For those who have been hoping for a glimpse of the novel, I present to you a small snippet. It is not of the story itself, but of a short story that is shared within the novel between two characters.

Once upon a time, there was a young boy who was almost five years old, who lived with his mom and dad. They were a happy family, until one night the boy started getting nightmares every night. After a week of the boy waking up in the middle of the night crying in fear, his parents took him to the doctor. But he couldn’t see anything wrong with the boy. So, on the way home, the boy’s parents stopped and bought him a teddy bear. This teddy bear was big and fluffy, had thick brown fur and velvety paws, and a big red ribbon tied around his neck. He also had big brown eyes, and a wide smile, the kind that cheers you up every time you look at it.

That night, the father told the boy, “Before you go to sleep, talk to the bear. Tell him what it is that you are afraid of, and give him a hug. Then you won’t be afraid anymore.” And so the boy did. That night, before he closed his eyes to go to sleep, he whispered in the bear’s ear “I’m afraid of the dark.” And it worked. The boy slept through the night, without a single bad dream. His father also told him that the magic would only work if he spoke to the bear every night. And so the boy did. Every night the boy whispered into the bear’s ear and told him what he was afraid of. Some nights it was the dark, and other nights it was the monster in his closet. Night after night, year after year, the boy whispered to his teddy bear.

As the years passed, the bear started showing signs of being well-loved: his fur grew matted and patches started growing. His ribbon became a tattered shred and soon both of his eyes rubbed blank. But his smile stayed just as wide.

Eventually the boy grew up. He finished school and got a job. And still he gave his bear a whisper and a hug every night. Then the boy had a girlfriend who he fell in love with, who made him happier than anyone had ever before. And though the boy no longer hugged the bear through the night, he kept the bear in a closet so he could whisper to him and give him a hug before turning in. The night before the boy married his girlfriend he whispered to the bear, “I’m afraid that tomorrow won’t be perfect.” And this night, barely more than a pile of tattered fabric with a wide smile, the bear spoke back. “You’re ready to let me go.” “But I love you,” the boy said. “You are grown up now. You are on your way out of childhood,” the bear said. “And now, it’s time to love your wife. Every night, you must tell her something that you love about her. And give her a hug. And when you have children of your own, you must buy them a new teddy bear so they can whisper their fears and learn to love, just as you have.”

I hope you enjoyed it!

Until Next Time,

Joe

If you were expecting an excerpt of the novel, I’m sorry to say that I’ll have to disappoint you. Here are my reflections on writing the novel.

It is universally known, if not necessarily accepted, that all things must inevitably come to an end. This extends to summer breaks, book series (Harry Potter anyone?), life, and yes, even the writing of a novel. I begin writing this post in the face of concluding my first legitimate novel. It is a weird feeling to be sure, having something that has dominated my waking thoughts since June 11, to be so close to being finished.

My goal for a full and complete novel has been 80,000 words, making slightly over 70,000 ideal for a first draft, knowing that I want to completely redo the beginning of the novel. But enough about numbers.

— 8/6/14

After all, numbers don’t’ make up the creation of a novel. Hard work, perseverance, sweat… these make up the creation of a novel. As do tears, writer’s block, frustration, and at times – sheer laziness. Certainly there have been days I have struggled to write. Indeed, some days I didn’t write a word. And other days, I wrote 6,000 words over the course of just a few hours (roughly 21 pages). I remember sitting down when I first started writing and trying to figure out if I would be able to finish the novel over the summer. And now, here I am days from finishing a week ahead of schedule.

Now these days I find myself allowing my mind to wander and start thinking about how I’m going to revise this novel, what changes I’m going to make to make it much better, and whether or not it will be any easier to follow through on, than writing the first draft has been.

— 8/7/14

I write to finish this post, now that I have finished the novel. It’s kind of a funny story how it had happened. I’d spent pretty much all day writing and finally it came to the late evening, and being utterly word weary, I took a break to watch a movie between writing the last chapter and the Epilogue. When I came back to my computer, I finally realized how exhausted I was. Thinking about the Epilogue I planned to write, I realized that I really didn’t like it. The ending I had written was so perfect, and I didn’t want the reader to be left with something less fitting. Words from one of my favorite authors, Rick Riordan, came floating back to me: epilogues take away from the readers’ imaginations. So, I decided to end it at the last chapter, which meant, I finished the novel two hours before I thought I was going to, and I hadn’t even realized it at the time.

