Protesting Protests

I stood behind the police barrier as the people walked past me. Hundreds became thousands. There was about 50 of us penned in the fences, but there was a countless mob of ethnic Christians all around. Their brown faces twisted with hate and disgust. They were armed with megaphones and Biblias. Most of their ramblings were in a foreign language, but it was clearly translated into one word – “homophobia”.

Why was I inspired to go to this anti-gay marriage protest that was sponsored by Radio Vision Cristiana International and the Hispanic Clergy Organization? Because I wanted the haters to put faces to the people they are discriminating against. You can’t bring bus-loads full of people, who speak English as a second language, into the gay island of Manhattan to protest without hearing from us. I wanted to represent.

Since we were dealing with very religious activists, I wanted to bring a symbol with me that they would recognize. I brought a bright, yellow crucifix with a wooden heart attached to the middle, where Jesus usually hangs. It was given to me by a developmentally disabled student of mine years ago. To me, it means unconditional love. It means that everyone is equal in the eyes of love, no matter your religious beliefs. I stood silently, with my cross at my chest, and made sure to look everyone in the eye as they went past. The site of a faggot holding a cross drove them insane.

“God bless you”, said one lady without looking me in the eye.

“God bless you”, said an old man as he walked by with his eyes closed.

“It’s not about hate, it’s about love. Jesus LOVES you.” An angry teenager told us this, but her tone was full of anger. I thought perhaps it was due to her age, then a lady in her 40’s walked past and sneered, “God bless you”.  This happened too many times to count. The looks of confusion on the children’s faces was heartbreaking.

As the parade of hostile churchgoers continued, I noticed that the script they were saying said, “Jesus loves you” or “God bless you”, but the subtext in their hearts was “Fuck you fag” or “You’re sick, jerk”. What they were saying clearly did not match what they were feeling. Every time a Bible was shoved in my face, I couldn’t help but hear the real Jesus say, “Please don’t do that. Please don’t use my name in hate.” I can’t think of anything more sick than the sanctimonious actions of every mother who walked by carrying their daughter in their arms or pushing their son in a stroller while using Jesus as a tool of hate. Completely disgusting people.

Whenever minorities speak out against gay marriage, it really pushes my “fuck off” button. They know similar struggles, they are supposed to “get it”. Homophobia runs deep in religion and misunderstanding. It’s clear that blacks, or latinos in this case, are born “that way”, but gay people have to prove over and over again, that we are based in genetics too. Until everyone understands that, nothing will truly change.

On the upside, I got to meet Lt. Dan Choi (click his name to see his video on The Rachel Maddow Show), who was part of the under-attended counterprotest. He has become the current face of the ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ policy. He is also originally from Orange County, Ca. and he told me about how his dad refuses to talk to him since he came out of the closet. We chatted for about 5 minutes. He is such a great guy.

After an hour of barfable latinos yelling at me, I went to get drunk on sangria at brunch with a bunch of gays. I have made a slide show full of the gross people I encountered while at the protest. Enjoy!

Easter Chat with Mom

Easter has become one of those holidays that I don’t have to call home. Since my mom has joined Facebook, Easter accidentally became a holiday that we chat about online. Here is a small excerpt -

Mom: Out of curiousity… do you believe in God?

Me: Sure. I believe in a God. I just think organized religion of any sort is lame. Nothing is more hateful to me than a bunch of people getting together and telling other people they are wrong. Mormons are just as crazy as Catholics. Christians just as crazy as Muslims, and so on and so on. I think every person should have their own personal relationship with whatever God they want.

Mom: Oh good, that makes me feel better. I have to go poop now. Bye!

My New Favorite Song… for now

Hugs

Billions of people are gathered in Washington D.C. today to witness the inauguration of our new President, Mr. Barack Obama. Everyone in my office is next door watching it in a huge auditorium. Youtube will be my source at my leisure. I am stealing these moments of solitude to reflect on myself.

I am completely aware that statement makes me sound like a homosexual.

