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the Lord’s University

BYU

“If you aren’t Mormon yet, just give it time!” the man laughed, running his hand through a thick red beard. “I always said I wouldn’t give in, but my wife convinced me eventually!”

I sipped my coffee, listening intently as the man went on and on, eager to have a captive audience. Only slightly frustrated, I heard his life story of growing up a “Jack Mormon”, but eventually marrying a “nice modest Mormon girl who turned my head right around.” Now, he said, they were living in a two bedroom apartment and she was seven months pregnant with their fifth kid. She stayed home with the children while he worked, as they kids were all under six and one was medically needy with regular seizures. He’d dropped out of college a few years ago, trying to make enough money to pay the bills, but now they needed the bishop to help regularly. He went on talking as I just smiled and nodded. I’d barely said a word, only mentioning that I wasn’t from this state.

“Anyway, now that you live in Utah, you’ll join up eventually.”

“Probably not,” I smiled, choosing what I wanted to share about myself carefully. “I have a boyfriend.”

“I knew it!” He pumped his fist in the air. “That’s way too nice a shirt for a straight guy! But you don’t seem gay, like, at all. Wait, are you one of those gay guys who gets, like, all of the girls? If so, we totally need to hang out. You could pass them on to me.”

I laughed, and winked. “Wife? Four kids, one on the way?”

And he deflated. “Oh yeah.”

Awake from the coffee, and with a few hours to kill before my next work shift began, I considered what to do, and realized the BYU campus was nearby. In my 8 years in Utah, I had never once visited the campus, having no reason to go there. As I drove there, I took time to realize that this was maybe the one place in Utah I would be nervous to hold my partner’s hand–I think I could even do that at Temple Square comfortably, but not at BYU, that was different somehow.

I came here once back in high school, for a summer youth program. But I’d never been back. The grounds are clean, and the campus is right at the base of beautiful, snow-capped mountains. The buildings are unique and uniform at the same time, and the campus felt full without being crowded. I walked the grounds, meandering in and out of buildings that all bore the names of old or dead white men, all leaders in the Mormon church at some point. Though most of the student body was white, there were touches of ethnic diversity, and overwhelmingly everyone seemed happy, young, and modest. It really was a lovely place.

While I never attended BYU, I did go to its sister BYU campus in southern Idaho, a slightly smaller version that was much the same, also uniform, in the mountains, with smiling students who were mostly white. There, it wasn’t strange for math class to begin with a prayer, for students to bring up scriptural references in history as if they were concrete fact, or for a religion class to fall between science and communications. I remember the great sense of belonging that I felt there, a sense that everyone had the same values and morals that I did. There were large buildings devoted to theater, music, and the arts, as well as enormous churches and religious institutions everywhere. It was the Lord’s University, and I got to be a part of it.

Walking the campus now, though, as an ex-Mormon, a gay man, someone who no longer belongs, it didn’t feel safe. It was familiar, but uncomfortably so. All of the inconsistencies and cracks showed themselves, almost too quickly. I found myself wondering why I’d come here, and if it had been to look for these cracks. Why couldn’t I just look at the pretty campus and not see the flaws in the system?

I saw a sign advertising a board games club, and immediately thought of the LGBT student organization not being allowed to meet on campus, instead relegated to the city library. I saw a couple holding hands with a new baby wrapped tightly against the mom, and I knew they were likely living in married student housing nearby, but I could only focus on the young gay men like me who were marrying women because they felt they had no other choice. I saw a group of guys devouring piles of burgers and fries, and I could only think how coffee and tea were forbidden but not high fructose corn syrup. While most universities emphasized individuality and the finding of self, this one demanded obedience and conformity. It was very Stepford Wives at its essence.

Little stories began flashing through my brain, all of them painful ones, but they didn’t bring any feelings with them this time, they were only there, for me to bear witness. I thought of my friend who was subjected who electro-shock treatment years ago, here on campus, for being gay. I thought of another friend who was kicked out of school for dating a man, losing all of his college credits and facing disgrace in his family. I thought of a close friend who, just a few years ago, told me how he walked this campus and looked for just the right building to jump off of because he couldn’t face being gay anymore. I thought of the client who reported to her bishop how she’d been raped on campus, and his only response had been to ask her what mixed messages she might have sent to the young man before reminding her that she would now need to repent. Isolated stories, yes, but far too familiar, especially given those that I spend my time with in my day to day life. It was impossible not to hold them in my heart as I viewed all of the green trees and the white smiles. The Mormons were my people: we had a culture and an upbringing in common, and the gays were my people, having a shared experience of growing up different and coming out. But more than anything, the gay Mormons were my people, and if statistics held true, then about 8 per cent of this campus was gay, and that was a whole lot of people.

I left campus soon after, and drove up the hill, toward the large Y on the mountain. I parked the car and got out, sitting on the hood, taking in the city below from a higher vantage point. The lake, the house, the roads. It was stunning from here. Breathing in the fresh air, I thought about the reading I had done the night before, for a small crowd, from my book. I’d read about what it had been like being married to a woman as a gay man. And though I had shared the story many times before, I’d been surprised by a heavy vulnerability, having to pause a few times to not cry. Those in the audience had listened with rapt attention to the painful experiences, and their eyes on me as I read opened up the wounds, in health and fulfilling ways. It was wonderful to share. Sometimes it felt so nice to stand up and speak my truth.

And other times, more than anything, I needed to be anonymous in a crowd of strangers, observing from the inside and then retreating to the hills above.

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Rolling Queers

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“My friends and I, we used to go down to the Salt Lake City Cemetery on Saturday nights, and we would roll queers there.”

I looked at the man, the murderer, with confusion on my face. “Roll queers?”

“Yeah. We’d go down, bash them up a bit, steal their jackets or shoes, take their stuff. Gay guys would hang out in the cemetery that night, so we knew where to find them.”

I could hardly hide my expression of disgust and shock as he told me this simple tidbit. Knowing this man would go on to brutally torture and kill a gay man just a few years later, in the late 1980s… hearing him casually talk about beating gay men up in his youth, it just felt like a blow to my stomach. I felt cold for the entire interview after that.

Later, after the video call ended and I could finally think clearly, I realized I was shaking. I splashed some cold water on my face, guzzled a bottle of water, and chomped on some chocolate that had been offered. I felt myself calm down. A few minutes later, I rejoined the camera crew at the table, and sat in heavy silence for a bit.