Now I can sit back and sigh with relief. I have finished the novel. I have written from start to finish probably more than a dozen works:  some of them short stories, several of them novellas and two of them novels. None of them have seemed so tangible to me as this latest novel. I fully intend to run all the way with this one before my next project:  I intend to publish it. At times it has seemed daunting, but having finished perhaps the biggest single step in publishing a novel, it makes it easier to remember that all things come to an end. Even the writing of a novel.

— 8/11/14

Until Next Time,

Joe

This summer I had the opportunity to watch two of Disney’s newer movies: Frozen and Maleficent. Both were quite good, I thought, and while Frozen certainly mocked a lot of traits considered standard for Disney, Maleficent was much more provocative as a whole.

Frozen was certainly filled with its share of funny characters, jokes and romance, but it also had a number of messages. Disney is often the target of criticism from feminist and racial activists, but as other point out, it also has its share of positive movies as well. What makes Disney’s move different in this movie than those other ones is that the main characters are two women, and the overarching message has nothing to do with earning men. They also make commentary about falling in love too quickly and while this may not be unique to Disney movies, it is the only one I am aware of that so obviously mocks it while at the same time intentionally trying to mislead you.

For me however, my favorite part is regarding the ending. SPOILER ALERT. I found myself expecting Elsa to be the one to lift the ice curse, the reasoning in my head being that this was a story about two sister and them having to overcome this frozen block standing between them, pun intended. I would have been bitterly disappointed if that hadn’t been the ending, but rather Prince Charming come to save the day. To me, with the alternative being to empower two females, that would have been the height of misogyny and sexism. This leads me to believe that the celebration for the progressiveness of this movie shouldn’t be that it’s the first positive movie by Disney (because it’s not) but that this movie is as progressive as it is when the alternative was to send remarkably bad messages.

My one criticism of the story line is the lesson Elsa has to learn to control her powers (SPOILER ALERT), which is she needs to learn to love. To me, this doesn’t seem to be something she needs to learn. We already have plenty of evidence that she loves, because she shuts herself away to protect her sister, because she is scared of hurting her. To me, it would make much more sense for her to have to learn to get over fear. She’s afraid of her powers, she’s afraid of hurting her sister, and so it makes much more sense for her to learn to get over that incapacitating fear. It seems much more empowering to me, at any rate, than learning to love, which she can already do.

As for Maleficent, I probably enjoyed the movie even more than Frozen. After accepting that the movie is more than simply a retelling of the Sleeping Beauty story line (SPOILER ALERT) and that they give Maleficent a happy and empowering ending, I quite enjoyed the movie , and again, for being Disney, I thought was quite progressive. The important act of love in this movie was, I thought, not surprising, but less predictable throughout the movie, leaving me to wonder up until the moment whether or not they would actually go for the risk (Also not being sure if it was a retelling of the story from Maleficent’s point of view or a new story with the same characters).

The one other thing I want to say about the movie is actually in regard to an article about it. In this article, the writer is commenting how rape is so prevalent in our culture that it has blatantly been put into a Disney movie (SPOILER ALERT: the scene which she is referring to is the aftermath of Maleficent being drugged by an apparent lover and waking up with her wings cut off). Now I’m not sure if she was criticizing or commenting or what specifically she was addressing. 1) Was she saying the scene made her uncomfortable? 2) Was “even in Disney” referring to it shouldn’t be seen by kids?

I will, therefore, address both of these questions. The first that it is uncomfortable. My response: GOOD! If it wasn’t, I’d be alarmed. Now, if her suggestion is that it shouldn’t be in the movie, I’m much less ok with that. As a writer, I like to think I support art in all its forms. And sometimes art is provocative or emotionally powerful, though not necessarily happy. And yes, sometimes that makes us uncomfortable. I, for one, however, thought Angelina Jolie’s acting was powerful and convincing, and portrayed the emotion of the situation superbly. If we begin to suggest that scenes should be left out for the sake of comfort, that begins to sound dangerously close to censorship, which in regards to art, I am absolutely intolerant of.

