. I’m amused by the potential irony.

I need to be up at 6:00 AM for work the next morning, but I stay up to watch Obama’s victory speech. Shortly after, I walk to the window and look to the street below, where I see two young teenage black males running along the median between the streets, jumping and pumping their fists. I smile and consider their lives, then turn off the lights and pull the covers, but I can’t sleep. 16 floors below, I hear the noise from the street—car horns and screams—growing and rising steadily into the air, impossible to ignore. I put on some clothes and make my way to the street, where the madness is thick and exuberant. Men and women run between stalled traffic and lean from the windows of cars; dance on the hoods of taxis while the drivers smile and hit their horns, not in protest but to join the outburst; and hugs, good cheer, and high-fives are swapped between all ages and races. The wind is imprinted with a name that blows in every direction, and it whistles between my ears like history floss. It allows me to hear the voices of the city more clearly.

I walk away from the Broad Street thoroughfare and meander through the revelry among tight philly streets, avoiding hugs from strangers, and making my way to Woody’s (the most notable gay bar in Philly) where I order a bourbon and watch the tv for more information about Prop 8 and Al Franken. I realize I’m not going to go to bed with an answer, so for tonight I’m calling the rest of the election for the Doubletree Hotel. As I lay in bed, 160 or so pounds of cynicism and doubt, I try to forget what I know, and what I fear. I think of Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson, but mostly William Penn and his dream for a better way. Once more, I search for their voices to put me to bed. As my head sinks into the pillow, the noise from the street settling down to the street far below, I allow myself, quietly and with the amount of hope I can manage, to whisper three words aloud into the darkness.

Yes. We. Can.

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Goin' Home

I'm heading home to Louisiana this weekend, for my nephew's wedding. I don't make it back very often, but whenever I do I usually return with good stories. I find that most of my best work, or at least the writing I'm most proud of, pertains to home and how it intersects with my gay identity. I'm listing it here, for your perusal.

Land Without Pride
The Dirty Brown
Mardi Gras in New Orleans Part 1
Mardi Gras in New Orleans Part 2

I hope that in some small way these posts inspire our readers to submit content about the place they call home, and how it has shaped and found expression in their own journey. For those of you who accept that challenge, I hope you enjoy and gain benefit from the process of sifting through your own hidden histories and complex identity. I sincerely hope I have an opportunity to read your stories.

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Books: Annie Proulx's Close Range: Wyoming Stories

The collection of short stories called Close Range was published in 2000, and its O. Henry prize-winning piece "Brokeback Mountain" way back in 1997. Ancient history, except for the antipathy the film version seems to have permanently engendered among some TNG readers. In light of Ennis-portrayer Heath Ledger's death, and because I just read and loved the book, I'm here to encourage you to pick it up. Because:

1. If you liked Ben's Land Without Pride, you'll appreciate Proulx's stories of rural loneliness and desperation.

2. You'll get to spend a book's worth time in a thoroughly engrossing alien environment. Proulx etches indelible landscapes, their hard inhabitants with their gestures and dialects meticulously drawn against the lands that sustain and crush them.

3. Maybe we'd like to see gay relationships on film that don't end in tragedy, but you've got to admit: we have a special affinity for the hopeless and bittersweet romance. You might say gays are connoisseurs of heartache, and this collection's got it in spades.

4. The 70-year old Proulx on Ledger's performance:

"Heath Ledger is just almost really beyond description as far as I'm concerned. He got inside the story more deeply than I did. All that thinking about the character of Ennis that was so hard for me to get, Ledger just was there. He did indeed move inside the skin of the character, not just in the shirt but inside the person. It was remarkable."

Guaranteed to give you horrifying nightmares of inevitable yet freak accidents, and to teach you more about cowboys, rodeo, and ranching than most gay city kids ever thought they'd care to know.

More:

• Annie Proulx tells the story behind "Brokeback Mountain" at Advocate.com
• Long excerpt of "Brokeback Mountain" at Queer Visions
• Annie Proulx interview at Bookslut

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I Heart DC

A recent commenter complained that "most people connect one of two ways: watching TV or complaining" and invited TNG to describe why we choose to stay in DC instead of providing reasons why we aren't moving to NYC. I lived in DC for 12 years before moving to Northern California for grad school. At the end of my 5-semester program, and with no interest in staying on the left coast, I was presented with a unique question: do I move back to DC or move to New York City. I choose DC. As such, I feel that I am in a unique position to explain to people why DC rocks.



Neighborhoods galore.

DC is truly a city of neighborhoods. And what great, diverse neighborhoods they are. Despite their diversity, however, most of DC's neighborhoods have one thing in common: pedestrian scale. They were all developed around the street car, before the dominance of the automobile. As such, these neighborhoods consist of densely packed, street-oriented restaurants and storefronts that promote walkability and make for generally "pleasant" places. From Mt. Pleasant to Cleveland Park, Eastern Market to Brookland, you'll find clusters of retail establishments that give you something to look at as you wander by. And the residential streets are equally pleasant: so many of our streets consist of small houses with tiny front yards that overflow with greenery and flowers. Heck, I even walked past an apple tree last autumn that was bending over with the weight of its apples, which were delicious. The design of these neighborhoods really do a lot to make our streets pleasant places to walk, to be.



Transit that works.

The New York Subway is awesome. It goes everywhere, often, and runs 24x7. I know, I know. How cool would it be to have a subway system in DC that provided that amount of spatial and temporal coverage? Very. But that's never gonna happen. We aren't a large enough city to support so much high-quality transit. (See below.) But that transit system that we do have is pretty damn good. The Metrorail system is probably one of the best rail transit systems in the country, despite all of the challenges we've been facing lately. And those that take the time to figure out the (admittedly) complicated bus system in DC find that you can get lots of places without setting foot into the Metrorail system. I'm lucky enough to live in a neighborhood serviced by 3 major bus lines that can take me to downtown, U. St., Eastern Market, Capitol Hill, Columbia Heights, and upper Northwest. Sure, the bus system could be better. It could run more frequently and be easier to use, but those things will only happen if more people start riding the bus. Without too much extra effort, I live in DC without a car and get around just fine on foot, by bike, or via bus or rail. And for those longer trips off the transit network, there's always zipcar.