“That was intense,” I processed out loud. “Challenging on so many levels. On a personal level. He was charming. Charismatic. But there was a coldness to him. He was manipulating, lying at times. I can’t figure out why he talked to us. I mean, he seems like a nice man, someone who has been changed by nearly 30 years in prison. And as a social worker, I believe in prison reform. I believe people can change, that they deserve second chances. But I know what he did, what he is capable of.”

“What did he mean by ‘rolling queers’?” I looked up at the woman asking the question, knowing this story was new to her, and wondered what she must be thinking after an interview like that. I took a deep breath.

“It’s different, being gay, nowadays. There are gay bars, clubs, and phone apps. It’s easy to date, to find people to connect with. But back in the 1970s and 80s, it was different. It was dangerous to be gay.”

“Dangerous?”

“Absolutely dangerous. Coming out was impossible in a place like Salt Lake City. It could mean being disowned by family, being fired from jobs. There were gay bars back then, but guys like this might wait outside, to beat you up, to ‘roll’ you. Plus you had to register to get inside. And cops would patrol these places, arrest gay men, threaten to expose them unless they were paid off. It wasn’t exactly common, but it happened a lot. Gay men could lose their jobs, their church memberships, their families. And they could be attacked.

“But they still wanted to meet other gay men. They had to hide from everyone around them, and yet they needed to connect with others. They would sometimes go to public parks or other places, like libraries or cemeteries, to try to meet other guys. They might use fake names, afraid to be exposed in their public lives, but their need to connect with others was so great that it was worth the risk.

“I’m picturing these guys in the 80s, going down to a cemetery discreetly, walking the grounds and trying to meet other guys, catch their eyes. These guys could have been lawyers, bishops, dads. Just lonely guys in Utah. Have you been to the downtown cemetery? There are all these walking trails. It’s almost like a park.

“Anyway, imagine these guys, parking blocks away, nervous to be seen, walking through the park. And then being attacked by this group of violent teenagers. Their wallets are stolen, their jackets, their shoes, maybe their car keys. And then, punched, hurt, beat up, having to find their way home to tend to their wounds. Imagine the excuses they had to make to their families and coworkers. Imagine how scared they must have been to go out again. To be targeted like that, to be hurt, to be “rolled” just for being gay, that’s a hate crime. And sometimes these accidents resulted in permanent injury. Sometimes in death. What could they do, go down to the local police, say ‘I’m gay and I was attacked’? Imagine living like that!

“To see him sitting there, talking about ‘rolling queers’ as a regular pass-time, like he was talking about ‘tipping cows’. It’s like frat guys sitting around and casually discussing rape with terms like ‘banging chicks’. It just, it just makes me furious. It hurts me to hear it.”

The room was silent for a bit. Saying it all out loud helped me process, but the feelings didn’t go away. They stayed with me that night, and into the next morning. ‘Rolling Queers.’ It’s a different world now in 2018, but people are still attacked for being gay. I think back to last year’s Pride celebration and the group of so-called Christians standing outside with their messages of God’s hate for gay people. I think of a history of gay people being assaulted, of transgender people getting it even worse. I think of the men on the other ends of those blows and how they lived their lives thinking this was normal, that it was acceptable. How they went on to become fathers and how they spread their hate.

It’s going to take a few days for the images in my head to leave. In a weird way, working gone this project, I feel a bit like Truman Capote, during his work on In Cold Blood. I won’t dive into depression and alcoholism, I’ll process, open up, maybe even write a bit about what I’m going through, knowing that the end result, the final project, the documentary itself, has the potential to teach about our past, to remember the fallen, and to learn about ourselves.

Drag Queen Bingo

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“Guys, tonight, we are gonna play drag queen bingo.”

“What’s a drag queen?” one son asked.

“What’s bingo?” the other asked.

I sat down on the floor to explain that bingo was a game where someone called out numbers, and that you had to watch your card to get patterns of numbers, and that the first one to get it won prizes. With a visual demonstration, they quickly understood.

Explaining drag queens was a little trickier.

“You know how some of Dad’s friends are transgender?” The boys nodded, remembering what that meant. “And you know how last Christmas, your uncle dressed like a girl for Halloween, but he isn’t transgender and he’s not really a girl, right?”

“Right, of course.”

“Well, drag queens are kind of like that. They aren’t transgender. They are men who like to dress up like women, sometimes in pretty silly costumes, so they can perform. They are more like, well, like clowns. They usually wear big, big wigs, and lots of makeup, and silly dresses. Some of them have giant bras on with, like, decorations on them. And they are really silly and funny.”

The boys asked a few questions, but they swiftly understood the concept. My 9 year old, J, remembered a recent rerun of Pokemon he’d seen where the character Jigglypuff sings and puts everyone to sleep, then draws marker all over their faces. “What if Jigglypuff put everyone in this house to sleep and then turned them into silly drag queens before they woke up?” We all shared a laugh.

A few hours later, we walked up to the church cultural hall where the bingo event was being held. Several dozen people packed in around round tables. There were hugs and greetings exchanged around the room, people purchasing snacks and cards, and coats hung on the backs of chairs. As the event began, the announcer, over a microphone, welcomed four separate drag queens out on the floor. One had a floral dress, a bright wig, and a thick mustache. The most extravagant was Petunia Papsmear, who happened to be a friend of mine, wearing a large brassiere with fluorescent tassels spilling out of each breast, a giant cartoon-like wig that looked like flames, and huge plastic spectacles. My sons watched the queens with amusement, fascination, and confusion, as they paraded around explaining charitable donations, party fouls, and complex rules.

Over the following hour, the kids learned how to monitor their own bingo cards, to find the right numbers under each letter and how to check the board for marked off numbers, and how to listen for the rules for each round, regarding bingo, blackout, center square, etc. Petunia came over behind me at one point and asked quietly if the kids might enjoy getting a party foul, and I shook my head no, at least not yet. So as the night went on, other tables were fouled, for inane reasons such as sending a text messages or having their elbows on the table. Tables with party fouls moved to the center of the room, where they put on a large and frilly hat, then grabbed a butterfly net, dancing around the music plays to collect money from the other tables. All of the money collected goes toward a local charity of some kind. The entire set-up was elaborate and adorable.