This leads me to the second question, of whether this writer was suggesting that Disney should be more children oriented, I also disagree with that. Sure, certainly the animated films are generally for children, but not everything they make is. I wouldn’t suggest the Curse of the Black Pearl to four year olds after all. So while Maleficent does use the characters and the story line of a children’s animated movie, why does this version have to be as well? Censorship for the sake of comfort or for protection (of youth/innocence) is dangerously close to being one and the same: unacceptable, and should be regarded with great skepticism and suspicion.

In any regard, I personally felt the movie had a sharp edge to it with great acting. I thought it was engaging, moving and powerful. It was deliciously dark, and really shows the horror that overpowers one’s mind after facing such events. I thought the emotion was the selling point to the movie, and it shouldn’t be downplayed or removed. It should be emphasized. Celebrated. It should be used to give art its beautiful, if dark edge.

Until Next Time,

Joe

In mid-March this year, we tried something now: a trip combining 2 campus organizations. Having been an OP participant from the very beginning (FYJ) and a PRIDE club member from the start of freshman year, I tried combining the two. I decided to offer my trip leading experience to the club and offer a camping trip to the members.

So the weekend after Spring Break we went up to Bearpaw Reserve to spend some time together outside of the PRIDE club room. The trip was fairly short, but we fit quite a bit in. We had a campfire that night and we made s’mores, we did the Evening Program of “Masks” which led to a fantastic discussion of the realities facing the LGBTQ+ community and on Saturday we got to go on a hike.

The trip wasn’t as LGBTQ+ oriented as I thought it was going to be, but walking away from the experience, I realized that perhaps that wasn’t the point, but rather just to get club members together hanging out in a time and place that wasn’t at the weekly meeting. Having had the opportunity to talk to people after the trip, it was a positive experience, which was just the right length, and for being a pilot trip, really could not have gone better.

Until Next Time,

Joe

The Opera

Perhaps the most notable experience of our literature course spring semester was our two trips to the LA Opera, one in February and one in March, both trips were to the same opera: Billy Budd. In February we attended the Tech Rehearsal and got to see them slowly work through the first act. It sent me back to my senior year in high school and the tech week for Beauty and the Beast. It was actually more enjoyable to be on the other end than I had thought it was going to be, likely because I had been through that and could appreciate the memories. Afterwards (the two drivers were myself and the other OP Trip Leader in our class) we drove back to campus, stopping at In-N-Out along the way.

Our trip in March however was even more exciting if for no other reason that it was a performance night. We stopped for dinner first at this Asian restaurant, which was quite good. Then we made our way to the Opera House. We dropped everyone off at the front while we spent the next 30 minutes looking for parking. We finally made it in shortly before the Opera started.

Billy Budd (the opera) is credited to Benjamin Britten (the novella being an unfinished novel by Herman Melville, which we read in class). The opera is written in English, though the way it is sung you’d never be able to guess. When we were there for the Tech Rehsearsal, we only got to see the first act. And as it turns out, I was quite glad forthat. The second act has all the action, and the set did things we had no idea it could do the first time we went. The whole stage (of the set) was able to rise about 10 feet into the air, pivoting on its back point. The ending was also much more aggressive than it is usually portrayed as in other variations of the opera.

My favorite scene was at the end when you get to see the main character come out as an old man and stand at attention to the audience while the final, violent actions happen behind him, clearly a memory of his, while poignant music is playing from the orchestra.

Aside from it being my first night out at the opera, the dressing up, the dinner, bringing a friend not in the program with me is what made it fun and worth attending.

The Symposium

The other big event for our honors program this spring was the sophomore symposium at the end of the semester. There’s not too much to say about it, but it was an interesting event. We all wrote three 5 page papers for the class (not counting the 20 page term paper) and we had to select one of them to revise and present to the general public (basically whoever wanted to show up and surprisingly we filled up the room).