Green, green, green.

After spending time in other cities, I've really come to appreciate how very green DC is. There are street trees everywhere that provide beautiful flowers (and sometime beautiful smells) in the springtime, shade from the harsh summer sun in the summer, and (sometimes) beautiful displays of color in the autumn. The District is also blessed with innumerable city and National parks, including the Rock Creek Park, a natural-growth forest double the size of Central Park. It's filled with hiking trails and wildlife, including deer and coyote. Just look at a satellite photo of DC to appreciate how very green it is here, and compare it with NYC or San Francisco. (Just make sure the photos weren't taken in winter.)



Not too big, not too small, just right.

Often people complain that DC feels too small, but that's just because they don't get out of their own neighborhood enough to realize that there are whole other groups of people whose lives center around other dynamic areas of the city. DC has a whole variety of neighborhoods to explore (see above) and new ones coming along now and again. Unfortunately, most of the region's ethnic neighborhoods are located outside of the District and not accessible by Metro. While it would be great to get authentic Thai, South Indian or Vietnamese food any time I want it, the fact that I have to rent a zipcar to get to my favorites makes it all the more amazing when it happens. And the wealth of Ethiopian restaurants keeps me happy. DC will never be New York, but I'm perfectly happy with that. I like the smaller-town feeling that the building height limit produces. While that results in lower densities and less need for high-quality mass transit (see above), it allows for a more relaxed feeling to the streets I navigate every day.



Lefty bent.

Regardless of which political party has the majority in the House or Senate... Regardless of what party's candidate won the most recent presidential election... Regardless of how many conservative interns flood the city every summer with their khaki slacks and blue blazers... Regardless of the political nature of this city, there will always be a thriving undercurrent of liberal, lefty subculture thriving here. Between the DC hardcore scene and indie-pop scene that evolved around TeenBeat/Unrest and Slumberland Records, there has been a long history of independent music and the fun, alcohol-soaked (or straight-edge), tattooed scene that generally accompanies it here in the District and the close-in suburbs. Many a TNG reader has had the opportunity to appreciate aspects of this scene, from a show at the 930 Club to a dance party at the Black Cat or DC9. These venues, as well as newer ones, provide great opportunities to get off the beaten path and avoid the hill staffers and interns who generally (not you, Parker) give DC a reputation for stuffiness and snobbery.



So, there you have it. Five reasons that I love DC. Let the DC-bashing begin.

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Summer In The City

Image of a stand of trees in Rock Creek Park courtesy of Declan McCullagh Photography.

Two weeks ago we were given an inappropriately early dose of hot summer weather. The mercury was pushing well into the nineties, and the heat index was well over 100°. No fun. Sadly, the recent heat wave was just a taste of things to come.

It is incredible how how hot the city can get in the summer time. Damn that urban heat island effect. It makes one really appreciate the street trees and front porches that are features of older city neighborhoods. Other than spending all day in a movie theater or other air-conditioned spaces, what can a person do to get relief? Luckily, DC has several options for cooling off on hot summer day.

DC's queers have always been comfortable hanging out in the shade of the trees in Dupont Circle. More recently, gay guys are spending Saturdays in Malcolm X Park playing croquette or Twister. However, another park looms nearby that provides much more comfort from the summer heat. The temperatures in the Rock Creek Park are routinely 10° cooler than in the rest of the city. Unfortunately, you can't just walk down to P Street Beach to reap this benefit. You have to go further north, where the forest is much denser and the park widens significantly north of Park Road (from Mt. Pleasant) and Tilden Street (from Cleveland Park). Up there in the main body of the park, you'll find hiking trails galore and the main drag (Beach Drive) closed to through traffic on weekends. Instead of cars, you'll see the road overrun by outdoor enthusiasts enjoying the park's cooler climes via roller blades, sneakers, bicycles and baby strollers. Local gay outdoor group Adventuring.org even has regular organized hikes in the park, with one coming up this Sunday. The best way to visit the park is to download a map, or join a group that plans events in the park. Just don't go jogging through the park looking for a Chandra Levy souvenir. (Too soon?)

Another best-kept secret is the set of public pools in DC. Free to District residents, these pools provide the most effortless way to keep cool on a hot summer day. The most popular pool for the gays is the Francis Pool at N and 25th Streets NW, but there are many more. Other good options are the Georgetown Recreation Center pool (34oo Volta St NW) and the pool in East Potomac Park, which isn't metro accessible but is very easy to bike to (take the Rock Creek Trail to Ohio Drive SW and keep going).

If you find yourself on a bike ride or a run near the zoo, make sure to stop by the misting station by the rear entrance to the zoo (off of Adams Mill Road and Harvard Street) where on hot days a steady cloud of water droplets wafts through the air, providing great relief to overheated bodies. (You may have to kick some screaming kids out of the way.)

I am also working on a post about non-Rehoboth summertime destinations for DC queers. In the mean time, let us know what you do to stay cool during the summer.

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Big Scot Doesn't F*** Around

I have no intention of moving to New York City. The cost of living is too high, and since the Giuliani era, much of it has morphed to resemble the worst aspects of DC. However, when I learn about interesting people like "Big Scot," a professional doorman who has worked at gay clubs in NYC for 20 years, I understand the appeal of living there.

East Village Boys is probably my favorite gay blog (thanks, Michael), and this is the most entertaining interview I've read in a some time. Big Scot is representative of an East Village that no longer exists, and maybe never will again. After reading his interview, you may want to take him up on his offer of going to the opera and smoking a J in the corner. I know I do.

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Thoughts on North Carolina (and Florida)

I recently spent some “meet the family” time down south with my boyfriend and his parents. They live in North Carolina.

