Princess or Satan's Daughter?

I live in the tarnished buckle of the Bible Belt. After four years here, few things about ultra-conservative Evangelical Christians surprise me. Church signs that claim my folk will burn for all eternity rarely register anymore. Half-crazed preachers standing in the middle of campus spewing venom don’t appear unusual. The local competition to see how many Jesus-fish one can attach to a car bumper no longer seems ominous.

Early in the semester, though, I went for a walk to the Student Union building. My search for a chocolate product and caffeine became derailed when I saw a new banner hanging from the ceiling of the Union’s main walkway. This area often has the standard banners created by student groups to attract new members. One sees calls for fraternity rushes, soccer practices, and Klan drives (otherwise known as Republican Party registration).

On that fateful day, however, a banner appeared with such supreme novelty that I was left speechless. Bold, but crudely painted, letters proclaimed:

I am a Princess Because Jesus is My King

This banner pulled off some neat tricks by drawing together seemingly unrelated and irreconcilable discourses. For me, the creator of this banner had quite the set of ovaries. She ignored historical Jesus' messages of humility. Instead, this woman envisioned her religious beliefs aligned with, and even validating, the current image of a consumer princess.

Let me offer some truth in advertising. I consider myself spiritual and believe in higher powers in the cosmos (karma and all). Still, Jesus as the whole-son-of-god thing doesn’t really work for me. Don’t get me wrong. The historical Jesus had some noble ideas and hung out with a cool crowd. He liked to kick it with prostitutes, the poor, rock stars, etc. My guess is that he probably spent a bit too much time in the desert sun, though, which explains his vision of being part deity.

I offer this disclaimer because it should be clear that I have nothing particularly vested in the Christian message. I also don’t disparage those who do sincerely believe. It just doesn’t work for my view of the universe.

Yet this banner suggests just how askew U.S. Christianity has become. Most of the campus religious groups use religion to form a sense of individual identity through messages of moral superiority. There seems to be a twenty-first century version of the Gospel of Wealth emerging. This scheme links together material wealth and spiritual authority. Aspiring to the privileged, self-indulgent world of the rich is fine because the rich are the rightful beneficiaries of God’s blessings. One can ignore the poor, the sick, and the starving as long as one gives lip-service to an abstract Jesus.

For these folk, God exists only to grant them wishes. Let’s call it the I-Dream-of-Jeannie version of God. If they pray for a higher test score, God will grant it to them. If they want a new BMW, a few extra prayers at night should take care of it.

What’s disturbing is that this vision of Christianity eliminates these folk’s agency in their own life and obligation to their fellow humans. Working hard for those test scores or BMW becomes unimportant. They need not take personal responsibility for their actions or commitments.

Thus, the banner’s creator can think herself clever by playing on the modern meaning of “princess” as a spoiled brat with her religious expression. Material success testifies to one’s Christian devotion. The poor, conversely, clearly don’t pray hard enough. How else can one explain the unequal distribution of wealth in the world?

As Close as I Will Ever Be. . .

Since I am not teaching this semester, keeping a regular daily routine challenges me. I am supposed to be thinking big thoughts and researching or something. Had I known that I would be dealing with the whole break-up thing, I probably would have delayed my research-leave so that I could have a bit more structure to my days. Whatever. It’s cool. I am a tree. I can bend.

Going to the gym offers the most consistent scheduled activity for me these days. Also, given I find myself single these day, I feel I should at least attempt to be fuckable.

My relationship to the gym has long been complicated. Part of the appeal of an academic job was that it did not require a lot of heavy lifting. Paying money, therefore, to go to a place devoted to lifting heavy things always struck me as wrong. These days, however, I find that I --*shudder*-- like going to the gym. This shocking realization led me to wonder why.

At first, I thought it had to do with getting my brain into an endorphin-induced coma. Let’s face it, though, the modern pharmacy can provide a better mix for your sweet cerebellum than anything from the gym.

Perhaps, I thought, it had to do with the gym providing a space to zone out and not have to think about much. So, for instance, while on the treadmill I don’t need to ponder an evil-ass-idiot president who attacks gay folk to inflate his own sagging poll numbers. Nor do I have to consider the long-term implications of the center of our government being a zone where free-speech does not apply. Not having to think about these things makes the gym a good escape.

Really, though, I had an epiphany about why the gym appeals to me: It is the only space where I can secretly pretend to be a superhero without looking totally insane. Hear me out.

Going to the gym starts with me dashing into a new set of clothes from my regular work wear. Yes, like changing from my secret identity of a mild-mannered college professor, I put on things I wouldn’t normally wear out of the house and special shoes. Gym clothes can be way over the top and nobody seems to notice or care. There are lots of stretchy nylon fabrics and flowing shorts. No, I don’t wear spandex like most superheros (nobody needs to see that). In many instances, however, I am nerdy enough to wear t-shirts with superhero emblems (Green Lantern, Flash, Captain America (fyi, I wear the last one with a sense of irony)).

When feeling like a queer superhero, I toss on some pro-gay-agenda shirt. If I am going to have delusions of grandeur in the gym, I might as well make it political by wearing a F*ck Homophobia shirt (with the asterisk replaced with the Texas Lone Star) or two men stick figures holding hands Yeah, some crusty assistant, assistant, assistant manager tried to get in my face about these, but that just made me wear even more of them. Besides, we all know that it’s the gay boys who keep most gyms afloat in the long term. I digress.

Once in my superhero duds, I venture out to conduct momentous tasks. I lift things much heavier than I ever imagined. Once I finish with that, I run much more than I really should. Thanks to the ipod, I have my own theme music. If I position my headphones properly, I can even pretend they are a golden tiara.

To end my workout routine, I save some hunky men from certain disaster. Well, okay, maybe not that last bit. It could happen, though. -- What? It could.

Suggestions for Well-Meaning Texans

I like well-meaning people and appreciate people who intend to be nice to me. I really do. So I don’t want this post to come off the wrong way. My gravitas should not be confused with bitchiness.

Though I complain about Texas a great deal (and there is a great deal about Texas to complain about), most of the local people around here try to be good folk. This makes me happy.

Still, the shelteredness of small-town Texans leads even the best to be sometimes clueless when they encounter an out-gay man. Here are some helpful suggestions for Texans who don't know many gay men:

Don’t ask me to help you with choosing skincare products.

Don’t ask me if I know the hip place in town to get your haircut. More than just being a stereotype, it is actually a sore issue with me. There isn’t a hip place to get your haircut in this god forsaken town. I am relegated to going to HairBarn (I know, my gay membership is in jeopardy, but that is another entry).

No, I didn’t see last week’s episode of Will and Grace. No, I don’t think it shows progress toward social equality.

No, I didn’t see last week’s episode of American Idol. Yes, I do think the judges are homophobic.

No, it's not easier or safer to be in the closet than out.

Don’t recount every encounter you ever had with random gay people as an attempt to show that you are not homophobic. If you haven’t had gay friends before me, it’s not likely we are going to be instantly close.

My recent breakup is not just like a divorce. It is a divorce. We spent eight years married (I admit I can’t push this point too damn far given that the ex decided that he had no obligation to live up to his marriage commitments to me. Still, even if he forgot what he promised, we were married).

Jokes about me being the “gay divorcee” are neither original nor funny.

Remember I have more interests than being gay or gay sex. Granted, not many more, but I do have some.

Don’t ask me why gay men buy so much lube. We just need it, okay.

Fighting for social equality isn’t one of many different political concerns to me. Voting to defend gay people is not the same as voting to add new parking spaces downtown. It is a concern rising from the deepest part of who I am and how I will be able to live and work in this city/ county/ state/ nation/ world.

Don’t ask if I had sex with women “just to make sure.” Have you tried sex with somebody of your own gender just to make sure?