I ended up presenting my final paper at the symposium, which was about the imprecision of language and the inherent flaw of language, using the historical account “This Republic of Suffering” by Drew Gilpin Faust and the novella “Billy Budd, Sailor” by Herman Melville.

What made the event marginally more exciting for me was that I was one of the two moderators for the second half. After attending the event, I found that the theory of the event was much more exciting than the practice of it. I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the people, especially the students, who had no idea really what any of us were talking about. However, I would be lying if I said it isn’t a little cool to say that I have now presented a paper at an academic symposium.

Until Next Time,

Joe

I had been waiting for this trip to go out since August 2012, when we received the syllabus for our First Year Seminar that said we were going out head out to Death Valley for our November camp out. It was supposed to be our service trip for the semester, restoring butterfly habitats. As it ended up, that weekend was the Grand Re-opening of a building, and so were pulling all their employees to help with that. We were offered traffic directing and trash pick-up as service instead, which our professor, Andrew Hollis, naturally turned down. Instead, we slept on campus that night, and went to Idyllwild the next night.

I then considered a Spring Break trip as an apprentice, but wanted to do WFR. So when I peer advised for the FYS, I hoped I might get a second shot at Death Valley, but Hollis decided to do Red Rock Canyon (NV) instead, so we could go rock climbing. So then I thought for sure I would do it for Spring Break. But I struggled with interest within the Trip Leader community and then again in the student body. But we got enough sign-ups in the last minute by extending our deadline by one school day.

The trip was 2 nights, 3 days. The great part from a Trip Leader’s stand point was that 4 of the 5 participants had never seen on an OP Trip, so we had a lot of wiggle room to make either a phenomenal impression, or a terrible one.

The trip itself might have been short, but we had a ton packed in over the course of 3 days. The first day, other than missing our exit on the highway forcing us to drive an extra 3 hours, we got to see Zabriskie Point. Zabriskie Point was particularly rewarding. After spending all that extra time in the cars, we really needed something to boost morale, and this stop was it. Aside from stretching our legs, it offered a chance for some pictures and scrambling. The golden rocks were really quite remarkable and the mountains in the distance looked like scoops of ice cream smushed together. According to our Trip Leader apprentice, we were really lucky it had rained the past 3 days, because the colors were much more vivid than when she had last come, since all the desert dust was washed off.

Then it was time to wrap up the day and head over to the campsite and make dinner. This ended up being a cool experience, because a couple of the guys had never helped out in a kitchen before and so they were super excited to help prepare the food they were going to eat later. They were also eager to help out with the cleaning. That was nice. J

The next day was our big day, and unfortunately our only full day for the trip. WE had planned a fairly intense 4-4.5 mile hike (total of 8-9 miles) up to Wildrose Peak. After an hour long drive up to the trail head, we had the opportunity to check out the Charcoal Kilns, a long row of impressive stone domes you can walk inside of, before the hike. The hike itself was interesting. It took about 3 hours to get up, and at one point we were hiking through snow that was about knee deep. It was a tough hike, but the group was determined to reach the peak (Wildrose Peak). On the way back down, it was really cool to see all the participants helping each other down the slippery snow. The hike down was only about 2 hours (maybe a little more) and we were all glad to reach the van and sit down.

Our next stop was the Artist’s Palette. For the most part this was just a drive through, but there was a point to stop, get out and walk around. Whereas Zabriskie Point was mostly gold, brown, and white, there were more colors here including some greens and rusty red. Another positive point for the trip leaders. We were racing time a little to get there before the sun set behind the mountains (way earlier than actual sunset unfortunately). But we made it, enjoying the colors in the last few minutes of light. Then we continued the Artist’s Palette drive through a twisty and at times somewhat tight canyon. We were making one last stop before going back to the campsite, which was to Badwater Basin, the lowest geological point in the U.S. It was a little crazy. By the time we got there it was pretty much empty. The moon was out, and so we enjoyed a nice moonlit stroll through the lowest valley in the U.S. Fortunately it was nice and cool that time of night and year. While we were walking around, we could see all the salt coating the ground, the last sign that there had been an ocean where the valley was now (or any water for that matter).