Carolina is a green state, but not so green that it compensates for the sprawl of highways and housing tracts gouged into its surface. Where some places the fingerprints of human progress seem an almost sheepish incursion, North Carolina holds no such self-monitoring inclination. What I see here is more of what I’ve decided to call the “floridization” of American culture. Right or wrong, I take Florida as something of a bellwether for American trend, like California, only more their attention deficit disordered redneck cousin who makes cheap internet porn, wears camouflage recreationally, and doesn’t floss. The state serves as a nexus of eccentric if not bizarre energies that are propelled across the country whenever God wakes up with a hangover, grabs the panhandle, and flips whatever is in the skillet onto the rest of the country’s plate without taking a sober look at what’s cooking.

Case in point: strip malls. My experience of traveling through Florida is peppered by an endless variety of these indictements of sprawl and poor city planning. Clubs, restaurants, coffee shops, business offices, and product vendors of every variety….they all find a home in these ugly beasts that creep from under the ocean and across every mile of Florida’s watery border, groaning across the sand with just enough energy to collapse on the coast, settling close enough to one other to reproduce and slowly spread their mutation deep into the heart of the state, a virus meeting at a dedicated site where they continue to evolve as a species, ascending upward, creating the plastic hell on earth we know of as Orlando. In North Carolina, I had my first experience with what I can only call the next Floridian stage in strip mall evolution. Three times in two days I've traveled deep into the cradle of what I ascertain to be a shopping center complex of endless consumer possibility—a strip mall that has mutated and closed in around itself like a cocoon. Like Conrad drifting into the Congo, I've felt myself go mad. Not from heat or natives, but from an artificial sense of created community, an urban suburb without homes that implies you can turn a corner and visit a friend, yet beyond that corner are only more stores, more services. At the center of it beats a heart of darkness that when faced, looks suspiciously like a Starbucks franchise. I’d bet some developer went to Florida and found this obscenity in Jacksonville and thought it would be a good idea to recreate it in Raleigh. I’m holding to my prejudice until someone tells me different.

Modernization and sprawl takes its toll on every state, but it’s rare I drive through one where I don’t leave it without experiencing that one zen moment, maybe as brief as a single breath, but clarifying in a way that clears the mind to make way for a single ripple of awareness that contextualizes and explains, viscerally, a unique shade of that state’s personality. It could be driving through the winding hills of North Alabama in the early fall, visiting hot springs or counting the endless chicken farms amid the red clay hills of Arkansas, gorging on a cheese steak at a neighborhood dive during a sunny Sunday afternoon in south Philly, staring at a sunset from the ridge of a Shenandoah mountain in Virginia, watching a drag show on a humid summer night in Savannah, or driving through an endless dream of corn fields in central Indiana. For me those moments strip away the assimilation of modernity and leave me with a distinct rhythm, a heartbeat that make intimates of nameless strangers. Maybe it’s just my romantic predilections, but I feel them, and they help me sink into a place, classify it, taste it, appreciate it, and maybe even love it. In North Carolina, I experience no such moment.

When I travel to a state I search for its essence, the thing that makes it fundamentally different and unique from its 49 brothers and sisters. I also try to figure out if they are a brother, or a sister. Gut instinct tells me North Carolina is male. It’s just a feeling. South Carolina seems the more feminine of the two, and not just because North Carolina is on top. One of the two cities in North Carolina that I visited was Raleigh, one of the three cities that make up the research triangle, which is the most progressive area of the state and home to industry lured by the carrot of low tax rates, as well as four grand universities: North Carolina, NC State, Wake Forest, and Duke. The power of industry, elite educational schools, brutal suburbia, as well as the patriarchal old south vibe of downtown Raleigh leaves a decidedly masculine impression of the place. I hear South Carolina, besides its stark poverty, which is all that I’ve experienced of the place, has some very lovely old towns and beaches and is known for its palmettos, which strike me as feminine. However, I could be wrong. I drove through South Carolina once, many years ago, and all I remember are a million signs for South of the Border and an old woman with half rolled panty hose and varicose veins as big as big as catheter tubes who waited tables at the Waffle House where I had breakfast. I’m still depressed about that one.

I eat lunch at an Asian place in old downtown Raleigh. My bf’s sister works there, and she tells our group a story about this guy who’s been playing football in the park across the street for the last year. He’s there for most of the day every day, running around, throwing the ball……to no one. We joke about it, then the guy shows up, so after dinner I walk over and ask him what the deal is. Borderline psychotic eccentricity is expected among the local color of old southern towns, so I don’t feel uncomfortable about investigating. He eyes us suspiciously and tells us that he’s not crazy. He’s a professional fighter who does this to train. It gets his "heart rate up." He tells us again that he’s not crazy, then my bf’s brother convinces the quarterback to throw him a long ball, which he does very well. We wish him well and walk away quickly, convinced that he is indeed crazy.

I spend two days at Cape Fear with my bf and his evangelical Christian family. This is after four days in DC of entertaining 15 members of his spirited family, which flew thousands of miles from several states for his graduation. By the time we arrive home in North Carolina the numbers have dwindled down to parents, siblings, and significant others, but it’s still challenging, particularly since I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve had to spend considerable time with the family of a lover. The entire affair is deeply meaningful to me yet foreign, almost as if I’m “playing straight.” Is this what normal feels like? I want to be liked, obviously, but there’s always a subtext to the conversation that we’re having, a conversation behind the conversation. This other conversation has my bf screaming at his parents over the phone, and it doesn’t like the fact that a few doors down I’m doing things to their little boy that a God varietal from every major world religion probably creates a hell for, yet the conversation I’m privy to has them laughing at my jokes, even when they’re not funny. It’s tough to feel comfortable when you don’t know where you stand. Regardless of the strain, after 4 days of family integration I begin to feel the regret and loneliness of being disconnected from my own family. I sit on a chair in my hotel room, kick off my shoes and stretch my toes, then call my brother while staring at the Atlantic Ocean. I haven’t talked to him in eight years, since I last saw him at the foot of my father’s freshly filled grave. It feels good, and I want more of it.