About 20 minutes into the event, A, my younger son, age 6, grew a bit bored and wanted to be entertained. I pulled out a notebook full of scrap paper and a pen, items I had brought just for this eventuality. I gave him a few different drawing assignments, and he passed his bingo card to someone else as he drew pictures titled “the War of the Gorillas”, “the Healthy Vegetable Patch”, and “Spaceships Invade Earth!” A is a prolific artist, one who focuses on delightful details, taking the assignment he is given and embellishing it with elements all his own. In “the Healthy Vegetable Patch” for example, he drew a plot of dirt with growing vegetables, then drew an entire family of spiders who lived above the patch. As he showed me the drawing, he told me each of the spiders names. The spider family included two children, one who “always gets into trouble” and one who is “very boring”. I’m constantly delighted by his art.

Growing bored again, A wanted more assignments. I looked around, then smiled, giving him the assignment to draw “Drag Queen Bingo.” Sticking his tongue out slightly, he looked around the room, examine the different drag queens, and then he began sketching them in adorable detail. He drew four figures in two rows, each with arms and legs spread out, as if performing, singing and dancing perhaps or just posing. With four separate hairstyles and appearances, and each with long eyelashes, he detailed the four queens. One had shaggy hair and a thick mustache, her toes turned inward. One had on a skirt over pants, with enormous lashes and a stacked wig on her head. One had long flowing hair, a round stomach, and a large bra with tassels hanging from the tips. The last was impossibly skinny with a tiny head and long braids. While they weren’t direct reflections of the queens present, they were close enough, and as we passed the drawing around the table, we all began laughing in delight.

During the next bingo break, I walked the drawing up to Petunia, who held the microphone, and told her about it. She began laughing, and soon she held the picture up for the assembled crowd, laughing about it and telling others that it was perhaps just a bit too accurate.

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“Can the young man who drew this picture please stand up?”

A stood up on his chair and took a small bow as instructed.

“Such realism!” Petunia said. “How accurate! Whatever inspired you to draw such a thing?”

In his husky voice, A shouted back across the crowd, heard by all. “My dad made me do it!”

As the crowd erupted in laughter, I felt my cheeks turn pink with happy embarrassment. During the final break, my sons and I stood up and got a picture with the assembled queens, and during the drive home they laughed about how much fun they’d had.

For a brief moment, I thought back to my own youth. Even a decade earlier, if I had heard of something like ‘drag queen bingo’ I would have tsked, seeing it as something frivolous, sinful, and certainly not a family activity. Yet tonight, I’d sat with my sons in a room full of people in love with life and having an incredible time. We’d been happy, laughing, and entertained. And I celebrated these new moments that I get to share with my sons, even as men in jeweled bras and wigs ran around.

He Said

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he said

“You’re husband material,” he said, looking into my eyes with candor. “And I have a terrible habit of only falling for guys who are bad for me. So I’m not really interested in seeing you again.”

“I made a huge mistake,” he said, looking away. “Making out with you sent the wrong message because I don’t think you’re that cute. But maybe we can hang out again some time.”

“Chad was the one who got away,” he said to a friend, who later told me. “He was sweet and good-looking and actually wanted to date me. But he expected me to text back, to put in effort. I know he’s still single, but I’m just not ready for that kind of guy.”

“You’re the kind of guy I could move across the country for,” he said, with those blue eyes right on mine, “and you’ve accomplished so much. I can’t do this, not until I’m someone who’s done as much as you have.”

“You’re friends are crazy hot,” he said, eyes mischievous on the dance floor. “But they aren’t my type. I prefer guys like you, guys more average.”

“I like everything about you,” he said with a reassuring lopsided smile, “and there is nothing I would change. I could spend my life with you if you just change the following things about yourself.”

“I love you,” he said, with sincere eyes much too quickly, repeating it often and consistently until I believed him. Then one afternoon, he shrugged, averted his gaze, and said, “You know, I’m just not feeling it anymore.”

“If only I wasn’t married,” he said.

“If only I was younger,”  he said.

“If only you were younger,” he said.

“I’m not ready for kids,” he said.

“Can you bring your kids on our second date?” he said.

“You have nice skin but you have some work to do on your body,” he said.

“I might be busy for a month or two but maybe I’ll give you call some time,” he said.

“I only like older guys,” he said.

“I only like younger, skinny guys,” he said.

“I only like beefy bears,” he said.

“It’s only been three days, but do you want to be my boyfriend?” he said.

“You’re not Mormon enough,” he said.

“I don’t date ex-Mormons,” he said.

“I like you, but not as much as I like meth,” he said.

“I like you way too much way too soon,” he said.

“I’m just not ready to date someone again,”  he said.

“I’m just looking for sex,”  he said.

“You actually look good now, what changed?” he said.

“Don’t call me handsome, it makes me insecure,” he said.

“I’m ashamed of myself as a person,” he said.

“I’ve never dated a therapist. Do you think I have depression?” he said.

“I’m not capable of trusting another person again,” he said.

“Yo keep a lot hidden,” he said, his brown eyes focused on me intently. “It makes me wonder what you’re thinking. It makes me wonder about you. You seem like a great guy. I mean, how is a guy like you still single?”

 

 

 

 

Leaving Provo

provoSometimes when I travel I find myself wanting to create an alternate origin story for myself, skew just a few details to make my story a little bit more even-keeled.

Today on the flight to San Diego, I sat on the back row of the plane. We flew out of Provo, Utah, departing from a tiny little airport surrounded by dry fields and, farther off, breath-taking mountains. My car in the long-term parking lot was just across a small road from a literal cow pasture.

I was placed in the middle seat, and the woman to my right snored gently as the baby across the aisle cooed and cried, alternatively. The girl to my left, I later learned her name was Kimber, dutifully scrolled words in her leather bound diary as I read my book, the autobiography of Greg Louganis. She was gorgeous, a shapely blonde with her hair in pigtails under a ball cap, and she wore only a modest amount of makeup, something rare for Utah girls. I glanced at her moving pen from time to time and caught glimpses of angsty words.

Why can’t the world understand that people are just people and I’m so tired of having my heart broken and I just wonder what Heavenly Father has in store for me.

About halfway through the short flight, Kimber cleared her throat a few times, gently trying to get my attention. I could tell she wanted to talk. When we made eye contact, she opened our conversation with a casual “So are you from Utah?” and within minutes she was telling me her entire life story. I have the odd ability to get strangers to open up to me, likely my social work background and my empathic nature; sometimes I love this about myself, and sometimes I don’t.

Kimber talked about being the youngest of four kids and growing up in southern California with her single mother after her father left when she was a child. She talked about playing softball in high school and dealing with getting teased for being a lesbian all the time, even though she wasn’t gay. Her eyes flashed to the cover of my Louganis book, and then she glanced back up, seemingly trying to tell me that if I was gay, she was okay with that. She said she joined the Mormon Church when she turned 18 and moved to Utah for college.