The last day of the trip was probably my favorite. We only had one big thing planned, and that was to go see the Mesquit Sand Dunes. We, however, had a secret weapon with us: boogie boards. We spent about an hour and a half sledding down the sand dunes. It was probably some of the most fun I’ve had on an OP Trip. After that we let people explore Golden Canyon on the way out before we sat down for one last lunch. The three trip leaders got together to discuss what went well and what could have gone better and to congratulate ourselves for a trip that went extraordinarily well.

Until Next Time,

Joe

(Zabriskie Point)                                                                           (Wildrose Peak)

(Artist’s Palette)                                                                          (Mesquite Sand Dunes)

I have taken a bit of a departure from my spring semester adventures, I will do my best to wrap them up here in the next couple weeks before I leave for FYJ and Study Abroad.  This particular post is about the third and final event of the Visiting Writers’ Series spring semester.

Like last year, these works (the senior capstones) were amazing to listen to. Most of the speakers present their work professionally, one senior even humorously bringing up a glass of water to sip from, even though he was only going to read for five minutes (every writer who has ever presented that I have seen has had a bottle of water with them).

On one level it was intimidating to listen to the projects, knowing that someday I will be expected to write something of that quality. On another, it was difficult not to be impressed by the capstones. Aside from the writing itself, some of the presentations/deliveries were intense. Especially the last guy, he gave a very passionate delivery of a very intense scene. As one of my friends commented, it made sense why they chose him to go last.

The one problem with the event is there are so many writers and they have so little time, it goes so quickly that most of the event wasn’t given the time to sink in. Other than that, it’s hard to come up with something insightful about an event that I have to go see for four years.

Until Next Time,

Joe

Another poignant post, but not a downer like the last one. However, the last post actually generated two comments on Facebook, something that surprises me (I wasn’t aware that people – other than my family that is – were actually reading the blog), but am incredibly and greatly appreciative of the responses. Thank you to all who read my blog, and especially to those who responded.

I’m sitting here in Chicago, on the eve of my last full day in my home town Wilmette, IL. Let me write this introduction to Wilmette for the benefit of my college friends, who have heard me only briefly mention my town, or the North Shore of Chicago.

Wilmette is a suburb. It is a village (hence the name, “Village of Wilmette”)! It is not a city. It is not a “college town”. And it does not have the glamour or the sex appeal of an extravagant night life. What it does have is safe streets. A rich, green neighborhood filled with trees that are decades and centuries old. Large houses with (generally) spacious yards, and lots of kids to fill those yards with soccer balls and sand pits and every sign of a well-played childhood.

This following paragraph is a vision that I described in 2012, the day before I left for college: “Earlier this afternoon, I found myself on the homestretch of my final neighborhood stroll, when I was struck by the beauty of our North Shore haven. I saw the hazy golden glow of a sinking, late summer sun. In between the rays of sunlight, I saw the strong and distinguished shadows casting themselves over lush, green lawns. I saw sprinklers running in neighbor’s front yards, flinging droplets in every direction. I saw the grand oak trees lining the sidewalk from end to end, quietly watching over the block. I saw children running around, and could hear their giggles and screams as they chased each other. I saw a son and father playing catch. I could hear the dull roar of cicadas in the background. And each time I turned my head, and my gaze fell on something new, I saw memories; years of summer block parties and water balloon wars, nights of cops and robbers and warm chili on a friend’s porch on cold Halloween nights. In short, I saw what I have always known (and now with leaving for college tomorrow, realize that I will always know) as home. No matter where I or my family go, no matter what I do, I know that I can always come back here, and know, just know, that I am home.” I have a new description, and I will save it for the end of this post.