The men that I see surrounding the hotel look like John Edwards. At first I think its my imagination, but later the next day there’s a business meeting of some kind taking place on the first floor of the hotel, and it skews my perception of my once beloved candidate of choice. Everywhere I look I see the perfect hair, the close shave, the rounded yet fit build, even the clothes impervious to wrinkle. I’m surrounded by potential vice-presidential candidates. As I sit in the prim dining room, my boyfriend laughing at my unkempt appearance in stark contrast to the well-mannered southern gentility of our environment, I shovel biscuits and gravy in the direction of my face and watch these men interact and ambulate, uncertain if I like John Edwards a little less, or southern white men a little more.

Surprisingly, the people in Cape Fear seem fit (always running). Even more surprising, the beaches aren’t fun. Most of the people on the beach are kids, and they all look bored. I then realize I’m bored as well, and that I would rather be in DC.

And I call myself a southerner.

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Put Your Money Where Your Eyes Are!

This is the last of my New York posts. I promise.

I was walking down 5th Avenue a couple weekends ago when something unusual happened. I passed a cute guy, and looked at him. That's not unusual. He looked at me too, which isn't necessarily unusual either. But wait for it: After we passed each other, we both turned and looked back. Eye contact was made. But when I acknowledged with a nod and a shrug that we had caught each other looking, he didn't get scared and drop my gaze. He nodded back at me.

That has never happened in DC before. Ever. I look at guys all the time. Guys look at me. Thats what homos do. And we all know of the rigorous code of of conduct that surrounds such ocular collisions. You move your eyes without moving your head, and if the other guy catches you you both pretend it didn't happen. It's like gay fight club: The first rule of gay eye contact is YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT GAY EYE CONTACT!

I, luckily, have no tolerance for dumb social interactions. I frequently buck the trend by responding the guy who has caught me looking. My signature move is the head-nod. It's not as nebulous as a shrug, or as unctuous as a wink or a lip-lick, and won't get me arrested like the time I took my junk out and pointed it at a cute guy on the metro bus. (But that's for another post.) So it's a simple formula: Guy catches me looking and I nod at him. If that goes over well, I might even smile.

But who am I kidding? It never goes over well. Most guys react like I have thrown something at them. They quickly look away. They spin in the other direction. They curl into fetal balls on the pavement, protecting their vitals from my prodding gaze. So why do D.C. men's eyes write checks that their balls won't cash?

It's not like I'm going to tackle these men on the street and rip their clothes off. Even if I didn't have a boyfriend, eye contact is the simplest, and most innocent, form of flirtation. Especially in public places. So do yourselves a favor and don't shy away from it. One of two things can happen: You acknowledge the eye contact and nothing happens, but you walk away happy. You've brightened someone's day. Option two? You actually get a date out of the ordeal. What can you lose?

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Getting Picked Up at a Bar: A Beginner's Guide.

I am not a passive person. I think 90% of the world is waiting around for good things to come to them, and doesn't realize the gains of proactivity. If I saw a cute guy at a bar, I would talk to him. If I didn't have the balls for that, I would put him in my "oh well" folder and move on. But Michael's Cheetahs and Gazelles post, which divided the world into those who choose their sexual partners, and those who are chosen, got me thinking. What if I didn't make the first move?

When I was in New York this past weekend, I went out to East Village gay bar The Phoenix by myself to see how the other half lived. I was armed only with a "flirt away" text from my boyfriend (with an implicit PS of "don't actually do anything") and a set of self-imposed rules: No eye contact. No smiles. Most importantly, no speaking to anyone who hadn't spoken to me first.

So I took a spot against the bar and waited. Here's what happened:

1:10 am: Having ordered my first beer, I'm standing with my back to the bar and encountering some unfamiliar challenges. How does one appear approachable without looking desperate? Confident, but not aloof? My self-imposed eye contact ban causes me to enact my least favorite gay behavior, which is to quickly look away when someone catches me looking at them. It's an awkward feeling and I try to counteract it by looking as nonchalant as possible. This, of course, just makes me self-conscious and results in discomfort.

1:25 am: My first bite! A short, snaggly toothed man with an unkempt houseplant of curly hair approaches me. If memory serves, he is also wearing a hawaiian shirt. Small talk ensues. He is perfectly nice, but clearly drunker than I am. After a minute or two I excuse myself to the bathroom. It occurs to me to me while peeing that he looked like someone famous. Dudley Moore comes closest, but is not quite right.

1:50 am: I break my own rule by asking the bartender about his tattoos, and in shame I retreat to the jukebox. I end up putting 13 songs on because it is so damn good. Deerhoof. Hot Chip. LCD Soundsystem. I have never seen these artists anywhere near a gay bar before, and probably won't as long as I stay in D.C. My curly-haired buddy from ten minutes ago rejoins me to say that a group of strangers just called him Phil Spector, and I get relieved. He totally looks like Phil Spector. He walks away, and I move four feet to my left and lean against the "Space Invaders" arcade game.

2:15 am: A cute guy has been standing next to me at the Space Invaders for close to ten minutes, but my rules forbid me from saying anything to him. Or looking at him. I had to glean his appearance through a painful series of glances out of the corner of my eye. Finally, he turns to me and says "We have been standing next to each other for way to long. I'm Keith." It turns out Keith lives nearby and is also at the bar alone. My excitement at being spoken to is interrupted when Keith is recognized by a casual friend, and pulled into an already existing nucleus of fags.

2:19 am: A man saunters over to me and asks "Excuse me, are you normal?" He looks like Ted from Queer as Folk, and explains to me that everyone else at the bar seems pretty crazy so he is now trying his luck with me. I silently curse Keith for leaving me alone, and discover another complication of passivity: It is really easy to end conversations that you have started, but hard to end conversations that someone else has started for you. Ted goes on to tell me that he is there with another friend who is also unable to find sane men. He also points out that his friend has really thick eyebrows, which is true. They look like wolfen index fingers. I again excuse myself to the bathroom.