As Kimber peppered me with a dozen rapid-fire questions about myself, I found myself filling in the facts wrong, creating a slightly different timeline for myself with the basic facts of my current life staying the same but my past vastly changed. I told her I grew up in Missouri, went to college in Seattle, and moved to Utah to launch a business. I told her I was a single father of two sons, that I was a therapist, and that I taught college.

Kimber leaned forward in the small space, her eyes alive with wonder, as she told me she served a mission in Oklahoma and had been home for two years, when she began therapy herself, and it changed her life, she said. She held up her journal and said it had become her best friend and her best coping mechanism.

Her voice lowered as she began asking me questions. She had an insider, a therapist as a captive audience for the rest of the flight, and she was going to take advantage of it. Is porn addiction real? she asked, as she confided that her current boyfriend had problems. Is it true that Mormons have more depression and teen suicides? she asked, as she talked about a suicidal friend. Is it normal for girls to want to wait until they are 30 to get married? she asked, as she talked about wanting to explore the world before she took the plunge. Is it more important to be in a relationship 100 per cent, or to have a life outside of the relationship? she asked, as she told me about her desire to be a career woman and not a housewife.

At one point, Kimber held up a finger to stop me. She had to write this down, she said, and began furiously scribbling notes in her journal as the flight attendants announced our landing in San Diego. I showed Kimber pictures of my sons, when she asked, and she commented how they looked just like me.

As we stood to gather our bags, Kimber and I exchanged names, finally, belatedly, and wished each other well. She gave me an extra sincere look in my eyes as she firmly shook my hand. “It was an honor to meet you,” she said, and her intense gaze seemed to convey the subtext that this meeting was meant to be, orchestrated in the pre-existence by God himself perhaps. I smiled at her genuineness and sincerity.

I gave Kimber a bright smile as I walked away. “Kimber, you’re my favorite kind of Mormon,” I said, then turned to the waiting San Diego sunshine, ready for adventures ahead.

Date Night For One

As I sat in the coffee shop just before I was supposed to meet Jeremy (not his real name), I scrolled back through our text messages from the few days previous, remembering the details we had exchanged about home towns and jobs and hobbies.

Jeremy seemed like a quality guy: he had a stable job, he owned a home, he had an adorable dog, and he took care of himself. I scrolled through the photos he had sent after we met on an online dating sight. He had brown eyes, a wide smile, and seemed to be in great shape. After a few days of chatting, I had asked him out for coffee and he had responded with an enthusiastic “YES!!!” that made me laugh.

I looked up to the time. 6:10 pm, and we were supposed to meet by 6:00. I’d give him a few more minutes before I texted. I took a sip from my decaf drip.

Jeremy had also checked all of the boxes that I had: he was single, emotionally stable, communicative without being standoffish or needy, funny, he liked the fact that I had kids, he wasn’t in a rush for a relationship, and he didn’t live hundreds of miles away (this had been a problem for me more than once). It was coffee, nothing more nothing less, and I was actually excited about this one.

My phone dinged and I looked down to see it was 6:15. There was a message from Jeremy. I smiled, thinking he was telling me he was running late, then I grimaced instead.

“Hi Chad, I was really looking forward to meeting you tonight and I’m glad we chatted the last few days. I was reading through our messages just now and I realized that I’m just not emotionally equipped to have a conversation with someone new right now. Work was just too stressful today. You seem like a great guy and maybe I’ll contact you in a month or so when things settle down. Sorry. Jeremy.”

My mind went instantly calm, but I could feel myself clenching my jaw. I took a long sip of my drink and then sighed. Okay, I told myself, this is not your thing, this is his thing, and it’s just coffee. This isn’t even someone that you know and it’s no big deal.

I briefly considered texting back, but instead just closed my phone. A text cancel 15 minutes after the meet-up time was rude at the very least, even if he was a really good guy. A bit frustrated now, I considered how to spend my suddenly free evening, and, after finishing my drink, took myself for a walk. I laughed and then cursed as I heard my friend Billy’s voice in my head, teasing me that I have the super power to attract any handsome guy in a ten mile radius who is either major drama or has major emotional problems. #### you, Billy, I thought with a smile.

As my feet moved, my head started spinning with the human panic and shame that sometimes comes with rejection. Six years of this! Six years of guys who don’t message back! Six years of chatting only to have guys fall silent or only want sex! Six years of first-time meet-ups, sitting across from someone while you size each other up, is he good looking enough stable enough interesting enough funny enough! Six years of second or third dates followed by an ‘I’m not interested’ or ‘I’m getting back with me ex’ or ‘I’m not out of the closet yet’ or ‘I should have told you I was married’ or ‘I just got out of a psychiatric facility’ or ‘I don’t like kids’ or ‘I’m currently unemployed’! Six exhausting years of this!

I was mad now and walking more quickly. Not mad at Jeremy per say, because whatever, I don’t even know him, but mad at the emotional energy dating sucks out of you. Six years. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

I rolled my eyes at the sky and slowed my breathing. I was a human having a human reaction to something that on another night wouldn’t bother me at all, but this time I was annoyed. It was only recently I had decided to try my hand at dating again, after a difficult breakup from someone I had loved, and it was the same old games all over again. Like every human, I needed a chance to get mad for a minute, and I’d had my minute.

I took a minute to remind myself that I’m not the only one who goes through this in dating. Men and women of every age get lonely, try to meet someone, get sick of trying to meet someone and take a break, try to meet someone again, and get their heart broken all the time. And, just like me, they in turn break the hearts of others sometimes. I see humans who completely despair when they are rejected. Someone doesn’t show up for coffee and they go on a long spiral of self-shaming, calling themselves pathetic and hopeless and unlovable and destined to die alone, all over something as simple as a cancelled date.

I sat down on a park bench and thought things through. I needed a bit of self-care tonight. I didn’t know of any friends who were free, so instead I decided to treat myself to a movie. There was a theater nearby, so I walked in and purchased myself a ticket and had a brief moment of oh my god instead of being on a date you’re at the movies by yourself before I calmed the voice and exhaled. No, I wasn’t going to give that voice room right now. I was going to enjoy myself.

I got an iced tea to drink and I found a spot in the middle of the movie theater, shutting down my phone so I wouldn’t be tempted to check it. I gave myself a mental pat on the back, happy with myself for self-care skills. I often travel solo, see movies by myself, and take myself out to dinner, and I find myself to be pretty good company.