Don’t ask me to tell you who is “secretly” gay in town. I know, but if they want to tell you, they will. Gossiping about them only makes it harder for gay folk to be out.

Don’t ask me to judge your dancing ability. I lack this talent myself, so why would I be able to help you?

Don’t tell me how hard it must be for me to live here as a gay man. I am a gay man and I live here. I already know how hard it is.

I am not interested in what your minister/priest/father-confessor said about gay people last Sunday.

Don’t compare the gay rights movement today to the African-American Civil Rights movement of the fifties and sixties. The gay rights movement also existed in the fifties and sixties. It’s not new. African Americans are still fighting for social justice today. It's not over. While we are on the subject, some gay men work/ed in the African-American Civil Rights movement. Some African Americans work/ed for the gay rights movement. They are different, but overlapping, things united in their quest for social justice.

These are just some thoughts so we can all get along in the Lone Star State. I feel better, don’t you?

Actually, maybe this post does seem too bitchy on reflection. Really, I do appreciate kind Texans. To be honest, anytime Texans don’t burn a cross in my yard, I am grateful.

A Queer Theorist Loves You

Adam, a cool blog author in Dallas, recently had a post on Queer Theory that put my little gears turning for a bit. At different times, I asked colleagues to come in and jiggle my head when I got stuck.

In particular, I worry about the obfuscating language of queer studies and its relevancy for public debate. This is made worse by some queer scholars who intentionally make themselves opaque in order to seem smarter. “What?” You ask, “An academic who pretends to be smarter than he/she is? Get out!.” No, it’s true. It happens.

As a result, a divide sometimes exists between those of us who teach queer studies and those engaged in public debates about sexuality. This is ironic (and it is a real irony, not a fake Alanis Morissette irony) given that queer studies developed with a specific intention of taking academic research directly to the politics of the state. Now, though, we seem a bit adrift.

Let’s take one of the reigning queens of gender studies/queer theory: Judith Butler. Those of us in the academic world worship at the altar of Butler for her remarkable ways of challenging what we presume to be “natural” about men/women/sexuality. Without a doubt, Butler has proved she is one of the smartest academics in the U.S. She could be as close to an academic rock star as we have in this country.

Yet, the woman needs an editor like Cheney needs to stop eating red meat. Here is a typical Butler snippet:

The redescription of intrapsychic processes in terms of the surface politics of the body implies a corollary redescription of gender as the disciplinary production of the figures of fantasy through the play of presence and absence on the body’s surface, the construction of the gendered body through a series of exclusions and denials, signifying absences.

Is this passage smart? Yes. Is it clear and easy to understand? Oh, hell no. Don’t look for Butler on Oprah’s booklist anytime soon.

I know every field develops a specialized language. Certainly I would not be able to pick up the most recent chemistry journal and be able to decipher it. For the humanities, however, we have an obligation to make our work and teaching relevant. I also think certain queer scholars have allowed theory to cloud their recognition of actual queer people’s day-to-day lives.

Queer Theory has some valuable pieces to add to the public debate on sex and sexuality. At its most basic elements, Queer Theory starts with the presumption that modern sexual categories (e.g. gay/straight or homo/hetero) are historically recent and culturally specific. Therefore the political and legal decisions based on those categories become suspect and should be challenged. Enforcing these categories is an act of power that limits people’s erotic and romantic options. These elements of queer theory allow us to reconsider the ways we think about sexuality and the possibilities for sexual freedom.

On one side, some queer theorists have allowed their commitment to this intellectual exercise infringe on their approach to other queer folk. Many queer theorists disdain those who use homosexual desire as a means to organize their identity. They disparage attempts to build a movement based on “identity politics” as essentialism and denigrate urban “gay ghettos” as another form of the closet. These scholars claim to be on the cutting edge of intellectual and political endeavors, dismissing others as hopelessly parochial or deluded by heteronormative power.

On the flip side, some queer folk have disregarded queer academics as “egg heads” whose ideas have little relevance for the fight for social justice. Queer Theory gets pushed aside as “intellectual masturbation” with little relevance to the “real world” of queer life.

Neither of these things ultimately helps us. Queer Theorists have to start engaging with local circumstances and take seriously that they are not smarter than queer folk outside of the humanities. This may seem obvious, but you would be amazed at the number of people I have known who use their Ph.D. to bludgeon others.

Queer Theory gives us a particular vantage point to enter into public debates on sexuality, but not control them. If we take Queer Theory seriously and assume identities are contingent upon local and historical circumstances, than we also need to take seriously the means through which individuals resist and accommodate those identities in their day-to-day lives. We are often quick to look for resistance from historical figures, but too often assume collusion by our contemporaries.

I would also suggest that those who dismiss queer folk as being “tricked” by heteronormative standards wrongly assume their own immunity from societal and historical processes. Think of a circus performer who walks on his hands when in front of an audience, but really walks on her legs during the rest of day. So also queer theorists marshal their intellect to unpack the complicated processes that inform our assumptions about sexuality (which is good); however, in their daily lives they also face the same expectations and knowledge that brought all of us to our current identities. They might be better informed about the historical emergence of those identities, but it would take a unique individual to break free from the surrounding discourse that built their knowledge of self.

Those outside of the academic world need to reconsider their assumptions about Queer Theory. The U.S. currently suffers from a wave of anti-intellectualism that queer folk need not endorse. Setting aside the scholars who intentionally obfuscate themselves, Queer Theory has some powerful things to offer public debate. We should be cautious about both essentialism (one must do X and X to be queer) or about erasing queer folk’s differences with straight folk (we are all the same, really).

Sexual difference, under queer theory, actively disrupts assumptions about power and state and religious authority. Those who refuse to conform automatically call into question the legitimacy of structures that keep individuals from forming the types of relationships they would like (regardless of whom they actually want to end up with in bed).

Finally, because Queer Theory draws our attention to the ways that sexual identities have historically been constructed, it also draws our attention to our own possibilities for remaking the meaning of those sexual categories. We should no longer think the queer community as exists because of some accident of “nature” that resulted in our dissenting sexual practices. Instead, let’s think about the queer community as something through which we unite in order to protect and defend our ability to express our sexual dissent. Let’s make a real community by actively engaging and defending each other.

I Write Letters

This time of year brings tons of students to my door looking for letters of recommendation for graduate school. Unlike some of my colleagues, I never agree to write a letter for somebody whom I can’t say something positive about in my letter. Who wants to be such a negative force in somebody’s life? Most of my letters are positive and sincere.

Still, some letters require, shall we say, a bit more diplomacy. Blatantly plagiarizing this idea from a decade-old piece in the Chronicle of Higher Education (and who reads that rag?), let me give you what I write in letters of recommendation and what I really mean:

What I write: This student approached history with an unconventional perspective.

What I mean: Sometimes I was amazed this student could dress him/herself.

What I write: This student distinguished his/herself during class discussions.

What I mean: I barely remember this student ever taking a class from me.

What I write: I recommend this student without reservation.

What I mean: I recommend this student without reservation.

What I write: I recommend this student.

What I mean: I had reservations about recommending this student.

What I write: With solid mentoring, this student will really shine.

What I mean: This student will likely drop out of graduate school after a semester, but I thought he/she should have a shot.

What I write: Never one to make a big splash, this student worked diligently throughout the semester.

What I mean: This student has poor social skills.

What I write: This student worked closely with several senior faculty members in our department.

What I mean: This student was known to sleep with his/her professors.

What I write: Though this student became a history major in his/her third year, he/she showed their commitment to the field.

What I mean: This student failed at being an engineering major in his/her second year.

What I write: This student expressed his/her creativity in writing.

What I mean: This student was smart, but functionally illiterate.

What I write: This student has remarkable writing abilities and could convey the larger themes of the reading.