2:24: I try to reclaim my spot at the Space Invaders, but Ted is still there. He gives me a dirty look for walking by him without saying anything, so I take a new perch by the stairs. Conveniently, this new perch faces the hot, tattooed bartender. I lose myself for a couple minutes, until:

2:30: Success! A guy next to me, after a couple minutes of silence, asks me what my name is. He is dorky-cute (the best kind of cute,) and about 5'6'', with sneakers, a nylon windbreaker and big glasses. And he's awesome. I have the same name as his brother, which prompts him to call his straight-and-married bro a "total faggot." We talk for an hour, bolstered by the fact that we randomly have a couple friends in common. He always suspected one of those friends was gay, and I was able to confirm this... personally. We had a lot to talk about. Finally, the bar closes and we walk out together. I give him a big hug on the street, (feeling guilty for not mentioning my boyfriend) and take a cab home, alone.

Final Thoughts: One reason I am uncomfortable with being picked up is the lack of control that it implies. I usually think that being approached leads to me not actually choosing the people that I sleep with, and having it left up to circumstance. It was nice to learn that one can take the inactive role and still be approached by cute, interesting people who are presumably interested in sex. And if those people look like Phil Spector? Just be polite and walk away.

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I'm Not Moving to New York. Get Off My Ass About It.

"The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding."

-John Updike
I'm posting this from a Bolt Bus. Right now. Isn't that crazy? $20 for comfortable seats and wi-fi, all the way from New York to DC. I was in NYC from Saturday afternoon until now for a family engagement and boy am I happy to be homeward bound. It's not that I don't like New York, but I have chosen to live in Washington. My boyfriend is there, along with my friends, my job and my domicile. In short, my life.

But try bringing that up to a Big Apple resident and they'll act like I'm just sitting around with my thumb in my ass around until my big break comes in Manhattan. I can't even count the number of times in the past 18 months that I've been asked when I'm moving to New York. Not "If," mind you, but "When."

There are a lot of great things about New York. The dining. The shopping. The energy it carries, and the fact that there is really nowhere else like it. But every city is unique in its own right and many things about New York are downright disgusting. Trash on the streets. Tiny, expensive apartments. Little chance of a back yard. The city used to hold some appeal for me, but after two summers spent there and innumerable family gatherings I decided that I never wanted to live there for good. It was one of the most relieving decisions of my life.

But now, a good number of my loved ones won't accept that fact that I won't be joining them in their city of choice. I understand that they simply want me closer to them, but I think it goes beyond just geographic proximity. The assumption that everything I need lies four hours north shows an inherent disregard for DC. The Updike quote that begins this post is funny, but unfortunately close to home. Just because no city is as big or bustling as New York doesn't mean that every other city in the country doesn't have its own appeal.

I am going to reiterate that I chose to move to D.C. Its's where my friends were when I graduated from college and I thought it would be excited to move to a city I knew nothing about. I got here thinking I would stick around for a year, tops, but since then DC's beauty and cultural opportunities have really started to appeal to me. As much as we complain, there is really alot to do here. I know that I'm going to stay a while.

Did I not get the memo that New York the only place in the world to have fun, go out and pursue a career as a writer? Its residents will so often judge the rest of the country to be provincial and comparatively unhip, but it is the smallest mind of all that can't see beyond their own surroundings.

That's all for now. The other cool thing about traveling with wi-fi is that I can watch Sean Cody videos on my laptop without anyone else knowing, so I think its time to take advantage of the Bolt Bus' spotless bathroom.

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Weekend In Philly

I’ve been to Philadelphia twice, once on a business trip that revealed the city after dark, once to walk the downtown area on a lovely spring day. Both experiences were memorable for different reasons, and each of them charmed me. When my friend Matt asked me to join he, a mutual friend, and his boyfriend for a weekend in Philly and a sleepover at his parent’s place in New Jersey (just across the river), I jumped at the chance. I don’t know Matt and his confederates that well (I think I shocked him when I accepted), but I needed to unplug from my laptop, get out of the District, and kick-start my spring in the worst way. The chance to deepen my relationship with Philly seemed like the perfect answer. I was correct.

Taking the tram from New Jersey, I look at the skyline and realize that Philadelphia is laid out the way I expect of a major city. It looks like New York, only a quarter built from the lack of high rises. I still don’t grasp the layout, but I’m impressed by the density of the place. Buildings are old and huddled around streets wrapped tightly between them. Unlike DC, when I travel the sidewalks I feel as though I am in a real city.

My first time in the heart of Philly was a drive through at night. Then, the city reminded me of New Orleans, a shape-shifter between day and night with an almost human personality. At night, they are dirty cities that love dark corners and hide a mysterious nature inside them, leaving travelers not numbed to their heartbeat to wonder curiously, but not enough to come closer. In daylight, they flirt with green eyes and old world charm. I begin to suspect an infidelity between the two cities. An affair lost to history--masculine, noble Philly carrying the weight of a young nation’s pride, enamored with the exotic ingénue of loose morals situated in the loins of our country, the mouth of the Mississippi. It could never work. I walk in the warm spring air and wonder if their tryst produced children. I consider the cities between them but find few potential bastards.

Coming from DC, the gay scene in Philly is a culture shock. I visit three bars: Bump, Taverna (?), and Woody’s. Bump is described to me as “a blue collar Halo,” and the description is fitting. The bar is larger than Halo, lined with windows, just as modern, and it serves food to sharply dressed men sitting in booths. The blue collar is also evident, as two young men in their mid 20s were trashed and simulating fellatio on the floor in front of the bar—and it wasn’t even 10 o’clock. I reference this act to a friend of Matt’s who recently moved from DC to Philly, who is with us. He confirms that this is why he rarely goes out in this town. “The people are tacky and completely uninteresting,” he tells me. I can’t say I’ve spent enough time in Philly to corroborate such a general statement, but from a distance, they seem interesting enough. Particularly when I stand next to the bar and see a shirtless man walking across the street wearing a Mexican wrestling mask and tights. Seems like my kind of town.

I go to another bar called “Taverna” (I think this is the name), which is located in an alley blocked off to traffic. Unlike DC, Philly has alleys that are darkly attractive and teeming with life. This particular bar has two dueling pianos on the packed first floor, a basement club where straight senior citizen couples enter and exit (again, charming considering the location), and a dance floor upstairs where a bachelor auction is taking place when we arrive. This is where the night turns for me, on my 4th and 5th drinks. Me and my friend Eric smuggle drinks outside under our pullovers and we make our way to Woody’s, the famous Philly gay bar that I’ve heard about for years, but to this point have never visited.