I’m am not a huggy person. Touchy-feelyness makes me squirm. Last Thursday, my friend Sandra was at the bus stop. It was the last day I would be riding that bus at that time, so I thought I would say my goodbyes. At the end of our conversation, I said, “Well it was nice riding the bus with you. I might not see you again.”

“Oh, we’ll see each other someday”, she pointed up to the sky, wiped her runny nose, and gave me a big hug.

She released her loving grip and dashed to the front of the bus line, cutting in front of a few people. I put my headphones back in my ears and turned on whatever. My intention was to try to think of something that wasn’t going to make me cry. The beautiful moment Sandra had given me was overwhelming. I didn’t cry, but my eyes were wet during the rest of my commute.

So, I’ve been thinking. I’m going to start hugging. I’m going to let people hug me and I am going to go out on a limb and actually hug other people – not everyone everyone. I mean, I’m not going to hug strangers or people I don’t like or that kid in the subway who tried to spit on my leg.

Along with Obama’s Presidential Inauguration, I hereby declare my own Huggidential Inauguration.

I, Jeffrey Roma Marx, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute hugs…

If you stare at these hugging bears for awhile, it gets pretty creepy.

The Other Side of Normal

“My name is Sandra. Don’t call me Sandy. It sounds like candy and I’m not allowed to have candy.”

This week, my morning bus commute has brought a new friend into my life. Her name is Sandra and her work schedule recently changed from afternoon hours to morning hours. She lives a block away from my apartment and we meet at the same bus stop every morning. She wears a lot of pink and has very long salt and pepper hair that is usually wrapped up in a bun or ponytail. Her brown eyes sparkle with a youthful innocence and she flashes a warm smile to everyone who happens to walk past.

On Monday, she walked right up to me and started waving. I had never seen her before, but I was familiar with her instant friendliness. I took my headphones out of my ears to hear what she had to say. She told me the bus was 4 minutes late. I was surprised that anyone bothered to keep a watch on the transit schedule, but Sandra had a printed copy of their online timetable. We chatted about how cold the weather was and that she hoped there would be enough seats on the bus because she hurt her leg at workshop last week. Someone named Curtis told her to rest and that her leg would heal very quickly. As soon as the bus turned the corner, she stopped talking to me and zoomed to the front of the line. Once seated, she started talking to other people. Some ignored her. Others smiled and nodded while she talked. Some shot her dirty looks and scooted in the other direction.

Once Tuesday morning came along, so did Sandra. She was already at the bus stop when I walked up. She was in the middle of talking to an older Latino guy who wasn’t paying much attention to her. The bus came almost immediately and we all piled on, Sandra leading the pack. I didn’t say anything to her on the bus. She was busy looking through pages that had been torn out of magazines and saved in a giant manilla envelope. Once she inspected the contents and put everything in the order she wanted them in, she closed the envelope, kissed it gently, and hugged it close to her chest. As I walked down the aisle to exit the bus, Sandra poked me in the leg with her finger. She laughed and I told her to have a good day. On my way out the door, I heard her yell, “I ALWAYS HAVE A GOOD DAY!”

I was running late this morning. I had forgotten that I would most likely see Sandra. I was jamming out to Rihanna, tapping my feet to the beat to stay warm, when Sandra appeared right in front of me. She was carrying two very big jugs of Apple Cider.

“Wow, you must be thirsty!”
“It’s not for me!”
“Who is is for?”
“We are having a Thanksgiving party at my workshop today.”
“But it’s not until next week! Why so early?”
“Because we’re really excited to be thankful!”

You know when The Grinch’s heart gets so big that it doesn’t fit in his little, green chest anymore? I sort of felt like that. A tiny tear formed in my eye, but didn’t go anywhere. The frosty, bitter wind dried it out. Sandra and I kept chatting.

“What are you thankful for?”
“I’m getting an award tonight!”
“What kind of an award?”
“I’m getting a certificate for attendance and for punctuality!”
“That’s great! I don’t think I would be able to get those.”
“Yes you can! You only have to try harder!”