What I mean: This student could write but has never had a creative thought in his/her life.

What I write: This student brought a unique perspective to class discussions.

What I mean: This student never read any of the assigned books.

What I write: This student has discussed with me his/her profound desire to attend your university.

What I mean: I hope this student does not continue graduate education here.

Job Search, V

My quest to leave Texas continues. For the past few days I interviewed at a university in the far Southeastern U.S. True, I haven’t been offered the job, but why let that stop me from fretting over wether it would be better to move or not? At the moment, making life altering decisions does not seem an easy thing.

On one hand, I like the idea of starting over. On the other hand, packing and moving can be a pain in the ass. On another hand, this new university resides in a solidly blue county rather than the dreaded red of my current county. On another hand, it is still located in the South (why can’t I escape?). On still another hand, this new town was about twice the size of my current location. On another hand, it is still not the urban space that I hoped to find myself located. As you can see, I end up with more hands than Ganesha.

There are many things that make me cautious. One of my mentors strongly warned against taking a job there even before I interviewed. He reasoned that it lacked the same prestige and resources of my current job. Still, I am not sure academic cachet is all that I want out of life. After all, I am not certain I made the best choice moving to Texas based on that criteria.

In terms of academic life, the new university did not seem remarkably different than my current post. Listening to the faculty sounded identical to the descriptions of my current university and department. It is in the middle of a major hiring frenzy and trying to build its humanities programs. The old faculty resisted change, but there are tons of young, hip faculty at the junior level who will soon control the department. They all conduct interesting research and show solid productivity.

Given my outness in the process, I found it a bit odd that they did not arrange for me to meet other gay faculty members currently employed there. Still, I doubt that it could possibly be more hostile than my current university. After all, while visiting I noticed the student-union promoting a drag show for later that evening. In contrast, it would not surprise me if the student-union here sponsored a lynching.

To be honest, the biggest selling point for this university would be its surroundings. If offered the job and I took it, I would be only forty minutes from the beach (two hours from a nice beach). Their claims that the town is the “Berkeley of the South” seem dubious; however, it clearly did have a funky art and music scene. I was impressed by the number of independent restaurants given the size of the town. Also, it had a vibe of surprising coolnees. True, it was a sleepy coolness, but definitely coolness all the same.

Unlike my current location, it also had natural beauty. Tons of ancient oaks covered in Spanish moss gave the town an eerie prettiness. Also unlike my current location, I did not see a single church sign attacking gay folk.

So, I will sit and wait to hear from them. All things considered, it might be surprisingly good for me to make a change.

Better Gay Living Through Science

I work for a university that conducts cloning experiments. Though one might not expect such abominations in the middle of the Bible belt, researchers here have quietly produced genetic replications of various farm animals. Far from the history building, these researchers toil in solitude in their secret lab. My fellow faculty members have cloned, or are about to clone, cats, dogs, cattle, and (I think) Lynn Cheney.

Since I find myself single these days, I have been thinking it’s time for the science folk to help me out. Why should I waste time looking when science can make a man to order? After all those years that scientists performed horrific experiments on gay folk (Yes, I am still angry about that), they owe us. While they are creating clones, I figure they could also tinker with the originals to make them perfect. Here are my requests:

James Dean

Could there be a hunkier dead guy? True, Dean didn’t quite live up to his promise of leaving a good corpse having been mangled in a car wreck and all. Still, with the miracles of modern science, they can create a new Dean: better, faster, stronger.

What Science Needs to Fix: While Dean long had a reputation of sleeping with men, he also had an annoying habit of occasionally sleeping with women. We will need to tidy up that little genetic blip if he is going to be right for me.

Emiliano Zapata

Alert readers know that Zapata made my stalking list not that long ago. What did I discover? Stalking the dead can be kinda boring. They never go anywhere interesting. Actually, they never go anywhere.

With a new Zapata, however, my life could be rich and exciting, I am sure of it. The Mexican revolutionary wanted extensive reforms and advocated his own visions of social justice. I find his passion to the cause very sexy. His most famous battle cry stated: “Would you rather live on your knees or die on your feet?” All I can say is that I would spend some time on my knees for him. Wait – What did I just type?

What Science Needs to Fix: Zapata seemed a bit short. Perhaps adding a few inches on the top wouldn’t hurt.

Dr. Strange

Until recently, I lacked extensive knowledge about Dr. Strange. He existed on the edges of the Marvel Universe: visible enough to be known, but never really fully developed. Beyond an occasional guest appearance on Spiderman and his Amazing Friends, though, he didn’t stand out. Thanks to a friend, I have caught up with the good doctor and am now totally devoted.

Cloning Dr. Strange would fit me just fine. He has a strong commitment to karmic justice, appreciates knowledge, and he wears a long flowing cape. Plus, his whole amulet of power would be pretty handy for dealing with students. Didn’t read the text? Look deeply into the Eye of Agamatto and suffer your fate. Excellent.

What Science Needs to Fix: Though not a genetic flaw, I hear that Dr. Strange can be a bit clumsy with his hands. Sorcerer Supreme or not, we will need to work on that.

Montgomery Clift

Credited with being a great actor of his time, Clift could draw an audience into an intricate web of emotion. Yeah, whatever. All I care about is that he would make excellent arm-candy. Plus, he had a reputation for being able to handle his, um, guns with great skill (See Red River or, to avoid the boring bits, the Celluloid Closet).

I am talking about pre-accident Clift, people. I don’t want some zombie Clift with a ripped up face from that drunken car accident. Yeah, yeah, he still had acting talent, blah, blah, blah. Remember: ARM CANDY. Come to think of it, celebrities back in the day really could have benefitted from seat belts.

What Science Needs to Fix: Clift didn’t live very long. I would like a tad more longevity for my investment.

Me

Early twentieth-century psychologists imagined homosexuality as an extreme form of narcissism. You know, I am kinda okay with that. Who would better match the temperament of GayProf than another GayProf?
(This is the university's official file-photo of me -- I claim no responsibility for it.)
Imagine the gravitas I could spread if there were two of me! Plus, all my clothes would also fit the other me. It would be brilliant.

What Science Needs to Fix: I tend to be a bit neurotic, we should work on that. I might be too nerdy, we could tone that down. Maybe the gravitas would get tiring after awhile. Hmm, maybe I need to think about this some more.

Racial Progress?

In honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, the Associated Press has been pushing a recent AP-Ipsos poll. With blazing headlines such as “Most Americans See Significant Racial Progress,” the AP promotes a romantic vision of U.S. history. Noting that three-quarters of respondents believed that racism in the U.S. had been almost banished, this type of pronouncement depends on our faulty common sense. “Hey, people aren’t enslaved anymore,” the AP seems to suggest, “so things must be better.” Media representations like these promote a self-congratulatory tone for the U.S. public.

Hold-up, though, we need to pay attention to the bits of the survey that the AP didn’t highlight quite so much. Yeah, I can grant that the end of slavery was a progressive move a century ago, but is that where we are stopping? According to the same study, over 66 percent of African Americans did not share the rosy view of racial progress. The AP didn’t break out the numbers for Latinos or Asians. Apparently the AP only thinks of “racial progress” as a black and white issue (please picture GayProf shaking his head in frustration).

So, basically we have a study that reports that people who are not affected by racism believing that racism is no longer a problem. Does this really show “progress?” Or does it actually connote a problem of indifference and ignorance amongst the general public about race and class in this nation? Meanwhile, the African American respondents seem to have some sense of racism still affecting their daily lives.

Here is a problem I often face in teaching my history classes. Many students presume that since they see a few African American and Latino faces in their classes, all the problems with racism have been solved. After all, they reason, segregation no long occurs because of legal measures. These students' day-to-day lives do not include images of racial or economic oppression. It’s, therefore, difficult to convince them that we still have much work to do in this country.