First I want to reflect on the course of my travels this summer. I have traveled to four cities in the last five and a half weeks. That’s not a bad haul. I have traveled along the Pacific Northwest by train and enjoyed the very best scenery the Northwest US has. Perhaps most importantly, I have traveled all on my own. That is not to say I haven’t had help along the way. I would like to acknowledge and thank my aunt (my mom’s sister) and uncle for letting me stay at their house in Seattle for two weeks. I would like to acknowledge and thank my friend Rebekka from University of Redlands and her family for letting me stay at their house near San Francisco, and I would like to acknowledge and thank our family friends the Matthews here in Chicago gracious enough to host me for the last week of my traveling.

At the end of the day however, I did this on my own. I’m the one who made it happen, from fantasizing about the idea in summer 2013 to budgeting for it to living it. My time in Seattle was glamorous. I got to sight-see, I got to write, I got to travel and I got to sleep in. Most importantly though, from that trip, I got to see my extended family. Maybe it’s because I don’t get to see them very often, but I am always so, SO excited to see them. They’re funny, they’re crazy, and together they make me laugh. I eagerly anticipate the next time we can all get together and create even more crazy memories.

The time spent in Portland was not quite so glamorous. It’s where I was completely on my own, no friendly faces at night, and was also stuck doing things like shipping packages and doing laundry. I do not wish to give a poor impression of my experience in the city however. Powell’s Book Store was amazing. As a writer, it was truly inspiring to walk into that book store. As an outdoorsman, I fell in love with Washington City Park, and almost started drooling at the sheer size of the arboretum and the unbelievable beauty of the Rose Garden. There’s still more of that park to explore, next time I go back.

San Francisco was when I started settling down a bit. I had hoped to see more friends than I got to, but ultimately catching up with two of my closest college friends one last time before studying abroad was simple, and all that I needed. I got to traverse the Golden Gate Bridge several times, and I made my way down to the PRIDE celebrations – and experience some true heart of the history for the LGBTQ movement. The trip ended on a soul-searching note for me, with a second viewing of the movie Prayers for Bobby, and a visit to Bobby’s grave the last day of my stay.

Finally… Chicago. Home sweet home. (Kind of). After I got picked up at O’Hare airport last Tuesday, as I stared at the street signs, they gradually became more and more familiar, and when I finally recognized the last few blocks to my home town, I started smiling… At something as basic as a street sign. I didn’t realize it right away, but it occurred to me later, this is the first time I’ve been in Wilmette during the summer since I wrote that Facebook post. Two years ago by about a month.
What has ensued in my visit since arriving: relaxation (taking no effort to sight-see… done that enough times as it is), family friends running into me on my way over to the annual July 3rd fireworks (not me running into them), seeing one of my absolute longest friends of all time (“known” each other since before we were born), walking by my Eagle project numerous times, including meeting up with the prairie expert I had worked with again and just in general taking deep breaths and enjoying being back again.

Amidst all this past-exploring that I’ve done however, I have noticed one thing in particular: that I am drawn to the 1400 block of Forest Avenue, where I grew up. It was the first place I walked to, last Wednesday morning, and I have kept wandering over there every day. The renovations on my house (being done by the contractor who bought it from us) are complete, and now there’s a Mississippi (oh… SO close to being ironic) family with two small children renting out the house. As I have walked down this street numerous times for the first summer in years, here is what I have noticed:

The lawns are just as green and lush as they were the summer I left. Parents are still bustling in and out of their houses, running errands, dropping off kids, living the busy life as a parent in the North Shore. The kids, while still running around, are growing up. Just as I grew up on that block once. But the difference is this is no longer my block. It is theirs now. With their memories being created and shaped. New houses are put up, or houses are being renovated and sold. Different families live there… new friendships are being made. After so many years of children playing and running around the neighborhood (at least 2 decades) I see the change of an era coming, of older families staying put, growing comfortable, and kids growing out of elementary and middle school and into junior high and high school. A different block. A new block. And yet… I still see my home here. I look around and I still see the phantom traces of kids playing cops and robbers all over the yards. I see the remnants of a neighborhood that got decked out for Halloween. I see, essentially, the memory of what I knew as home. I still see this as home because a small sliver of my heart will always stay behind. And home is always where the heart is.

I apologize in advance: this is not an uplifting or cheerful post. Please read only at your discretion.