I love Sandra. I hope she is on my bus every day. Forever.

I miss working as a job coach or a camp counselor for people with developmental disabilities. There’s something about my special friends that always made my day. I cherish my experiences with them. I think about them often while I am at my desk answering phones for rich people. The friends that I have made through my life, who work in workshops and are worried about magazine clippings, possess something that those on the other side of “normal” struggle to have – unconditional love.

Who are the normal ones. Who has the disability.

The Prop 8 protest in NYC was super cruisey

Protesting Prop 8 is the new way to pick up guys. That’s what last night’s Prop 8 protest at the Mormon temple told me. Everyone made colorful signs and dressed in winter scarves with matching caps to meet outside in the cold air. As the group of an estimated 10,000 supporters of gay marriage marched down Broadway, passed Lincoln Center, and ended up in Columbus Circle we all huddled together tightly for warmth… and to touch butts on “accident”. We all chanted silly things that rhymed while everyone checked each other out. If you can’t flirt AND stand up for equal rights at the same time, then what kind of gay are you?

The organizers of the event told everyone online what type of signs to make. They warned to stay away from the polygamy argument, the warned to stay away from attacking religion, they warned to keep the message positive in order to unite and “take the higher road”. Originally, I was gonna make a sign that was very Latter Day Saints specific – “L.ITTLE D.UMB S.HITS” So, in an ironic twist on words in the Bible and the Book of Mormon, I made a double sided sign quietly mocking religious opponents of gay marriage.

For those religiously unaware, “Jesus wept” is the shortest verse in The Bible. I think Jesus would weep about the current state that this civil rights cause has reached. Plus, I always like using The Bible against Biblebeaters. Lord knows, I have a ton of knowledge on the subject since I went to Christian and Catholic Schools for most of my life. Clinging to stories from the past and not bothering to think for yourself certainly seems strange to me. Not nearly as strange as The Book of Mormon who was written by the “prophet” Joseph Smith. This guy took some shrooms and tripped out in a forest and wrote down everything that Jesus “told him”. The phrase “And it came to pass…” starts thousands of “verses” from the Book of Mormon (“And it came to pass this“ “And it came to pass that”), so naturally, I wanted to take a jab at them while trumpeting the message of gay marriage.

After we gathered at the entrance to Central Park, everyone sort of stood around and check out each other’s signs. I wish someone was there to give out prizes for best signs. I think I could have been a serious contender. My favorite was either the black lesbian that said “Should we sit on the back of the bus too?” or one young, hot gay that said “I didn’t ask him to “civil union” me!” We had brought noise makers to shake while we marched in the streets so we stood around and shook them.

My gaggle of gays and I got hungry, so we walked down 9th Avenue, the gayest street in Gayville, and ate at Vinyl, the gayest restaurant in Gayville. I didn’t want my sign anymore, so I discarded it on a pile of cardboard underneath an Ipod Nano ad. GAY! I would’ve felt bad for leaving it there, but the protest was a little underwhelming in energy. It’s great that there were 10,000 people there, and I LOVE IT, but I couldn’t help but think that there is much more passion in California over this right now.

On the way to the train, we stumbled on a liquor store that still had a Hillary for President sign in the window. Wow. How steadfast.

I’m going to go look at the Missed Connections on Craigslist now to see if anyone from the protest wants to hook up with me.

Oh and here’s one last shot that I love from the protest. It’s a keeper!

Human or Dancer? An Essay.

Close your eyes
Clear your heart
Cut the cord
Are we human?
Or are we dancer?

Existentialism bores me; its mild snobbery hurts my brain. So, my initial instinct when I first heard The Killers new song, “Human”, was to jump immediately to being “OVER IT!”, especially after they let me down with their second album, Sam’s Town. With this new single, I thought perhaps the Vegas-based frontman, Brandon Flowers, had crashed his crazy train into a Nevada desert and exploded into a rainbow of drugged out imagery.