We have been falsely lulled into thinking that racism and segregation no longer have currency in our society. Sadly, this is far from the case. According to a 2003 study conducted by the Civil Rights Project at Harvard University, the U.S. is actually becoming more segregated over the past decade. In 1988, 44 percent of Southern African American public students attended schools that had a predominantly white student body. By 2000, however, that number had dropped to 31 percent and continues to fall.

Think it is just a problem with the dreaded red-Republican states? Not so fast. In blue New York, just 13.3 percent of Latino students and 13.6 percent of African American students attended white majority schools. Meanwhile, all across the nation, white students are likely to attend schools that have student-bodies that are over 80 percent white.

We don’t only see these issues in schools, though. People of color often report having friends outside of their racial groups. Whites, however, are less likely to report having meaningful friendships with others who are not also white.

Starting in the mid 1980s, economic restructuring has resulted in permanent unemployment or under-employment for many of the nation’s minorities. With manufacturing jobs disappearing from urban areas, only low-wage service jobs appear as options. These jobs often tend to be part-time, meaning employers have no obligations to offer health or retirement benefits. Because of the unequal access to education, minorities have fewer opportunities to attend college than their white counterparts.

Even within my beloved gay community, racism often appears unchecked. Along side personal ads that are anti-feminine are ads that contain the chillingly casual “no blacks, hispanics, or Asians.” My suspicion has always been that most people of color would not consider these toady folk worth dating anyway.

Racism has real life-and-death consequences in this country. Amnesty International conducted a statistical analysis of death penalty cases in the U.S. Whites and African Americans are as likely to be victims of homicide. The murders of whites, however, are six times more likely to face the death penalty. The human rights group suggested that the U.S. legal system puts a greater premium on whites’ lives than minorities (It goes without saying (but I will say it anyway) that GayProf does not support the death penalty under any circumstance).

So, what can we do? It seems to me that we need to stop engaging in the fantasies of U.S. history as a steady, progressive march toward equality. The past decade has shown some siginficant set-backs that we have to acknowledge if we are going to affect change.

As individuals, there is little we can do to overturn the current economic and racial structures of the U.S. We need, though, to not allow that reality to immobilize us. The most dangerous thing is for all of us to throw up our hands and say that social justice is impossible. We encounter injustices in our daily lives. What we can do as individuals is challenge the racism, sexism, and homophobia that surrounds us.

Unfurl Something New

Hey, queer folk, we need a new flag. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the sentiment behind the rainbow flag (let’s call it rainsy, for short). It’s a groovy left-over from the late seventies when optimism still existed in the U.S. Yes, the seventies prompted people to think that we would soon solve our problems with racism, poverty, sexism, and homophobia and create a modern utopia. We all know those days are over.

According to legend, Gilbert Baker, our own little gay Betsy Ross, created the rainbow flag for a pride march in San Francisco. With nothing but a dream and a thimble, Baker sewed the first rainsy to connote the queer community’s diverse experiences. Each of the different bars represents sex, healing, spirit, nature, and . . . um . . . what were those other things? I think granola might be in there. Um, didn’t the pink represent Cher? Damn -- I forget the rest.



For almost thirty years, rainsy has flown over queer clubs and posh apartments in major urban areas. So, why do I want to drop it?

My dissatisfaction with rainsy is multiple. First, the rainbow lacks distinction. Many folk still don’t know that the rainsy is ours alone. Jesse Jackson used the same symbol for his Rainbow Collation. At least one hotel chain uses a similar flag on their buildings, and it’s not to attract a queer clientele. Even the Taco Bell flags seem suspiciously close to our flag.

Though I have no evidence, I have always been suspicious that the rainbow emerged from a love of Judy Garland. You know, as in “Somewhere over the. . .” Sure, the rainbow could represent our diversity (We won’t talk about the few queer folk who don’t want to think about racism within our community – that’s another entry entirely). Do we really want a symbol, though, that has as much subtlety as a United Colors of Benetton advertisement?

More than anything, though, rainsy simply isn’t angry enough for me. I want a flag that strikes fear into the hearts of evil Evangelical Christians. Make no mistake, the evil Christian folk consider themselves at war with us (not all Christians are evil, obviously, I am just talking about the evil ones). We need a battle flag. Something that will stop them cold in their tracks. Who has ever trembled at the sight of a rainbow?

See, this is why we need a flag with a bit more aggression. How about a flag with a lumberjack lesbian wielding a chainsaw? Or how about a flag emblazoned with a drag queen wielding sardonic wit? I’ll leave it to the graphic artists among us to figure out how to represent that. Of course, I might be partial to a new flag with Wonder Woman kicking a homophobe’s ass. Who other than the Amazon Princess can satisfy both gay men and lesbians?

If those symbols don’t work, why not return to the Pink Triangle? Yeah, I understand the triangle’s connotations with death make it problematic. Nazi Germany created the Pink Triangle to mark gay men whom they imprisoned and murdered in concentration camps (lesbians did not often face persecution under Paragraph 175). Returning to the Pink Triangle forces all of us to face the horrors of the past. Men and women with queer desires faced persecution and often death throughout much of history. Yet, we continue to survive. Let’s remind the general public that we aren’t going to tolerate any more of that shit ever again.

When the war is over, maybe then we can return to rainsy. Until then, though, let’s get in touch with our angry side as we sharpen our swords and lift our shields.

The Butch Side of GayProf

I harbor a dark desire. Sometimes I think I have it under control. When I least expect it, though, the unquenchable yearning returns and haunts my sleep. There have even been times where I bought magazines with glossy photos to try to curb my interest. It has taken some therapy to admit it, but I am hopeful that I won’t lose anybody close to me over this. Yes, my friends, I lust for a seventies muscle car.

Sure, it seems like everything in GayProf’s life is golden tiaras and pillbox hats. Okay, it’s mostly golden tiaras and pillbox hats. I also recognize that I am the first person to toss out accusations of compensation for men who drive giant-ass pickup trucks (and there are many of those in Texas). So, feel free to heap on the criticism of hypocrisy.

Still, the recent introduction of the Dodge Challenger concept car at the Detroit auto show brought out my hidden secret and gender sterotype. Let's be honest, though, it's s-w-e-e-t.


Let me clarify some things. I ain’t one of those skanky, anything-with-a-big-engine-will-get-me-going sort of queens. No, no. I am particular in my tastes and those tastes involve only Mopar. That’s why the original 1970 Dodge Challenger exists as the greatest car ever built. Ever. With either the 440 six barrel or the 426 Hemi, this car kicked some ass and looked cool doing it.
Don’t even try to talk about Ford Mustangs. Yeah, they had some style. Let’s face it, though, every model year of Mustangs proved a pile of mechanical crap. Their little anemic engines never did anything. Nothing touches the 1970 Dodge Challenger.


So, I would kill for the new Dodge Challenger. Well, okay, maybe not kill (karma and all). Still, I would contemplate inflicting some serious bodily injury for a Dodge Challenger. Perhaps my love of Mopar goes back to my first car (My parents were, and still are, slaves to the Chrysler/Dodge family).

Yeah, we always remember our firsts fondly. The feeling of awkwardness mixed with excitement. Sure, we tended to be clumsy with the wheel at first, but it ultimately felt so natural.

In my case, I had a 1975 Dodge Dart Sport in fire-engine red. As muscle cars go, it had a modest slant-six engine with three on the floor. It would blow away almost any car on the road today, though. I loved its tank-like qualities and A-body style.


One of my greatest regrets in life involved getting rid of it. At the time, though, it had the inexcusable sin of lacking air-conditioning. In New Mexico, with a black interior, that proved almost fatal.