In our daily lives, we have grown accustomed to burying ourselves in superficial matters: work issues, homework assignments, that dentist appointment next Tuesday, the strange rattling sound in the car, buying snacks for the upcoming soccer game, etc. But every once in a long while, the dust seems to settle, and in that moment, we either hear a song or a story, or maybe witness an action that stirs us, and connects us to something primal. Emotion.

Now, I’m not talking about the kind of emotion you feel when your kid scores a goal at that soccer game (pride, hopefully), or learning that the rattling in your car means a new car would be cheaper than fixing all the problems (crushing disappointment)… not that those emotions aren’t important. No, I’m talking about the kind of feeling that reaches to the deepest center of your core as a human being, that lets you know you’re alive, that more often than not wrenches your heart painfully in some direction (sadness or longing, etc.). In this moment, when the confusion and the chaos of our daily lives settle, and we allow ourselves to truly listen or see, when the deepest parts of us are stirred to feel profound emotion, it is that moment that I believe we communicate with our souls. A whisper to the soul, so to speak.

These moments, while rare, often resonate so powerfully within us, that we’re inspired to do great things as a consequence. Sometimes it resonates within us on a personal level, and moves us to do something like forgive someone for who we thought had done something unforgivable at one time. Other times it stirs in us emotion so powerful it resonates with us on a large scale (community, country or even sometimes the world) and it moves us to make a difference. And not just any difference, but the kind of difference that matters. The kind of difference that changes people’s lives. The kind of difference that permanently alters the course of history.

Bobby Griffith. At 20 years old, he was traveling on his own, he was someone who loved the outdoors, and he was an aspiring writer. He aimed to write novels one day. Does that sound familiar? At 20 years old, about 2 months after his birthday, he killed himself. Why? Because he was gay. And the one thing that he wanted most in the world, that he wanted so much more than anything else, was the one thing he would never be able to achieve while alive. He wanted his mother to love him, and accept him for who he was.

I first heard this story October of my freshman year in college. I just recently learned the other day that one of my closest friends at Redlands was actually the one responsible for showing that movie to the PRIDE club, which I am sure is a moment that changed the course of my life forever. It is also the first movie ever (and maybe the only one ever) to move me to shed tears. As I like to tell my friends, when it comes to movies, I have a heart of stone. It’s always just a movie to me, I don’t care enough about fictional characters to cry for them. But this movie… maybe because it’s about a real teenage boy, maybe it’s because I see so much of myself in him, but somehow it gets past that stone wall surrounding my heart. The movie is called Prayers for Bobby, and you can find it for free on Youtube. If you have a thick emotional skin for movies, I highly recommend it. What makes it so moving is not that it’s a story about a 20 year old boy killing himself, but that it’s a story about a mom, who was a Presbyterian conservative, learning to love and accept that which she couldn’t before her son’s death, and becoming a national figure to support those who are in the same situation that her son was in: being gay with an unaccepting family or parents.

I watched this movie for a second time Sunday night, after I got back from the San Francisco PRIDE celebrations. I watched it, because I wanted to re-live as much as I could about Bobby’s life. Monday, I went to Oakmont Memorial Park. Up in the highest part of the park, in the Garden of Peace, I finally found Bobby’s tombstone. I have attached one of the pictures that I took of it. As you can see, someone recently visited leaving fresh flowers for him, perhaps on his birthday about a week before, and the actual stone has a scene of the wilderness decorated on it. At the bottom, it reads “See You Later.”

Being able to sit down for about 15 minutes, and just know that someone so similar to me was right there, someone who had had so many of the same kinds of feelings was right there. It was a poignant moment to be sure. As strange as it sounds, I even had a conversation with him while I sat there in front of his marker, but what we talked about will stay between us.