Then, I found out his lyrics are a tip of the hat to a Hunter S. Thompson quote saying how America is raising a generation of dancers. Drugged out imagery, indeed.

How do we answer this question? Do we even need to answer? At first, I thought the lyrics to be secondary to the amazing sound of the song. My ears like the music, I just didn’t love the lyric. But now, it has me thinking when I listen to it on the bus ride to work every morning. I look in the faces of everyone on the bus, trudging along to our jobs. Sometimes it feels like we are neither human or dancer. A robotic rhythm overtakes us and we forget what the fuck we were doing in the first place.

Pay my respects to grace and virtue
Send my condolences to good
Give my regards to soul and romance,
They always did the best they could
And so long to devotion
You taught me everything I know
Wave goodbye
Wish me well
You’ve got to let me go

In order to answer this question, one would have to define ‘human’ and ‘dancer’. I believe the meaning of ‘human’ in this lyric is the same as anywhere else. It’s referring to emotions, feelings, and the journey to find ecstacy, which includes strife, flaws, and lessons on the road along the way. ‘Dancer’, I believe, is open to interpretation. People can become metaphorical dancers through life – passionately bouncing and skipping in and out and up and down. We can be carefree dancers, expressing ourselves in a joyful freestyle, or we can be trained dancers who are exacting and purposeful. Neither form of dance is better than the other, it just depends on your personality. Sometimes I dance the waltz. Other times, I’m forced to tango. You have to let go and trust your instincts. Feel the many different types of music. Dancing makes being human more exciting.

Now, I’ve come to the following question – “Aren’t dancers also human?”

I vote yes. Everyone is everything. Humans are dancers and dancers are human. It’s when we forget to dance that we neglect our humanity. Therefore, my official answer to the question, “Are we human or are we dancer?” is – Both. One cannot be without the other. Our soul yearns to “dance”. It is what drives us. The need to create, to have fun, to be happy, to love, to laugh, to everything, to anything is what keeps humans dancing.

Now let’s all fucking dance, because we’re human after all.

PS… I am a boring snob for writing this.

America Is Totally Insane

My favorite part is when Lot offers his virgin daughters to be raped instead of the attractive angels. What’s you’re favorite part?

Catholic Sex Scandals, Yay!

MOMMY: You are so lucky to have Pope Benedict visit your city.
JEFFREY: I am? The traffic is redonks because of him.
MOMMY: You must be so excited. Are you gonna see him?
JEFFREY: No. Why would I want to see him?
MOMMY: He’s the Pope!
JEFFREY: Please. I have to do laundry.

Last night, I watched ‘Deliver Us From Evil‘, a 2006 documentary which tells the true story of Catholic Priest Oliver O’Grady who sexually abused hundreds of children between the late 70’s and early 90’s. How do we know it’s a true story? Because O’Grady openly admits it and agrees to be interviewed regarding the abuse. He is interviewed in Ireland, where he is comfortably allowed to go about his daily business. Along with several families of O’Grady’s victims, his story is vividly offered to the viewer in great detail. After years of molesting and raping children (and in one instance, a nine-month old baby) and being shuffled around to different parishes by Cardinal Mahony, O’Grady was given financial support by the church and relocated to Ireland where he is free from any punishment. “Safely” tucked away.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

I’m not going to even get into how wrong it is of O’Grady to do these horrible crimes to children. That’s easy. Everyone can agree on that. The thing that really chaps my cock, is the obvious covering up by Cardinal Mahony and every other piece of shit clergy that new about O’Grady’s behavior. They knew about it, moved him to a different location where no one was told of his previous crimes, and then basically gave permission to a pedophile to continue his awful rampage. Cover it up and walk away. It’s like a fucking Catholic Mafia.

At first, O’Grady was only molesting girls. One piece of cat crap clergy person said, “It’s not as serious as homosexuality, so it was dealt with in a different manner.” Fuck you in your pious mouth! O’Grady soon moved on to include boys in his rapings. No one was safe. One parish after another, he would work his way into the hearts of families and then prey upon their children, one family after another, breaking down the walls of their faith.