I also hated that it required me to spend yet more time with my impatient father learning how to do mechanical things. Crawling underneath the Dart to change its oil was, well, dirty. I didn’t like dirty at the time. Like with house repairs, my father predicted with Cassandra-like clarity that I would want to know how to do these things in the future. Now, like so many things, I see the error of my youthful ways. How many other folk can claim to have replaced their car’s radiator? Yeah, that’s right, GayProf replaced the Dart’s radiator. What do you think about that? Man, I want that car back (here I get a bit misty-eyed).

In the end, sadly, my practicality wins out over the dark desires. Now I will get into my Honda Civic (four cylinders, with barely 135hp) and drive away.

Return From Philadelphia

All the good little historians have left Philadelphia taking with them another set of conference memories. We return to our universities and archives in our eternal quest to hide from the sun.

For me, the time away brought some good things. Dean proved a trooper of a friend. Not only did he indulge my arcane interests marching all over the city, but he rolled with my bouts of doubt and glumness. Keep in my mind, my normal gravitas warps time and space around me, threatening to consume everyone in its path like an intense emotional blackhole ( hey – everyone has their own special gifts, that’s one of mine). The past year’s events haven’t left me exactly happy-go-lucky, either. In the end, you can have one darn morose GayProf on your hands. Dean showed his understanding and was a great friend.

My interview went fine and resulted in a request for an on-campus interview. It is another southern university, though, so I am not sure I would really be doing myself many favors. When I asked them about the atmosphere for gay and lesbian students, for instance, they responded, “Well, it’s getting better.” Hmmm. Then again, it’s not in Texas. . .Why aren’t there any jobs for me in really cool places?

I also had some meals with other friends who happened to be attending the conference. On my last night, a couple took me to an Afghan restaurant. This was good because I never had Afghani food before that evening. It’s about what one would expect: a cross between Indian and Middle Eastern – very tasty.

In terms of Philadelphia as a city, I can’t say it left me stunned and amazed. Certainly it proved flimsy competition for the greatest of all U.S. cities, IMHO: Chicago.

Philadelphia had one of the greatest divides between the very pretty and the horribly ugly I have seen. The average folk must have been hiding. About a quarter of the people I passed on the street exuded an astounding beauty. Let me say I loathe the cruelty that I dished out in my own mind to the other three quarters. They seemed a bit tore-up in the grill. I don’t want to call them hobgoblins, but some clearly abandoned their post giving out riddles under bridges. I know – I can be a bitch.

For touristy events, I saw some of the usual suspects: the Liberty Bell, the first Supreme Court Room, the First Congressional Meeting Hall, etc. I would have also seen the interior of Independence Hall, but I really, really, really needed to pee (We can talk about my small bladder some other time). Briefly I thought about finding a discreet corner, but somehow I imagine that the Federal Government frowns on people pissing on Independence Hall. I wrestled with how I could have made it into a political statement. It would have made a great headline: Gay Historian Relieves Self on Independence Hall in Call for Gay Relief. Or something like that. . .

I also saw Benjamin Franklin’s grave (he was short). Then I made a quick trek to Betsy Ross’ House. Who knew that Betsy had such a complicated and ample marriage life? I mean, we all knew she could sew like a spider, but I had no clue that she was also a Black Widow. Every few steps through the house you learned about some other poor Joe that she saw go to his grave.

By far, though, Zanzibar Blue won out as my favorite place of all Philadelphia. Before leaving Texas, a friend recommended I check out this jazz club. Normally I am not all that keen on live-music venues, but this place dripped cool. Passers by on the streets could feel the cool wafting out towards them and would stop to marvel at its goodness. The bartenders made excellent cocktails, a key component for me. The musicians had talent, but not pretension. Now if only they would open a Zanzibar Blue in East Texas. . .

Has Anyone Seen My Inner Light?

We have reached that time of year, kiddies. Yes, all the historians across the U.S. make a pilgrimage to some American city. This year, we will converge on Philadelphia. It will be four days of living in the past. Some will present their work, some will be seeking a job, some will be offering jobs, some will hook-up and knock boots. Some will do all of those things at the exact same time. Be sure to look for Snoop-Dog’s release of “Academics Gone Wild” in the coming year.

As for me, I am looking forward to spending time in a city I have never visited. Leaving tomorrow, I hope a change will do me some good. Perhaps I will adopt some Quaker beliefs while I am there. The Society of Friends always seemed so reasonable to me. Everybody works for social justice, guided by their inner light. Each member is equal to all other members as they work against hierarchy. Plus, I dig that whole radical pacificist thing.

I am also really looking forward to hanging with my new buddy Dean. Plus I arranged to have dinner with an old friend and coffee with another historian in my field. So between all of that and my interview, perhaps I will avoid the dreaded wall of shame this conference.

As a public service, here’s what to look for if you are in Philly and would like to start stalking GayProf (and let's be honest, who doesn't want to stalk GayProf?):


I'll keep an eye out for you behind the bushes, sweeties.

What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?

I’m back from New Mexico and just waiting until I leave again for New Year’s. Time in my former home-state, as I mentioned before, usually does me some good.

Yet, I have one tiny complaint. When, oh when, did the radio in Albuquerque get to be so bad? My parents live in the mountains, so it is at least a thirty minute drive to see anybody/anything. Sure, I could have used that time for quiet contemplation, but I wanted some tunes, man. What did I find instead?

First, evangelical Christians seem to control forty percent of New Mexico radio. Next, that Spanish-language stations in New Mexico gear their stuff to mariachi rather than modern. Finally, Albuquerque must be filled with some easy-listening fanatics (I suspect it is all those Anglos who are constantly sunning themselves on rocks).

Basically, my drives into the city consisted of forty minutes of the following:

“. . .The first time ever I saw your face . . .”
*click*
“. . .Personal savior. . .”
*click*
“. . .Aye, aye, aye. . .”
*click*
“. . .John Tesh Radio Hour . . .”
*click*
“. . .Reborn in his greatness. . .”
*click*
“. . . De Colores . . .”
*click*
". . . Lady in Red . . ."
*click*
". . . Mi Rancho Grande. . ."
*click*
". . . God spoke to me in a wetdream . . ."
*click*
“Welcome to the all Bee Gees network. . .”

Auuuuuuuuuugh!

You Mean There's a New Mexico?

Santa came and left his gifties. Many good things came GayProf's way. Still, I did not get that golden tiara and bullet-deflecting bracelets I wanted -- Next year, Santa, next year.

I know I have blogged about it before, but allow me to repeat my love of New Mexico. At night, there have been thousands and thousands of stars. During the day, the sky shows its crystal blue color. D. H. Lawrence once wrote of this place, "In the magnificent fierce morning of New Mexico one sprang awake, a new part of the soul woke up suddenly, and the old world gave way to the new." Indeed, I feel my own soul returning to health.

Some might call my and Lawrence's love of New Mexico spiritual, some might call it silly. Whatever the case, I am devoted to my home. If that whole academic thing doesn't work out, perhaps I will become a booster for the state.

Other things, though, make me sad and worried about New Mexico's future. Each time I return, Albuquerque shows itself to be growing unwieldly. Driving to see friends and family, one can't avoid noticing the poverty that plagues many people's lives here. A tremendous gap appears between those with money and those without.

My fears also focus on the environment. Believe me, I suck when it comes to personal responsibility for helping the environment. Recycling seems like a noble dream, but I prove very lazy about it. I have to be careful, therefore, to realize I can't get too damn judgmental. Still, the massive development here threatens the scarce water that sustains all life here.

The rapid influx of new residents brings good things to the state, I recognize. New Mexico needs capital if it wants to survive. Still, I also fear that all this growth threatens our way of life. Over the generations, the people of New Mexico developed distinctive ways of viewing the world and approaching their day-to-day challenges. It kills me to see those things slowly eroded by the ever-encroaching U.S.