Woody’s is impressive, with a square footage near that of TOWN. Unlike TOWN, and every other bar in Philly for that matter, the men dress differently than they do in DC. There’s a laid back, blue collar vibe to Philly that permeates even the gay community. While I don’t see evidence of coarse or rowdy behavior that I’m told is common for Philadelphia, I can see from the crowd’s rough edges how such a reality might manifest itself. The closest I come to Philly attitude is while eating pizza in a hopeless attempt at sobering myself. While supporting myself against a pole, one gay guy sneers at my group and labels us “heinous.” Considering our behavior inside the club, I’m willing to let it slide. I can only imagine what he would have said if he saw me later in the night after returning to the New Jersey suburbs, where I deface a church by ripping off its banner and parading down the street with it wrapped around my body as though I’ve won the miss CBN pageant.

The Equality Forum is seven days of Gay & Lesbian programs and events which takes place every year in Philadelphia. On Sunday I go to the street fair, which is similar to what takes place during DC pride. The booths are the same—community organizations and products for sale—but in Philly the beer is cheaper, doesn’t require tickets, you aren’t forced to segregate yourself in a ‘beer tent”, and they serve hard liquor. Philly wins big points for this.

Not only was my party blessed with good weather, but we have a convertible as well. Add the fun times and the interesting topography of the city, and only one thing remains to make my date with Philly complete: cheese steak. There are two giants in the cheese steak game, and as it happens they are located across the street from each other. “Pat’s King of Steaks” is the original, and “Geno’s” is the newcomer (although they have both been around for some time, I understand). Geno’s seems like the family friendly one, a clean digital color copy to Pat’s dirty old black and white. Pat’s is supposedly more authentic and the owner of Geno’s is a racist, so we eat at Pat’s. I can’t say if Geno’s is any better, but I was quite pleased nevertheless. I look forward to going back and having it with cheez whiz instead of American.

While eating my cheese steak I look over to a building next door that has the headshots of half a dozen men who haven’t been famous since at least the 70s. Frankie Avalon and Chubby Checker are the only ones I recognize by name, but the others are familiar. I ask Matt what the deal is, and he tells me that Philly is known for its crooners, and that his mom was going to listen to one of the men on the wall this weekend. I can only imagine how old he is. It’s at this moment that Philly clicks for me. Music deeply connects me to my own culture, as it does for most people with theirs. You get a sense of a people and their place when you hear their native music, and making the connection between Italian crooners, doo-wop American Bandstand energy, and the just-around-the-block neighborhood feeling of Philly allows me to put the city in a context that thus far is unique in my understanding of Northeastern cities. I understand why people would want to call this place home.

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Come Home, Already

My boyfriend, taking a mud bath in Vietnam.

It’s late on Thursday night, and my boyfriend just called me from Borneo. He’s been incommunicado for four days, apparently because he’s been working on his deep sea diving certificate from the perch of a half-mile Island that doesn’t have internet. I receive lots of messages like this. Craig riding elephants. Craig exploring the waters of the deep in Malaysia. Craig visiting remote Buddhist temples in Cambodia. Craig in a Chinese New Year’s week-long water fight in Thailand. Craig traveling the coast of Vietnam, seeing unbelievable things. I have a dozen post cards pinned up in my kitchen from locales across SE Asia. Tonight, he’s waiting for a flight to take him to Manila, in the Phillipines. As happy as I am for him, it makes me sick.

I haven’t seen my boyfriend in over two months. We’ve only spoken 4 times since he left (his phone is dead) and email is problematic in some of the places he travels, so it’s difficult to stay in touch. The call was less than 2 minutes long due to his calling card and I could barely hear him, as the connection was terrible. He felt so far away I almost wish he had not called. It just makes me miss him.

He writes a blog of his travels, which helps in dealing with the distance, but after two months, what was an acceptable detachment is now an annoying personal inconvenience. I’m angry that I’m stuck in DC being a drone while he’s having an adventure, I’m frustrated sexually by spring and it’s demand for expression, and I miss my boyfriend. I really, really miss my boyfriend.

I’ve always been an independent person who doesn’t need many people around him in order to survive. I didn’t tell him this, but I was actually looking forward to him leaving, so I could get more work done. Considering my distaste for domesticity in past relationships, I could not have predicted feeling so lost without the mundane rituals that define committed relationships. I was looking forward to spreading my wings a little while he was gone. Go out more, meet new people. Since he left I haven’t gone out much more, and I can’t say I’ve met many new people. Most surprising, all I really want from my life right now is to cook meals with him and make disparaging remarks about his militant introduction of vegetables into my diet, debate economics at 3:00am while under the covers, and curl up on the couch and watch dubbed foreign films. In spite of my ramblin' nature, my greatest aspiration is to be blissfully boring.

How did this happen? I don’t care. All I know is that for the first time in my life, I’ve found myself in a relationship that actually seems to work, and for the first time in my life I’m a gay man in a relationship who doesn’t feel like he might be missing out on something else. In spite of my frustrations, I have the distinct feeling that I might be doing something right.

He comes home on Monday.

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Pretzel Logic for Assholes

So I got into my first ever bike accident this morning on the way to work. I've lived in cities my whole life but I think this is the most truly urban I've ever felt. It's nice, in a way. I was going south on 13th St., between K and L, when some fucker turning left from the northbound lane jutted out in front of me and I couldn't stop in time. I flipped off my bike and dinged up my hip (above) and my knee (below the fold.) I managed to take off a part of his grill too. I'm pretty happy about that. I know this is pretty mild as car/bike interactions go, but now my knee really hurts and this is the best way to vent.



Oh, and want to hear the best part? Instead of saying he was sorry, this accountant-looking asshole (in what I believe was a silver Passat or Jetta) simply told me that I had to be really careful biking around in cities. Excuse me? He's justifying his inattentive driving by saying that I should have a better radar for inattentive drivers? I know that if I had been in a car he would have been looking for me.