As the previews ended and the lights in the theater dimmed, I sat up and looked around and realized I was the only person in the movie theater. I mean, I went to the movies alone, but this was a whole different level of alone in a city full of half a million people.

“God, damn it,” I muttered out loud, then folded my arms, furrowed my brow, sank down in my chair, and prepared to sit through a movie.

datenight

What’s Your Name Again?

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It’s 2 in the afternoon on a perfect August Monday in Salt Lake City, and I’m in my favorite coffee spot with a tall drip coffee and my journal. Down the table from me, an older man loudly lauds his career accomplishments to an unimpressed woman as two teenagers who type on their phones frantically. Across the room, three college aged men type on their computers, and a beautiful girl reads the newspaper.

Behind me, I hear a guy talking on his phone. I turn around and catch a good-looking guy, beard, likely in his early 20s , stirring his coffee as he talks to a friend on the phone.

He isn’t here. I told you he wouldn’t be here. We chatted for a few weeks, but he’s gonna be a flake like all the others… I know, I know. I gotta keep trying or I’ll be single forever. It’s just–oh wait, he’s walking in. Gottagobye.

I look curiously toward the door and see a blonde guy, early 20s, both ears pierced, cute, walking in. I see him make eye contact with the guy behind me and walk toward him. I turn back at my coffee, thinking it’s rude to eavesdrop, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

Hey, you made it.

Yeah, sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find parking.

No worries, I got you a coffee. Hope it isn’t cold.

Thanks, man. That’s nice.

As I jot the weekend’s events in my journal, they discuss the basics: what they do for work, some of their hobbies, where they are from, and I find myself writing less and listening more.

Yeah, I’ve only been in Utah about a year. Came here for school. I like it, though.

Oh, I hate it here. I grew up here. My family is all here. I mean, I don’t hate it-hate it, I just haven’t ever been anywhere else, except for my mission in Brazil for a couple years.

So you grew up Mormon?

Yeah, super Mormon. My whole family is Mormon. I came out like two years ago and they are going crazy with it all. They think I’m an apostate and treat being gay like I’m a drug addict or something.

Oh, that sucks. I didn’t know much about Mormons before I moved here. It’s a real thing here, though.

Oh definitely. I try not to date guys who used to be Mormon anymore. Too much drama.

What do you mean?

Oh all these shame issues. Guys who grew up totally ashamed of being gay. Family problems. Did the whole mission/BYU thing. Some guys even got married and had kids before coming out. I just get sick of the drama.

But doesn’t that–I mean, did you go to BYU?

Well, yeah. I just, I mean I don’t judge. I just get tired of the same stories.

I hear that. I don’t like drama either. But everybody’s an individual. I mean, every gay guy had to come out to their family and like take that whole journey. My family is cool now but they weren’t at first. Utah isn’t so different.

I think Utah is different. Mormons are different though. Especially in Utah. It’s like the church is the government and the families all follow it and it’s just such a big deal.

But have you ever lived anywhere else? I mean after you were out of the closet?

No. Just the mission.

Okay. Anyway, what do you do for fun?

I hear them talk about hobbies and interests for a while. One mentions his dog while the other talks about the gym. I realize I’m not even writing now, engrossed in their conversation, and thinking of the billion first dates I have been on that sound exactly like this in some form.

So what do you look for in a guy?

You kind of asked me that when we were chatting. Sense of humor. Guy who takes care of himself and can hold a conversation. Not in a hurry, but looking for a relationship ultimately.

Oh yeah, I remember. I’m all of those things. I’m one of the good ones.

Yeah, you said that in chat too. It’s been good getting to know you, John, but I probably better get back to work.

I had a good time. Would you like to get together again some time?

Yeah, that’d be cool. Text me later.

Before it gets too awkward, what was your name again?

The guy laughs, tells John to look back at his chat, and then leaves to head back to work. In seconds, I hear John get back on his phone.

Hey, he showed up. I totally screwed up and forgot his name, though… He’s cute, looks like his picture. Ugh, I’m going to be single forever. Why can’t I find a guy who wants to date me?… Yeah, I’ll call you tonight. I’m meeting a different guy from Grindr for dinner in a bit.

Physician, Heal Thyself

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Sometimes I wonder what it would look like if I did a therapy session with myself. If I did one today, it would probably look something like this.

“Hi, Chad, thank you for coming in today. I appreciate you reaching out for help and support. You had a chance to review the confidentiality paperwork and sign before beginning?”

Yes, thank you for having me. I did review the paperwork and I don’t have any questions.

“So, let’s just jump right in. What brings you in today?”

Well, I have a pretty complicated life. I’m trying to figure out what I want to do for work. I’m co-raising a couple of sons (they are amazing, by the way). I’m having difficulty feeling grounded in my life. And dating, ugh, don’t get me started.

“That does sound complicated. Sounds like you have a very full plate.”

Honestly, it feels more manageable right now in this moment than it ever has in the past. I feel like I have it under control, except for the being grounded thing.

“What makes it feel more in control now than it has in the past?”

Well, we don’t need to spend a bunch of time on this, but it’ll help to know my origins. I grew up Mormon in Missouri in a pretty complicated family. Chaotic, lots going on all the time, lots of drama, but also lots of love. I was the family social worker from my youngest days, learned to take care of everyone else’s problems as a way to avoid my own.

“And what kinds of problems were you having?”

I realized pretty young I was gay. So despite the family drama stuff, I found a way to hide that part of myself so I didn’t have to ever deal with it. I mean, being gay just wasn’t an option. And because I acted like everything was fine, no one really noticed my struggles. I learned to hide in plain sight, even from myself.

“I could ask a lot of questions here, but you mentioned you didn’t want to spend a lot of time on that part of the story.”

Right. So, to sum up, I spent a lot of time trying to cure myself, like my religion promised I could, by being unselfish and serving God, on and on. I spent a ton of time in church, paid my ten per cent tithing, spent two full years as a missionary, went to a church college. Praying, always praying for a fix, and always feeling broken, distant, different from other men. Dated women cause I was supposed to, but was never attracted to them, not even a bit.

“Go on.”

I met Megan when she was 18 and I was 21. It wasn’t until six years later, when we had been dating for a while, that she asked me finally why I hadn’t kissed her or held her hand. I finally told her I was gay. She shrugged, no big deal, we were married a few months later.