Perhaps there is much truth in the old expression: ¡Pobre Nuevo México! Tan lejos del cielo y tan cerca de Texas.

Closed for the Holidays

I leave tomorrow for New Mexico. It will be an opportunity to lick some wounds, visit family, and reconnect with some friends. Trying to find an inner balance jumps high to my list, as well. At some point, I also need to start thinking about preparing for a conference interview in early January.

Today I spent in my office. The history building seems completely deserted except for a couple of straggling graduate students. I romantically cast myself as the last little boy who has not left for the holidays.

Still, I got some work finished and wrote some letters of recommendation, which should make some students happy.

The past year has been a tough one for GayProf. For all of us, friend or foe, I hope that the holidays bring peace and contentment. Yes, I even wish goodwill for George W. Bush (though it would be nice if he gave the nation the gift of his resignation).

Cheers.

Tough Questions for the Amazon

We all know that I sometimes confuse myself with worship the Amazon Princess. Yet, there are a few things that always troubled me about her. I know I am not the first one to question these things, but sometimes you just have to know. These are questions that Diana needs to answer:

Wonder Civics: Okay, you like to “fight for your rights and the good ol’ red, white and blue in your satin tights.” What troubles me, though, is why, as a princess next in the line of succession in an absolute monarchy, you claim to care about democratic governments. So, democracy is fine for man’s world and mortals, but the Amazons need strict rules and hierarchy? Amazon sisters, rebel against your cruel oppressors. End Queen Hippolyta’s two-thousand-year reign of terror. You have nothing to lose but your bullet-deflecting shackles.


This is what you wear to fight crime:

This is what you wear when you go swimming:


Diana, it seems like you might be a bit confused about appropriate attire. Not that I am complaining about your red, white and blue playboy-bunny suit. Believe, I am also not one of those people who is going to whine about you wearing six-inch heels. Sure you risk breaking an ankle running and jumping, but at what price fashion? It is just that usually we wear less clothing in the water than out. Just a hint, Diana.

While we are talking about your outfit, why change the eagle on your bustier to the WW? The eagle made sense. The eagle went with the general patriotic fervor of the whole outfit.

Okay, I understand you are not really a U.S. citizen. But, then why keep the star-spangled panties?

The WW seems to bare an uncanny resemblance to the following images:

VanHalen Symbol – Did you find a penchant for eighties hair bands?

Whataburger symbol – Do you secretly gorge on greasy mystery meat patties?

These are the mysteries of an icon. . .

Too geeky of an entry? Hey, it's almost the holidays, cut me some slack.

Latino Is, Latino Ain't

From a certain perspective, I don’t do a good job of living up to expectations about being Latino. In most of the U.S., racial identities start with visual cues. Since I am of mixed ancestry (Have I ever mentioned that? It seems like I intended to say that at some point...), my Irish and Mexican features seem too sharply blended.

Depending on my current location, some feel at liberty to offer (unsolicited) observations about my appearance. “Oh,” some will say, “You are Latino? I thought you were Italian!”

Or: “Yeah, it makes sense that you are Latino. You look like a conquistador.” This one seems kinda scary to me. Perhaps, though, I shouldn’t wear that suit of armor so often.

A more perplexing response, though, goes, “I knew it! It’s your eyebrows!” Who knew that Latino folk have a distinctive eyebrow look?

One overly amorous Latino suitor once called me “A bronze Aztec god.” Either he was drunk, blind, or delusional (I was also much younger then). My skin can be as pale as a bottle of milk in the winter.

Appearance, though, isn’t the only thing that throws people off. Here is a true confession: My Spanish sucks. After several generations in the U.S., my father’s parents decided that being bilingual would mark their children with a disadvantage. Like many Mexican Americans of their generation, they hoped that English-only would speed Latinos’ incorporation into the mainstream U.S. (It didn’t, fyi). I regret their decision given my job. Having better Spanish skills is really, really, really important. Darn them! Of course, I am also really, really, really lazy about improving my Spanish as well. Eh – It’s on my to-do list.

Finally, my ability to become a Mexican house-frau is seriously questionable. Though I love every Mexican dish my family prepares, I lack an ability to cook. It’s not because I don’t try, either. I spent many hours watching my grandmother prepare fantastic meals. My grandmother’s tortillas always turned out like light, fluffy puffs of blissful dough. Even my father can do some pretty swift things in the kitchen.

My stiff, hard tortillas could replace the hubcaps on my car. Even the Anglo Ex eventually prepared a better red chile sauce than me. That really hurt! True, he cheated in his preparation, but my red chile sauce has an uncanny mud taste.

So, why bring up my mixed visage, pitiful language skills, and culinary handicap? It’s not that I doubt my status as Latino. On the contrary, growing up in New Mexico, surrounded almost entirely by other Latino folk, it was an unquestioned part of my basic identity. Yeah, my sisters and I were of mixed ancestry (I swear I meant to mention that), but within the particular circumstances of New Mexico, that mattered little. I didn’t (and still don’t) think of my identity as either obscure or nebulous.

It wasn’t until I moved to other parts of the U.S. that suddenly my racial identity became radically important. Being of mixed ancestry occasionally throws people, but, in the end, the U.S. operates on monolithic assumptions about race. Millions of Latinos currently live in the U.S. While we share some common experiences, not one of our lives could be interchanged with another.

Yet, many Euro Americans, and even some professors of color, make presumptions about my background based only on assumptions about my name and origin. Some have laid negative stereotypes on to me, like a supposed cultural tendency toward a lack of ambition.

More often, though, my status as Latino comes into play as a means for some individuals to dismiss me. “Oh, sure,” they will say amongst themselves, “Of course GayProf wants the department to have a nondiscrimination clause. He is Latino! AND Gay!”

In these cases, it is not that I could, just as a human, be interested in issues of Social Justice. Rather, any position I advocate is always suspect because they perceive me as having a self-interested position. When straight, Euro-American men advocate for these types of issues, they are generous and charitable. When I advocate for these issues, I am operating out of greed or self-preservation.

What occurs to me, though, is that they are partially right, even if they ascribe the wrong motivations. It is because I identify as a gay, Latino that I have such an interest in Social Justice issues. Seeing first hand how power works in terms of race, gender, and sexuality has made me skeptical about this society.

All of us with identities that fall outside of the established hierarchy (those who are not straight, narrow-minded, Anglo, and male) need to consider our potential as visionaries for a new cultural order. We can be cultural guerrilla warriors. None of us fully satisfy the stereotypes of our racial, gender, and sexual identities. Naming our divergences shakes apart the static markers of difference. Likewise, shared differences unite us, granting us a more complex perception of dominant society.

Our unique visions can make a better life for everybody and end the stratification in our society. Let us build on our experiences and challenge the status quo.

I Demand a Recount!

Your results:
You are Batman

Batman 75% Superman 70% Spider-Man 70% Green Lantern 60% Wonder Woman 55% Robin 52% Supergirl 50% The Flash 50% Iron Man 40% Hulk 30% Catwoman 20%

You are dark, love gadgets and have vowed to help the innocent not suffer the pain you have endured.

No offense to the Dark Knight, but clearly I am supposed to be the Amazon Princess. I have no particular love for gadgets. It has to do with that push-up bra question, doesn’t it? Damn it!

Hat-tip to Roger's blog for the quiz.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...

Queer Gender

Gay men navigate conflicting visions of gender ideologies. We should think of ourselves as being gender renegades. Drag queens, at one end of the spectrum, show that gender and biology needn’t be assumed as linked. Likewise, the rugged, mountain-guy can disrupt assumptions that all gay men conform to the popular media image of effeminacy.

Some gay men, however, harbor fears of femininity and become corrupted by desires to prove their masculinity. An undercurrent of hatred of all things feminine exists in many queer circles. One need only glance at gay men’s personal ads to see the ever-present “no fems” listed in numerous postings.