At least I got the satisfaction of screaming "What the fuck is your problem?" at him while sprawled out on the pavement. I can't imagine that anyone else watching would sympathize with him over me.

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A Simple Tale

This past weekend I went to Las Vegas on a business trip. I took my boyfriend. And let me tell you: that city is NOT gay-friendly. It doesn't matter how much glitter and excess it boasts or how many theatrical performances occur on its stages. Bette Midler could female ejaculate on a paper mache dildo made of $1000 bills and it wouldn't make Vegas any more hospitable to homos. My boyfriend and I had guys cat-calling us at the pool while making out and dealt with whispers of "look, they're gay" while walking around in public. A cabdriver wouldn't even take us to the gay bars. He said they were too far away. Bullshit.

Even a couple days of this begins to affect you. Beside realizing how lucky you are as a Blue State resident, you begin to assume that everyone is judging you for being gay. Below the fold is a little anecdote about assuming the worst.

I had eaten too many oysters at a typically Vegas-ian Italian/Indian/Asian/seafood fusion restaurant. As a result, my boyfriend and I decided to walk the 2 miles to the gay bars to ease my gastrointestinal pain (the cabdriver incident happened the next day. That's how I knew they weren't too far.)

Roughly halfway between the strip and the bars, a large group of girls passed us. One was wearing a shirt that read "Dip me in honey and feed me to the lesbians." I was so excited to see other gays out on the street that yelled to her "I love your shirt!" She thanked me and her girlfriend shouted back to me, "It's my shirt. She's just borrowing it." It was a cute exchange and we parted smiling.

My boyfriend asked me what the shirt read and I repeated its slogan to him. At that moment, another girl walked by and heard me. She said to me, angrily, "Yes, we're lesbians" and stormed on down the street. I assume that she, too, was so used to be called out on her sexuality that the merest mention of the word "lesbian" in her earshot was taken as a homophobic pot shot. All I could do was shout to her "No, we're fags! What bars are you coming from?" It didn't get a response.

So now I'm thinking back to the people at the pool who whistled at us for kissing. Two of them were guys. There's a 90 percent chance that they were fratboy douchebags whose idea of tolerance is asking politely "So, which one of you is the catcher?"

However, that still leaves the possibility that they were two queer boys, also feeling alienated, expressing their solidarity in the only way they knew how. I wonder what would've happened if I had walked over to say hi instead of shaking my head and turning away. I could've made some new friends. I could've gotten punched in the jaw. I guess I'll never know.

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Gay People Make Better Communities

There's a new study out that makes this claim. Well, duh.

We've known this for some time, whether it's the Castro in San Francisco, Dupont Circle in DC, the Fabourg Marigny in New Orleans, Boston's South End, or in any small community where gay people decide to rut--we increase housing values and make neighborhoods a place where straight people want to live. You know, after we wave our fairy wand and make crack be gone, as well as chipped paint and broken windows.

This study quickly devolves into academic jargon that I have no patience for, but it does remind me of how amazing we are, and how far we've come. In the 70s, 80s, and even the 90s, to an extent, our middle-class gay ass arrived in broken neighborhoods where the rich did not want to invest, without great wealth, often in an attempt to find safety in numbers (our local political power was developed in these communities), and we created aesthetically enhanced, thriving communities due to our artistic taste for beauty and intrinsic desire to create it. While I'm starting to believe that it's in the bible that anytime two gays shall meet, the sacrament of real estate must be discussed (and inspire me to vomit blood), I'm compelled to pause and realize that we've fought hard to develop our communities, and we should commend ourselves for not only our efforts but for the value we place on creation and beauty.

However, questions remain unanswered for me. Do lesbian and minority populations feel that they have succeeded in being a part of this gentrifying process? Are the gay communities in the 21st century now too upscale to "buy-in" if you are a middle-class or poor gay person? What happens to our communities if we are no longer a "ghettoized" culture? What will the gay communities of the near future look like? Thoughts?

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You Dropped the Bomb on Me

The picture on the right is of my nephew. He's a sweet kid who loves his uncle Ben. Pretty good boxer, too. He's stationed at a base in Washington state after recently completing Army training.

Before he drops that bomb on a lot of poor brown people, there are a few very basic things I want him to know about them, and the region in general. Not that it matters to most Americans, but I think he should at least know the basics of who his country is asking him to wage war against.

Source: dmiessler

1. Arabs are part of an ethnic group, not a religion. Arabs were around long before Islam, and there have been (and still are) Arab Christians and Arab Jews. In general, you’re an Arab if you 1) are of Arab descent (blood), or 2) speak the main Arab language (Arabic).

2. Not all Arabs are Muslim. There are significant populations of Arab Christians throughout the world, including in Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, Northern Africa and Palestine/Israel.

3. Islam is a religion. A Muslim (roughly pronounced MOOSE-lihm) is someone who follows the religion. So you wouldn’t say someone follows Muslim or is an Islam, just as you wouldn’t say someone follows Christian or is a Christianity.

4. Shia Muslims are similar to Roman Catholics in Christianity. They have a strong clerical presence via Imams and promote the idea of going through them to practice the religion correctly. Sunni Muslims are more like Protestant Christians. They don’t really focus on Imams and believe in maintaining a more direct line to God than the Shia.

5. People from Iran are also known as Persians, and they are not Arabs.

6. Arabs are Semites. We’ve all heard the term anti-Semitism being used — often to describe Arabs. While antisemitism does specifically indicate hatred for Jews, the word “Semite” comes from the Bible and referred originally to anyone who spoke one of the Semitic Languages.

7. According to the Bible, Jews and Arabs are related [Genesis 25]. Jews descended from Abraham’s son Isaac, and Arabs descended from Abraham’s son Ishmael. So not only are both groups Semitic, but they’re also family.

8. Sunni Muslims make up most of the Muslim world (roughly 90%).

9. The country with the world’s largest Muslim population is Indonesia.

10. The rift between the Shia and Sunni started right after Muhammad’s death and originally reduced to a power struggle regarding who was going to become the authoritative group for continuing the faith.