“So you hadn’t been physically intimate with anyone during that time?”

No. And I had only come out to religious leaders. But I still did the church thing, got my Masters degree, and started working before I got married.

“Sounds like you have always had a lot of drive.”

Yeah, I think so. Anyway, Megan and I had a great marriage, except for the whole I’m not into women thing. We had a kid after a few years, and I finally started to shut down. The cure thing wasn’t working after years of trying. I got depressed, gained some weight, snapped out of it, lost the weight, and finally came out of the closet, left the Mormon church. Megan was pregnant with our second during all of this.

“My word. That must have been a very difficult period. How long ago was this?”

Four and a half years now. Things are good between us now. We moved to Utah, are raising the kids together. There was this crazy couple of years at first. Brand new out single gay male, ex-Mormon, dating for the first time, and with two kids under three to raise.

“And all the while having to work and take care of regular day-to-day life.”

Yeah, there were some rough patches, but to feel alive, you know? It was like coming up for air after years of holding my breath.

“Well, I have a million questions, but let’s bring things up to the present. How are things for you now?”

I moved back to Utah in April after working in Seattle for six months. I see my kids a ton and they are thriving. And, well, I feel like a 20 year old. I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I mean, I’m here in Utah and I’m not leaving again, they are too important to me. But I don’t know what to do.

“What do you mean, you feel like a 20 year old?”

Most American kids go through that period of discovery after high school. They ask themselves the hard questions, travel, study, go in to debt, fall in and out of love, decide what they want to do when they grow up. They make mistakes, drink and have sex and take road trips.

“That sounds fairly typical to the American 2o-something. What was 20 like for you?”

Oh, God. 20 for me was wearing shirts and ties, knocking on doors, and telling people to come to Jesus, all the while living around a bunch of 20 year old guys doing the same thing, pretending I fit in and that I wasn’t attracted to them, and praying constantly I wouldn’t be gay anymore.

“That’s a very different upbringing. And you feel you are 20 now?”

In some ways. I mean, I’m 36, not 20. I have my college education. I have dependents, and bills. I have no desire to shed all responsibility and make enormous mistakes or drink myself to sleep, or to fall in and out of love over and over.

“So clarify for me, then. How do you feel 20?”

I have no idea what to do with my life.

“Let’s jump a couple of months in the future. It’s early fall and everything in your life has gone perfectly between now and then. You have found your grounding. In fact, everything is going just the way you want it. What is different in your life then?”

Well, many things are the same. I’m here in Utah. I have my sons often. I have my friends.

“And what is different?”

I’m in a relationship that is building toward permanent. I’m making better money doing something I love.

“Anything else?”

I’m out of debt, exercising more often, traveling more. I’d feel more self-assured. But those things would come with the relationship and job, I’d expect.

“Those things you are listing, being in a relationship and working at something you love, those don’t seem that unrealistic.”

Ugh, they shouldn’t be.

“‘Ugh?’ Why ‘ugh’?”

Those are the very things that have eluded me the past few years.

“Can we spend some time breaking those apart a bit? Dating and career?”

Yeah, that would be really good actually.

“Let’s start with relationships. Tell me what’s going on there.”

I don’t know if I have the objectivity to even tell you that. The gay community is complicated. A huge portion of it is very body and sex focused, hugely focused on alcohol. And there is so much emotional damage in the community. You have all of these grown-up men with jobs and families who act like teenagers when it comes to sex and alcohol because they did what I did growing up, hiding themselves in plain sight, and now they have to make up for lost time. I know not everyone is like that, but it is a huge portion of the dating pool here. Perfect body looking for perfect body, gym, booze, sex, and on to the next. It’s exhausting.

“And where do you fit in to all of this?”

I’m… different. I don’t know. Maybe it’s having kids, or being a bit older. Maybe it’s what I do for a living or the age I came out. I just want more than that.

“Can I challenge you on something?”

Yeah, absolutely.

“It seems almost as if you see yourself as separate from this definition of the gay community. Like you are above it, perhaps.”

That stings to hear, but I can see the truth in that. I drink sometimes. I enjoy sex sometimes. I go to the gym. I had a period of ‘making up for lost time.’ I don’t think I see myself as ‘above’ so much as I’m just having a difficult time dating in that world.

“Well, it’s very different from the world you knew. Mormon kid in Missouri, missionary, college student, professional, married straight man with kids, all with this very confining Mormon standard of morals and ways to live.”

Yes! It is very different.

“So why do you think you have had such a difficult time with dating?”

Okay, instead of comparing myself to the community, let me just talk about my experience. What works for me. When it comes to dating, I’m straightforward. I share what I’m thinking and how I’m feeling. I’m bold. I’m romantic. I’m not a jump into bed quickly kind of guy, not until I feel that connection and chemistry with someone.

“Go on.”

So it tends to fall apart in one of two places. Once we have passed that whole ‘I have kids’ thing, which is a barrier to some, and once I see that a guy is stable financially and emotionally, then we get to that first date. I’m not afraid to ask someone out, and if I have a good time, I’ll ask them out again. A lot of guys seem to wait to be asked out.

“So you go out on a date, and then?”

First dates are usually coffee, dinner, a walk, something like that. Simple. Get to know you conversation. Now I’ll rule out the terrible first dates that could never lead anywhere, dates where the guy is a jerk or monopolizes the conversation or treats our first meeting as a therapy session, and the ones where the guy is a huge flake. I seem to have some sort of curse when it comes to the second date.

“You’re giving me a lot to follow up on, but let’s start there. What is the second date curse?”

When I let myself get interested in a guy, which frankly takes a lot at this point, something seems to happen before the second date occurs. Three recent examples: one guy relapsed on drugs after five years of sobriety, one guy let me know he changed his mind about dating and he just wanted casual sex, one guy–

“I’m going to stop you there. Again, I’m getting that ‘above’ thing. A second date curse isn’t a thing. Take a wider view.”

I… truly don’t know. I could be coy and just say I haven’t found the right one yet. I could say my expectations are too high. I could go internal and say I need to love myself before I can love someone else. I could get cynical and say maybe relationships aren’t for me, or successful relationships aren’t possible. To keep it simple, I guess I’m just sick to death of searching for something that consistently eludes me.

“And why are you ‘sick to death’ of it?”

It’s, frankly, just exhausting. I see successful relationships around me. Guys that have been together for 20 years, or 10, or 5, who have homes and kids, who travel together and enjoy being together. I want that. And I have no idea how to find it.