I think of gender as socially constructed. In other words, what we presume to be “naturally” male and female is contingent on the particulars of society and time-period. We learn to recognize certain behaviors as supposedly performing masculinity (playing sports, carving a hunk of wood, etc.). Other behaviors we presume to be feminine (cooking, caring for mewing brats, etc.).

I can’t explain why some individuals are more drawn to one set of performances over another. The queer community, though, has tremendous complexity and we see examples of all sorts of expressions of individuals’ sense of gender identity. Yes, they are carvers of wood hunks and gourmet specialists (and even individuals who do both). In most instances, people express themselves as they feel they want to be seen. Still, I am concerned that some elements of the queer community become unknowingly enslaved to their desires to be seen as “manly.”

What bothers me are the ways that expectations about gender performances destroy these queer folks’ sense of self-esteem. They, in turn, seek to police other queer folk’s gender identities.

In European/ Canadian/ U.S./ Australian cultural milieus, sexuality and gender identities intertwine. We learn early, for instance, that effeminate men and same-sex desire have a link in our society. One needs only think about the 1950s film Tea and Sympathy. In the entire movie, the words “gay,” “homosexual,” or “hot-man-on-man action” never once appeared. Yet, the audiences know that the students accuse Tom Lee of being a homosexual. Why so? Tom played folk music, sewed his own drapes (!), and liked to attend tea parties with faculty wives.

Tom’s fellow students tormented him by calling him “Sister Boy.” Really, they should have harassed him for making some ugly-ass drapes. Instead, Tom’s violation of gender norms leads to an automatic conclusion of same-sex desire (Tom, by the way, wasn’t really gay in the film. The message of the film is to be nice to sensitive straight boys, but does nothing for gay men – that, though, is another post entirely).

Links between violating gender norms and same-sex desire lead many gay men to an obsession with proving that stereotype wrong. Given that gay men often spent their lives besieged by negative imagines of gay men that traded on effeminacy, it is no wonder that some become hostile to all things feminine. Many of my gay male students, upon identifying as gay, quickly disavow any association with “flaming queens.” Part of this has to do with my location in Texas. Yet, I think that elements of what they say can be seen everywhere in the queer community. These students see any signs of effeminacy as only reenforcing stereotypes of gay men and “making it harder for the rest of us.” Some gay men get caught in the trap of not wanting to be seen as “sissy,” even as adults. I am not immune to these gender pressures. At times, I still find myself questioning if I will sound too nelly. We have to learn to lose this type of gendered garbage.

I have seen first-hand the extremes that some gay men will go to prove their masculinity to themselves. Rather than owning that they were the little boy who couldn’t catch the ball, they spend their adulthood compensating. Let’s call it, “Daddy Doesn’t Love Me Blues.”

Some gay men feel, probably subconsciously, that they must conform with masculine ideals because they are gay. They feel a desperation to distinguish themselves from other gay men. These men, though, continuously fail to recognize the actual diversity and complexity of the gay community. They don’t acknowledge that many gay men, unlike their experiences, had no problem catching that ball as a child and, therefore, feel no need to try so hard. Nor do they want to know the other gay men who find such ball-playing games silly (I am in the latter category, btw).

Gay men who unconditionally eschew either real or representations of queer effeminacy show the pervasive homophobia within the queer community. In their quest for an elusive and unattainable vision of a manly-self, they become determined to discredit epicene men from claiming their place within the gay community. They create a scapegoat within the community, but never truly part of their community. Effeminate gay men become those who can hold the blame for other gay men’s feelings of political, economic, social, and even sexual inadequacies. What enrages me is the attempt of these self-proclaimed manly men to rob other gay folk of their full dimensionality. These men claim to be above the performance of feminine traits, a claim both sexist and homophobic. Rather than being seen as one type of communal expression, effeminate men become a sign-post for what some gay men fear being. They dread being seen as deviant.

In many ways, gay men are more sensitive about attempts to perform masculinity. For this reason, we are also often better gauges of those with authentic inclinations and those who pretend to be something they aren’t. We need to challenge the poisonous dynamic of those who fear the feminine in themselves and others. Unquestioningly embracing a manly ideal of a strong, ball-throwing, impassive, independent individual sets us down a perilous road. It also distorts or eliminates the multiplicity of identities which inform our queer experiences.

Our silence obscures the truth of the total queer community. We should embrace that our queer desires make us deviant. Our sexuality means we will never truly be "one of the guys," regardless of how many home-runs we may hit. But that deviancy also creates our sense of unity. Our deviancy can challenge, rather than reenforce, expectations about gender.

I Have Returned

Over the past few days, I visited my family. There is something healing about returning to New Mexico for me. Looking out the window of the plane, I feel reassured seeing the familiar mountains stretching out in greeting. Breathing the scorched, red dust reawakens me.

I dreaded having to return to Texas and face the bad situation here. The consequences of my poor decisions and misplaced trust doesn’t make me happy. I have great hope, though, for my emerging future.

While home, I had a chance to meet a couple of friends that I literally had not seen in years. I also made plans to see others when I return again at Christmas.

My family, of course, offered the greatest comfort to me. When I go back to New Mexico, I don’t just see my parents and sisters. My father’s entire extended family still resides nearby and I made the rounds.

Despite my deep commitment to being out for political reasons, I often stumbled at being out to the larger extended family. Even years after telling my immediate family of my gayness, my bravado consistently evaporated around my extended family, for whatever reason. As only age can permit, I now recognize how foolish I had been. Their sense of family means they stay committed to us all, offering whatever support they can when things seem bleak. I did them a great disservice.

In returning home, my thoughts also turned to the oft-told family stories that inspired me to become a historian. As a child, I listened to these tales, often impatiently, and only understanding them a bit. My father’s family had been in New Mexico when it still belonged to the fledgling Mexican Republic. They had not migrated to the U.S. Instead, the U.S. came to them. The Mexican central government abandoned them to the miseries of the invading army. Like all the other Mexicans in New Mexico, they faced a new government that treated them as second-class citizens on their own lands. Their new neighbors offered them only contempt.

Generations, however, eked out their existence working the unforgiving lands of New Mexico. When needed, they picked up hard labor for extra money. Until my generation, all suffered crushing poverty at some point in their lives.

Yet, they had not been crushed. They had not whined. They had not cursed their fate, they fought for their survival. If they had not had fortitude to withstand the unbearable, I would simply not exist. My recent experiences seem trivial in comparison. Returning to New Mexico restores my perspective and increases my resolve.

I often wonder if I would feel similar things going to Ireland. Certainly, my mother’s family faced harsh conditions before and after their migration to the U.S. I don't know, having never been there.

In New Mexico, however, my father’s unknown progenitors seem to surround me. As I drifted off to sleep, their shadows offered words of encouragement. If they were really there or not, I offer my thanks to them all the same.

Sacrificing Trees to the Tenure Gods

Every two months, the senior professors in my department revise the guidelines for reviewing all the junior faculty. You see, as a junior faculty member, my only goal in life is supposed to be obtaining tenure. Tenure means job security for life, but I must prove my worthiness to those who have already passed the tenure gates. How do I do this? In theory, through solid research and good teaching. In reality, through solid research and smart politics.

About this time of year, junior faculty assembly their dossier to show how much we have accomplished in the past year. The newest guidelines (version 10.01.01), however, has radically increased the amount of paper we must include. Let me give you an example from this new directive:

File E. The fifth file in your dossier should include documents supporting your service file. When you receive letters pertaining to service – thank-you letters for serving on committees, invitations to deliver scholarly presentations on campus, or correspondence relating to planning or participating on panels at professional organizations – KEEP THEM!!! And include them in this folder. If you have given a paper at a professional conference, tear out the pages from conference programs indicating the panel on which you participated and put them in this folder. (Emphasis in Original)

What does all of that mean? Two things: 1) Seemingly, the senior faculty think that we lie about doing service and won’t believe it without legal evidence. 2) We must now search through our e-mail to find all of our “documentation” if we ever talked to students.