The Shia believed Muhammad’s second cousin Ali should have taken over (the family/cleric model). The Sunni believed that the best person for the job should be chosen by the followers (the merit model) and that’s how the first Caliph, Abu Bakr, was appointed.

Although the conflict began as a political struggle it now mostly considered a religious and class conflict, with political conflict emanating from those rifts.

Sunni vs. Shia | Arab vs. Non-Arab

Here’s how the various Middle Eastern countries break down in terms of Sunni vs. Shia and whether or not they are predominantly Arab. Keep in mind that these are generalizations; significant diversity exists in many of the countries listed.

• Iraq: Mostly Shia (roughly 60%), but under Saddam the Shia were oppressed and the Sunni were in power despite being only 20% of the population. Arab.
• Iran: Shia. NOT Arab.
• Palestine: Sunni, Arab.
• Egypt: Sunni, Arab.
• Saudi Arabia: Sunni, Arab.
• Syria: Sunni, Arab.
• Jordan: Sunni, Arab.
• Gulf States: Sunni, Arab.

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Did You Have A "DC Moment?"

On a recent Saturday night I was talking to an acquaintance who is a self-admitted, laid-back stoner. That is, except for the eight hours a day when he dons glasses and a button-up shirt and goes to his job at a law firm. This guy, an avid cyclist, shamefully admitted that he frequently has to take cabs to work and sometimes even hassles the driver for taking the wrong route. He said this is the toll living in DC has taken on him, even thought its only expressed at these moments.

Since then, I've been paying attention to my own "DC Moments," those times when my easygoing, Midwestern nature succumbs to the rhythms and stresses of living in a city whose downtown is overflowing with governmental Type As. Usually this is manifested by outright ignoring a homeless person's solicitations or caring about lame political gossip, but yesterday evening I did something much worse.

I got out of work a little early and thought that it was a great opportunity to check out the cherry blossoms. I hoped, correctly, that the cold, gloomy weeknight would keep all but the most stalwart tourists away from the national mall. Walking down 16th Street toward the tidal basin, I reached a small cluster of people walking unbelievably slowly.

Anyone who knows me can tell you that I walk at a fast clip (my legs are too long for any other pace) and my greatest pet peeve is getting caught behind slow moving people. This only exacerbated after 18 months of standing on the left side of the Metro escalator behind that tourist with the suitcase. I never got so bothered by stuff like this at home in Chicago, but as a District resident I've started to feel like I perpetually have somewhere to be. And fast.

But I digress: I'm walking down 18th street and have to stop behind a large group of people who are standing on the sidewalk in front of the WWII memorial. I roll my eyes. I clench and unclench my fists. I finally find a small gap in their ranks and plowed through, only to almost trip over the cause of the traffic jam: a ten year-old boy in a wheel chair. I think that was my greatest asshole moment in a while, and I've had some bad ones.

I always saw myself as living in San Francisco after college, but the only good friend I had there moved to DC and I followed, for lack of any better ideas. My life has fallen into place perfectly since then, but I still see this city as a very bizarre place. I find the area between M St. and the Mall to be virtually unlivable. Every boxy high rise and look-alike intersection seems a poster child of beautiful anonymity. It's no wonder people can be so rude here— in an area so impersonal, why should anyone treat you personally?

However, a pleasant surprise for me in exploring the city has been how appealing the northern and southern ends are. Admo, Mt. Pleasant and the northern neighborhoods of "upper caucasia" feel like a whole separate country from K St. Yesterday's gray walk through the blossoms made me feel like, pardon the cliché, a whole new person. Or at least a person that doesn't get annoyed at disabled children.

I'm going to be living in this city much longer than I first thought. Is it inevitable that I'm going to succumb to that all-encompassing "DC attitude?" Or will I continue to have access to my own inner tidal basin?

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Books: Lost in the City, by Edward P. Jones

Shaw may be the new gayborhood, as TNG has discussed here, here, and elsewhere, but its streets, rowhouses, churches and corner stores have a long history, one mostly inaccessible to us whiteys-come-lately. Ok, we're certainly not all white, and we're definitely not all gay, but most of us are new, and our histories are elsewhere. I've been here 11 years, and I still feel like a shallow-rooted transient. And of Shaw, my playground all this time, I know little more than what I've seen and heard myself. I didn't know until I just consulted Wikipedia that Shaw "grew out of freed slave encampments." Though of course I know that it's lightening up in a hurry: "According to Census records from 1970, 92% of Shaw's residents were black; in 2000, 56% were black. Shaw's notable place in African American history has made the recent influx of affluent professionals particularly controversial."

But D.C.'s "history" problem, our cloudy origins and confused identity, isn't all black and white: it comes from the lack of loving treatment granted by books and movies to other cities...even Baltimore has The Wire. We're stuck here in the shadow of the Capitol, and the political thrillers that generates have nothing to do with us. To the point: I hadn't read anything truly about the people of D.C. until Lost In the City by Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Edward P. Jones.


The collection is a street-level view of the African American experience in our city all over the latter half of the 20th century. Yes, these are fourteen relentlessly bleak stories. Sometimes I can't tell if I actually like them. But they're all here, on our Battleship-grid of quadrants: 13th, O, 9th, F, 12th, S....Northwest, Northeast, Anacostia, Chevy Chase, Petworth, and mostly, Shaw. And that's kind of awesome. And they're filled with indelible scenes and characters.

As Mr. Jones said in a Q&A with the Washington Post, "I had read James Joyce's Dubliners, and I was quite taken with what he had done with Dublin. So I set out to do the same thing for Washington, D.C. I went away to college and people have a very narrow idea of what Washington is like. They don't know that it's a place of neighborhoods, for example, and I set out to give a better picture of what the city is like--the other city."

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Backpacking Through Asia

-My boyfriend is backpacking through South East Asia for two months. He's writing a blog of his travels. For the first two weeks he was with a friend, but now that friend has returned to the states, leaving him alone to continue his journey. He's currently in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) and will try to find a way through Cambodia soon.

I talked to him on Saturday morning. He's having a difficult time of it lately and feels very much alone, so if you read any of his posts, I'm sure he would appreciate any comments you may have.

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