Cardinal Mahony, after years of denying he had any knowledge of O’Grady’s actions, was confronted with letters he had written to O’Grady that contradicted his “facts”. After a bunch of hub-bub, Mahony said, “Much like there is privileged doctor and patient conversations and how a husband and wife cannot testify against each other, the relationship between clergy is also a protected conversation.” Yeah, except for when boys and girls are getting RAPED, you fucking CATHOLIC DOUCHEBAG ASSHOLE FUCK FACE! I wonder if creeps like Mahony and Boston’s Cardinal Law understand how their actions not only condone and support criminals, but completely ruins lives and turns people away from their fucked up church.

As if all of this wasn’t enough to steam me, two of the female victims, now in their late thirties, wanted to deliver a letter to our new Pope Benedict XVI. In the letter they have the signatures of hundreds of other victims. These women have become ambassadors for a nation of church goers who have been wronged by leaders of the Catholic Church. So who else better to get answers from? Who else can help them restore their faith? Find some answers? Who else better than to help find a way to get justice against such a terrible crime? Go to the top! Pope Benedict of course.

The women were turned away at the front gates, escorted out by guards, once again, made to feel like they were doing something wrong. Once again, made to be victims. They delivered the letter in the mail. Over a year has passed and there has been no response from the Pope or any other pile of steamy diarrhea from the Vatican. The events surrounding O’Grady are not isolated. There are many men just like O’Grady, being protected by the Catholic Church, even being paid to hide out and keep out of the way. They live cosy, little lives writing letters by a fire, while their victims spend the rest of their lives picking up the shards of their faith, trust, and family.

Are you ready for the real kicker? Sit down for this one…

In 2006, the US authorities had accused Pope Benedict XVI of conspiracy to cover up sexual abuse. At the Vatican’s request, “President” George W. Bush granted the pope immunity from prosecution.

If I had seen this movie before Pope Benedick came to town, I would have been much more excited that he was in NYC. I would not be excited like my mom would have hoped, but I would have been excited to protest his stupid ass. Or at least spit in his general direction. If I were Catholic, I would be writing letters on behalf of these victims. I would add my voice to their cry against this injustice. How can anyone be a part of such a wretched ring of revolting men without speaking up with these victims?

Catholicism is barftastic.

Ram Dass

Sooo, I signed up for a one on one phone call with Ram Dass. His energy was intensely calm and bright – even through the webcam! I entered the phone call pretty much a blank slate as to what to expect. I read his book Be. Here. Now. awhile ago and have been a semi-regular on his website for a month or two. Upon my friend, Craig’s, suggestion, I booked a “Heart 2 Heart” conversation.

The first 6 minutes were your basic questions – “Where are you calling from?”, “How long have you lived there?”, “What has your spiritual journey been like?” Wow, just cut to the chase, Ram Dass! A flurry of topics were discussed – my involvement in Re-Creation Summer Camp, Catholic High School, and the soul awakening car crash from two years ago. He asked me about love in my life. I explained that only twice in my life have I ever had feelings of overwhelming love for another person, to the point where I thought there could be a deeper relationship. I told him about my wonderful group of friends and how their love is so great. Lastly, I let him in on the love that is shared at summer camp. He simply replied, “You have so much love to give, why not give some to yourself?” That struck me.

He went on to say how he can love a tree and become the tree.

He spoke of everyone being connected to everyone and everything, how looking outside yourself for love can delay happiness, and how everyone is loving awareness. I commented on how that concept sounds warm and easy enough, but is so hard to maintain. “Getting lost in our own human thoughts and desires feeds the ego and keeps us from true and harmonious love” was his response. We talked about how being human is so complex. I told him about a quote I made up – “Being human is a science experiment for angels” – and he flipped! He loved it! He told me how right I was and asked if he could use that quote. I said, “sure”!