Over the past four years, I have been asked numerous times to talk to student groups about Latinos in the U.S., or gays in the U.S., or gay Latinos in the U.S. I don’t mind providing this evidence per se, but it seems silly. In the end, speaking to 100 student groups would not get me tenure. Only research and politics hold the key to tenure. Speaking to zero student groups would not deny me tenure, either. Again, only research and politics. So, why the façade?

One has to think that the senior faculty imagine themselves as a cross between Perry Mason and a tax auditor. I have visions of being called into a little room with a spot light as they ask questions like: “So, GayProf, if that is your real name, you say that you spoke on a panel on March 23. None of us bother to attend anything where you are speaking, so why should we believe you? Admit it — You are bulking up your service file even though it will not result in any greater pay or increase your chances for tenure in any way.”

It also makes me wonder what they are going to start asking for next. They won’t believe we finished grade school, so will they want class photos from first grade? Maybe they will go all the way back and believe we weren’t born unless we preserved our umbilical cord.

Not including any of my research, my newest dossier file required an entire ream of paper (and I am still printing). If they are really reading all of this stuff, the senior faculty members have too much time on their hands. They ask, though, so we obey.

Fun with the Center of Gravitas

While away on my interview, my blog had its 5,000th visitor. For many bloggers, I know that is small potatoes. For me, though, I feel like frickin’ Edward R. Murrow if even two readers visit my blog.

As a thanks to all who have stopped by my little bloggy, I devised a drinking game for the Center of Gravitas. Not that you need to drink to read my blog, but, hey, it doesn’t hurt.

Don’t drink liquor? No problem! This game works with pills as well.

So, bring out the Patrón Tequila and take a meander through the archives to see how often the following occur:

Take one drink for every Golden Age Wonder Woman Cover.

Take two drinks for every Bronze Age Wonder Woman Cover.

Take a drink if you know the difference between Golden and Bronze Age Wonder Woman (You big Geek, I love you).

Take one drink for every time GayProf uses the word “dubious.”

Take one drink for every time GayProf refers to himself in the third person.

Take two drinks for every time GayProf refers to himself as a minor deity.

Take one drink for every mention of Anderson Cooper.

Take two drinks for every mention of Anderson Cooper being in the closet.

Take three drinks for every mention of Cydney Bernard.

Take four drinks for every mention of racism, sexism, or homophobia on GayProf’s campus (For this one, the number of drinks is merely to dull the pain, not an indication of infrequent mentions in the blog).

Take two drinks every time GayProf threatens to wear Star-Spangled panties.

Take one drink if you just conjured an image of GayProf wearing Star-Spangled panties. You deserve it.

Take one drink every time GayProf whines about Futurama's cancellation.

Take two drinks if you miss Futurama (You big Geek, I really, really love you).

Take three drinks for every entry with zero comments (because that just makes me sad).

Take one drink for every television reference.

Take two drinks for every time that GayProf admits to watching a t.v. show simply because some hunky male actor happens to star in it.

Take five drinks for every arcane historical reference.

Take four drinks for every time GayProf mentions the tenure process. Take an extra drink on GayProf’s behalf.

Take two drinks for every time GayProf promises to “be more positive” on his blog.

Take one drink for every time that a negative post follows a promise to be more positive.

Take one drink for every mention of the evils of Texas.

Take two drinks for every time GayProf notes that he is blogging instead of working and/or grading.

Take a drink if you don’t yet have alcohol poisoning.

SUPER BONUS ROUND: Fragments of obscure song lyrics hide within many of my blog entries. Take the whole bottle if you can find them.

Job Search, IV

Yesterday, I returned from my on-campus interview (thanks to all who sent good wishes!). I am proud to report that I needed no Xanax to make it through the interviews.

When I left, I hoped that the interview would provide me with a clear-cut better option than my life here. Sadly, easy solutions simply never exist.

Much about the university seemed positive. The department had an extremely collegial atmosphere. They seemed to respond to my research and presentation. The department has a fairly young and energetic faculty. Despite their heavy teaching-load, they also remain fairly productive. Also, my current research record would allow me to apply for tenure fairly shortly as their expectations are much more modest than my current position. Of course, the job is also not located in Texas, a major selling point in itself.

Things about the job made me cautious, though. Clearly the university gave preference to teaching over research. While I like teaching, my major interest has always been research (even if I am not that great at it). The teaching load would add an additional class each semester compared to my current job. Right now, I feel I am barely able to juggle all of these things with my current teaching load, and I don’t want to sacrifice my research.

I had also hoped for a university free of the racism, sexism, and homophobia that plagues my current institution. Certainly, that university had a much friendly environment (which isn't hard to acheive). Then again, when I stopped for a pee in the Student Union, I noticed that some angry student had etched “Kill All Beaners” on the wall above the urinal. A minor piece of graffiti, but it didn’t make me feel particularly welcome.

When I met with the director of Chicano Programs, she told a story typical to almost all universities. Administrators starved Chicano Programs from funding, but hope existed for change in the near future. She laid out the difficulties that Latino students face on campus, despite their being almost 40 percent of the student body. These things should not surprise me (Eden does not exist). Perhaps I wanted a rosier picture than is possible at any university.

My interview also had moments that just seemed simply weird. Given I am “out” in my job applications, the university arranged for me to meet with other queer faculty. This is actually a nice gesture on their part. It just turned out that their choice of people needed to think a bit more about her role in the hiring process.

Since no queer faculty currently works in the history department, they sent me to meet with a lesbian from another department. Clearly, she intended to be positive, so I don’t want to slam her at all. Yet, what she offered as a potential for a gay, single man in that small town seemed poorly thought out as a selling-point.

“If you don’t have a partner,” she offered, “I know that the first-floor men’s room in the library is a major cruising zone. It’s supposed to be easy to hookup there.” I don’t judge those who find these avenues rewarding (though I am very, very concerned about their health and safety), but the tearoom trade has never been my thing. It also strikes me as an odd image to put forward for a potential gay candidate without knowing anything about him.

The pay scale presents another major issue. Though some negotiating would occur if they offered me a job, that university’s pay-scale is radically lower than my current salary (without a significantly lower cost of living).

So, I end up being more ambivalent about the job than I anticipated. If they don’t make me an offer, I don’t predict I will be totally upset. If they do make an offer, I will have to do much thinking. Weighing the pluses and minuses would be tricky.

Sexism and Sexual Violence

Shakespeare's Sister has an important posting about the prosecution of a woman who filed rape charges. She raises vitally important issues in this case that we should all be aware about if we are interested in Social Justice (or actually, in this case, just Justice). Read the posthere.

Job Search, III

I am off today for my on-campus interview, which will last three days. Let’s see: I have packed a copy of my presentation in my brief case and my suitcase (just in case one should get lost). I also have a copy of my power point slide show on my USB drive, my handheld, and a disk (just in case one should get lost). I also packed a couple extra ties and shirts (one never knows). Plus, I have some extra Xanax, should things get rough. I should be set.

As I mentioned, it is a one out of three chance for me to get this job. So, the odds aren’t great. All the same, I am giving it my best. It is part of my new plan to be more of an active agent in my own life after a year of being tossed around emotionally. Along those lines, I have also arranged an apartment for myself starting at the end of the month. This should get me out of a very bad situation. For this weekend, at the very least, I should have some good food over the next couple of days!

If you have good thoughts for GayProf, send them to me as I could use the positive energy. If you are hostile to GayProf, wish me no harm, as I wish none on you.