You aren’t unique in that, you know? That’s every single person on the planet. That’s every person, gay or straight or bisexual, who hasn’t found someone, or who has had their heart broken. So let me ask a very simple question. Why do you want to be in a relationship?”

For the simplest of reasons. I want someone to share my life with.

“Tell me more.”

Even though I was closeted, I was married for years. I liked that, except for the whole wrong gender thing. I liked having someone to check in with at the end of the day. Good mornings and good nights, evening walks, cuddle time, meals and family events together. Hell, having a second income was great. Not some co-dependent thing. Just someone to share life with. I want that.

“Have you had that with anyone in the past four and a half years?”

Briefly. I fell for this guy long distance for a while. When we were together, it was great. Reciprocal. Eye contact and affection and laughing and silliness. It was good. But then he’d be gone and we’d fight or grow silent. Ultimately it just didn’t work, but during those brief times we were together, it was great.

“So when it comes to dating, I basically see three options for you. One, you can give up, quit trying, and just focus on yourself. Two, you can keep putting yourself out there and trying (but maybe lose the ‘I’m cursed’ mentality). Or three, you can jump into something and just hope it works out.”

Clearly the second option is the best one.

“I don’t think your expectations are unrealistic. You want to find someone who is put together and who wants to be with you. That makes sense. You want the unicorn in the field full of horses. How do you feel right now, having talked about this?”

Relieved. Exhausted, but relieved. It’s nice to have it all out there and to realize where I’ve been screwing up. Can we talk about career a bit?

“Yes. What do you want out of your job?”

I want to make more money doing things I love.

“And what are those things?”

To be honest, I’m not sure. I feel like I could divide myself in 8 and do each of them full time. I could continue doing social work. I could teach college full time. I could write and travel. I could make documentaries. I could–

“You have varied interests, it seems.”

I absolutely do. It’s back to the 20 year old feeling. Guy enters college, takes some classes, figures out what the hell he wants to do with his life.

“And what do you want to do with your life?”

Make money doing something I love.

“We seem to be in a circle. You want money and to do something you love, but you don’t know what that is.”

That is absolutely correct.

“So let me challenge you. Try thinking of this like a 36 year old father, and not a pretend 20 year old. What do you want?”

I… don’t know. Okay. Let me think. I don’t want the life I had before, working 60 hour weeks at a mediocre job. I want to work for myself. I–

“Do you want to keep doing social work?”

I… don’t think so. I think I want to write.

“You want to be a writer?”

Yeah, I think so. I want someone to give me a hundred thousand dollars a year and I will just write and share my ideas and insight with the world for the rest of my life. I’ll be like David Sedaris. I’ll make people laugh and smile and think and feel and cry. I’ll help through words. I’m good at it, but I have no idea how to make a living at it.

“We’re all out of time for today. Let me ask what you learned today, what insights did you gain in today’s session?”

Well, I’m no different than anyone else. I’m unique and I’m looking for things that are right for me, and I should’t get down just because my life hasn’t mapped out the way I’d expected.

“Great beginnings. For next time, I want you to let yourself think of becoming a writer. One who inspires others and maybe even makes that hundred thousand a year. What would that entail and how could you make a living? I’ll see you next week, Chad.”

Men Seeking Men

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It was a Saturday night and, lacking anything better to do, my best friend Kole and I walked down to the gay bar a few blocks from my apartment, a divey little place with tables and chairs and a nice back patio. We showed our IDs at the door and walked the perimeter of the place, looking at the patrons as they nursed their drinks, everyone checking everyone else out.

“Let’s just get one drink,” Kole said. “My treat.”

I hesitated. “I drank last night. Not really sure I want anything.”

“Come on, two bachelors out on the town on a Saturday night. One drink.” Kole smiled and I rolled my eyes.

“All right, one drink.”

“What do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

Kole walked over to the empty bar and smiled at the bartender. “We’ll take two drinks, something sweet. Surprise us.” Then for the next few minutes, the bar tender mixed different colored beverages in two mason jars, stuck straws in them, and handed them over. They were much larger drinks than we had planned, but when in Rome, and soon we were seated at a corner table taking sips as we talked about life.

Kole is a unique friend, and one of my favorite people. We can laugh, be obnoxious, and be adventurous, and we can kick back and be serious and there for each other during the tough times. We spent some time being snarky, laughing about inside jokes, then the buzz from the sicky-sweet started to kick in. Normally, I’m pretty happy when drinking, I get silly and want to dance. That night, though, the alcohol seemed to have the opposite impact, and I got sad and serious.

Kole, who had recently broken up with the last guy he was dating, lamented about the simple things it takes in relationships to help him be happy. He took another sip from his drink. “Have I ever told you about the date where I knew I fell in love Todd?” Todd was Kole’s ex-husband; they had split just a few years ago after Todd had cheated on Kole with a younger guy.

I shook my head. “You haven’t.”

Kole twisted his lips up, a bit sad, thinking. “I had to cancel a date with him pretty early on in the relationship cause of some family stuff. He checked in on me, didn’t get mad, and later he picked me up and took me for a picnic where he had all of my favorite foods prepared. None of it went together. Vanilla Coke, Stovetop stuffing, and Twix bars. He did all of those things just for me. I knew it then. We had a good marriage for a long time, and I could overlook the bad things cause he did sweet things for me. He always had a Coke and a candy bar waiting for me at home when I had a bad day. He was always there when I came back. But over time, things changed. He started lying to me, then cheating. I think I might hate him now. But I can’t seem to find anyone who will care about me in the same way.”

I thought for a moment, looking at Kole with narrowed eyes as I came to a realization. “You know why dating isn’t working for you, don’t you?”

Kole shook his head, surprised. “No. Why?”

“Because you are looking for him.”

“Him?”

I nodded, sitting my drink down after one more sip. “Yeah. You are looking for your ex-husband. Or at least the way things were when things were good with him. You’re looking for someone who does things the way he did things.”

Kole looked surprised, then tilted his head as he chewed on that information for a minute. “You’re right. I can see that. But is that so wrong?”

“It absolutely isn’t wrong to want to be someone’s priority. But you’re never gonna find that. I mean, sure, you can find someone to date and care about you and put you first, but they won’t ever do it in the way that he did. It will be in the way they do it. Instead of picnics, it will be notes on the mirror, or instead of Cokes, it’ll be bear hugs at the end of the day. I closed my eyes tight, feeling my head spin from the alcohol a bit, like little wires of stress loosening in my brain. It felt wonderful. “I mean, we all look for what is familiar, right? And we all seem to turn down whatever doesn’t match that.”