He said something about swimming in a pool of love. My mind wandered for a moment and recalled that I needed to go grocery shopping and forgive my dad soon.

We wrapped up the convo and he ended with saying “I am loving awareness” several times. I got the sense that I was supposed to either repeat after him or breakdown, like Matt Damon to Robin Williams in ‘Good Will Hunting‘. I was moved to repeat the mantra at one point and felt a small push of love on myself from within. It was a good feeling. He bowed a little and said, “namaste” and we waved goodbye.

Then, I dropped another hit of acid.

I Love Right Now

J Ro was driving. I was flipping through CDs in the passenger seat. Ian was behind me. Adam was behind J Ro. Craig was squeezed in the bitch position. Then we were all all squeezed into the bitch position. The light had been green for about 8 seconds. As we crossed the intersection, another car came through her red light without any brakes and going top legal speed. What happened next was not how I have envisioned car crashes. My life did not flash before my eyes. Everything did not move in slow motion. About 37,000 things happened all in one second….

The Honda Accord smashed into the passenger side of our Scion XB. Loud. Metal on metal. The door caves into my elbow, smacks Ians hip and then we launch. Into the air. Half second blackout. Wake up. Still in the air. Upside down. I see the street where the sky should be through the window. Someone (J Ro?) is yelling ‘Fuck’. Airbags. Smoke. Are we on fire? The car seems like a giant refridgerator-sized cardboard box that I used to play with when I was little. I would make a fort out of it in the backyard. My brother would come along and make the box cave in. I would pretend that I was dying and falling. Yes. This was just like that. Only the cardboard box was 4,000 pounds, going 40 miles per hour and can kill you. We land right side up. I realize that we’re not on fire. The smoke was actually the powder from the airbags. I can feel it in my lungs. Someone (me?) is yelling ‘We’re OK, We’re OK! Get out of the car!’ All except the drivers side door was stuck. We filed out of the door. We all saw the car. It was beyond crashed. We all hugged each other and started going throught the motions of what you’re supposed to do after a car accident…just like how I’ve been going through the motions of what you’re supposed to do in life….

I’m still not exactly sure what all this is meaning to me just yet. I’ll admit that morning I was coming out of an electronic brain haze and today I still am putting pieces together. I do feel that I am lucky to be alive and that I have to start living my life a little more…something. On my plane back to NYC, somewhere over Nebraska, I started to have a rush of realizations. Things I have to put into effect. I need to let anger go. I need to hug the people I love. I need to tell the people I love that I love them. I need let the past be the past. I need to not take things personally. I need to enjoy the now for what it is.

My life hiatus out in California was amazing. I have learned so much from my family of friends out there. Love. Joy. Maturity. Sense of Home. Closeness. Trust. Be. Here. Now. Everything is perfect….and now its time to get back into life out here in The City. I want to enjoy the Nows. I also want to have better ‘future’ Nows. Who knows what great heights can be acheived. I feel like the five of us in that car are Destinys Child…”I’m a Survivor, I’m not gon give up, I’m not gon stop, I’m gon work harder…” Hip Hop mispelling aside, I really am going to do my best to do those things. I feel that my head and my heart are washing away whatever I haven’t been doing. Yesterday I was on the subway and I started crying. It was a happy cry. The kind you feel at a wedding or at the end of a Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy. I couldn’t help my emotions. I feel that I am cleansing myself in some way. Something is definately different. I can remember my dreams. Rich, colored, shiny dreams. My heart feels happy. I feel like doing everything. I feel like being a better person.

To the Boys of The Scion – Adam – You are wise beyond your years. Ian – You are a great light. J Ro – I have been impressed by you for years and you continue to do so. Craig – Thank you for being you. You teach without knowing. Be happy.

Alright. Real life starts now. (This sounds like a Coca-Cola commercial about real kids doing real things on their summer vacation…make a documentary! Drink Coke!) Back in the best city in the world, where anything can happen. I’m happy to be alive and to be a part of it. I love right now.