That night was perhaps one of the hardest I’ve ever had to fight through. Still battling a bout of homesickness from the day before, learning that there had been several shootings at the PRIDE celebration within two hours after leaving it and now facing these emotional upheavals… I read articles about the Supreme Court’s conservative rulings regarding corporations and religion, and about GOP 2016 Presidential candidates looking to reach out towards Evangelical Christians as an “increasingly vilified group” in America (which I have to admit, is definitely true) it felt like I was up against an insurmountable wall of hatred. And I wondered, to what depth did Bobby’s despair reach at the moment he decided to take his own life. What was the last thing he thought of as he fell onto the highway in front of that semi-truck? Was it that his mother had told him that she would rather have no son than a gay one?

Anyway, as I lay there wondering how hopeless he had felt, what kind of future the world had in store for us, and whether or not I was over staying my welcome by that point at my friend’s house, I realized that anyone who identifies with this group of people… yes, it helps to have family and friends who support you, even if they don’t understand what it is you go through, but ultimately, they can’t understand. We are on our own, as is every other group (races, etc.) that faces any sort of oppression and hatred in this country. It is in the very air that we breathe.

To wrap this up, I don’t want to leave on a downer note. Like I said at the beginning, sometimes we hear a story, or we hear a song that seems to reach to our inner cores, and it inspires us to act. I have wondered, if I maybe have a little bit of Bobby’s spirit in me, and that’s why it feels like a part of me is trying to rip itself out whenever I watch the movie or see the story: it’s a part that’s trying to go back to its original home, but can’t. I know I won’t get the chance to meet or get to know Bobby. But as his own mother said, there must be other Bobbys out there. I know there are others out there. I want to change the world for them; I want to make it a better place.

I also want to comment, this kind of opportunity, where I give other people a glimpse into my soul does not come often at all. I am perhaps one of the most carefully guarded people that I know, mostly because I don’t like to talk about myself with others. This jokingly came up several times at Philmont last summer, but it’s very true. Somehow, either through luck or through skill (most likely a little of both), I am quite adept at avoiding answering questions. The take home message of this comment is, read this post, but don’t bug me about it. I won’t talk. Not to friends, not to family. I am offering a free glimpse into my hopes and dreams, the worries that keep me up at night, and what inspires me to move forward. Please, do not ask for more than that.

Anyway, every day I think about the future, and making it better, and I hope that whether it’s sitting around a campfire, or hiking together up to a peak that maybe in one such moment I might get to whisper to other kids’ souls, and give them their own magical moment… that I might get to make a profound, positive difference BEFORE it’s too late, and continue to keep Bobby’s memory alive, so that other kids won’t have to make the same choice he did.

See You Later.

Joe

As the sun heats the air, and the sweat rolls down your back, you can smell the stale stench of cheap beer in the air, and the occasional whiff of weed casually wafts past your nose. The ground is sticky with the syrupy mess of spilled soda and beer, and for the next five minutes all you can hear (and feel) is a sticky crinkle every time you take a step. All around you are people, but not every day dressed people. Some are wearing rainbow tie-dye shirts and others are in modern-day (what amounts to little more than) polyester loincloths, leaving little to the imagination. Yet some people are cross-dressed, wearing elaborate and glittery dresses with thick make-up over their faces, and others emphasize the ambiguity of their gender with great pride.

This… is the San Francisco PRIDE celebration. The theme this year was “Color Our World with Pride”, meaning of course that the setting was very colorful (though with the international symbol being a rainbow, I’m guessing this was not particularly unique this year).

I don’t have too much more to say about the celebration, my description above says just about everything that I saw. The parade was cool, but it was too long for me to be able to stand and watch the entire thing (I think it was more than 3 hours long). Personally my favorite crowd of people were the rainbow balloons. The first wave was people who wore long stringy balloons on their backs (all of the same color), which made them look like a colorful group of medusas. The next wave in this group was people carrying balloon people with torsos, hands and faces (smiley faces, granted) but the arms had mechanisms for the people to make them move. There were other exciting groups too, such as the motorcyclists who opened the parade, and certain political figures, such as Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi.

While it may not be glamorous, (nor at times seem classy), this celebration is the root of all LGBTQ community pride internationally. It is the birth place of the international movement, and it’s history runs deep. It was interesting to see how people went all-out for the celebration, and to observe the pride and the willingness for public display, but I will be sure to bring a friend, next time I go.

Until Next Time,

Joe