I leaned forward in the chair, having some sort of epiphany on dating in my alcohol haze, like suddenly it all made sense. “We’re in the age of instant gratification, right? Look at all the lame reasons we rule people out for dating. They didn’t text back fast enough. Too old, too young. They only bottom or only top or aren’t versatile enough. They don’t have the same kinks I do. They’re too tall, they’re still in college, they want kids or have kids or don’t want kids. They’re too sensitive or not sensitive enough. They smoke, they are a recovering addict, they live too far away.”

I sat back then, gesturing with raised hands and talking just a bit too loud. “Everybody’s ruling everybody else out because they aren’t a picture perfect expression of exactly what they are looking for. And we’re gay, which makes it worse. Men are all logical, more head than heart anyway, and growing up gay meant hiding yourself or feeling broken or whatever. The cards are totally stacked against us.”

I rested my elbows on the table and put my head in my hands, suddenly tired. I half-expected the Beatles’ song Eleanor Rigby to come on. “Ah, look at all the lonely people.”

It’s just how it all works. Adam wants Ben who wants Charlie but Charlie only wants what David and Edward have and Frank doesn’t think anyone wants him and George doesn’t want anyone.” I took my long last drink, slurping up the remains from the ice cubes at the bottom, impressed with my alphabetical naming skills.

“But you’re totally gonna find someone, man. You’re one of the good ones.” I looked up, my brilliant speech finally concluded. I reached over the table, grasped Kole’s hand with a tight squeeze. “One day at a time, brother.”

“You too, Chad.” Kole squeezed my hand back, and then suddenly I was laughing, my chin dropped to my chest and my eyes closed. “What? What’s so funny?”

I laughed harder. “It’s Saturday night and we are buzzed in a bar and having this conversation. Oh god, we are those drunks.”

Two days later, Kole and I got coffee together. As we chatted, we took out our phones and opened up Grindr, the gay-chatting app. We compared notes on the guys we were looking at, starting chats with some, ignoring others, being ignored by others still, ruling out this one for this reason and that one for that reason, just like every other gay in the city.

And on another Saturday night soon me and Kole and so many others would wonder why we hadn’t found the one yet.

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the Frenchman and the American

wine-cheese-maui-restaurant1

So what is it the Americans think of the French?

That’s a rather broad question.

Yes, but I mean traditionally. Culturally. There must be some existing stereotypes. 

Okay, sure. There is a tendency among American comedies to make fun of the French for being, well, cowards. They called them frogs was back when. I think it dates back to World War II.

Oh, that is nothing. That is actually a world-wide stereotype. I lived in Ireland for work for a few years, and was teased about that all the time. I think it is rather funny, actually. 

And there is a perception about the French that they love their wine and love their women. In the 1950s, the country seemed enamored of France. There were a bunch of musicals about Paris, all the Maurice Chevalier type, an older man constantly drinking wine and champagne and lusting after women.

Well, there is truth to that as well. We do love a fine wine or a strong drink. And we French men, we definitely love our women. It’s rather funny, many Americans expect me to be an expert on wine, but I am not. But because I have a French accent, they expect that I do. I throw a few fancy words around and everyone thinks I have a very educated opinion. ‘Ooh, this wine, it’s from 2013? That was a very good year for red wines in oak barrels. This is delicious.’ I have no idea what I’m talking about, but suddenly everyone is ooo-ing and aah-ing over the wine. 

The same with cheeses and breads?

Of course.

Growing up, I based my knowledge of France off of that chef character from the Little Mermaid, chopping up all the fish and crabs. Sacre bleu, what is zis, how on Earth could I miss such a sweet little succulent crab?

Oh my, you must stop singing. 

Clearly I need more wine.

The funny part of the Little Mermaid is it sends such a terrible example for children, and for women. It seems to suggest that 16 year old girls should defy their fathers and give up everything for some boy. Give up your legs, give up your voice, give up your life for the boy. Beauty and the Beast is the one that is actually based in France.

Oh my god! The candlestick! Flirting over the feather duster the whole show! That’s you!

I’m hardly the candlestick. 

So I went up to Park City today. It’s the Sundance film festival right now, so the city is packed with people in jackets and hats, bustling down the street in a rush everywhere with full cups of coffee in hand. I pass these two men, both of them clearly French, and very snobbish. They are sauntering down the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes, blocking traffic, as they talk in their French accents about how awful the last movie was. It’s like the were critiquing a cuisine.

Well, they sound very French, except for the sauntering part. They must not have been Parisians. Everyone there is in a hurry.

Okay, so the same question back to you. What do the French think of Americans?

Well, to be honest, not just the French, but most of the world, at least the places I have been, they think of Americans as idiots. Very boastful idiots. Always going on and on about how America is the best country in the world. But when asked why, Americans say because of Freedom. It is so annoying. Much of the world has freedom, yet America has the highest prison populations, the most gun violence. Not that France is perfect, we definitely have a lot of racism there, but America takes racism to another level. I don’t see what everyone is bragging over. 

Well, fair enough. There is some truth to that as well.

I think the stereotype exists, but more in very religious communities in the south. In Texas and Alabama perhaps. French stereotypes exist as well, but only in various parts of the country. 

People from any country only need to see one Donald Trump rally or Sarah Palin speech to realize we have a lot of gun-toting idiots in this country.

And the gun violence. My god, so many mass shootings. It seems like every few months or weeksDon’t get me wrong, there are many things I love about America. I did choose to live here for the next few years. 

You definitely picked an interesting city to live in. Salt Lake City is fascinating.

It really is! I researched a lot before I moved here. But I am regularly surprised by it. 

Well, Utah is a state that formed outside of the United States government. Brigham Young led hundreds of thousands of people out here and basically became the emperor of the land, settling the whole place in the name of their God. So when the government came along, Young was elected the first governor. It is literally the Mormon holy-land.

Yes, but the city does not feel so Mormon.

Well, down the road is literally the headquarters of the Mormon church. Yet we have a lesbian mayor, a fairly Democratic government, and a huge LGBT population.

It is a fascinating place. There is much going on in the city, from live music to bars on every corner. I think I will like it here. 

Come on, you’re doing fine. You’re already meeting girls on Tinder.

Yes, yes, I have met one girl. That must make me quite the ladies’ man, as you say. 

Ha, shut up and drink your wine, Frenchie.

After you, American.

 

 

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