Back to the Future

At the state house this spring legislators argued for a bill that would change Maine’s time zone from Eastern to Atlantic. Sponsors say the move, which would place the country’s eastern most state into a time zone shared by Nova Scotia and Puerto Rico, would provide increased economic opportunities and less energy consumption in addition to offering more daylight in the afternoon and evening, especially during winter months.

The story caught my attention for many reasons; first, if enacted, changing time zones would be one of most significant changes in people’s lives in Maine in a lifetime, and second, I think the story is symbolic of our persistent search for ways to harness, understand, and control time. But can moving our clocks ahead an hour really give us what we want? Maybe, maybe not, but we humans, modern humans to be more precise, have a fatal fascination with time travel, immortality, and youthfulness.

One of my favorite movies is Robert Zemeckis’ 1985 classic, Back to the Future. In it, the hero, Marty McFly, jumps into a supped-up DeLorean (a sleek sports car from the 80’s), complete with blinking lights, plutonium, and a device called the Flux Capacitor, invented by Marty’s eccentric friend, Doc Brown, which makes time travel possible. The car is stand in for a time machine, and 17-year old Marty is unwittingly transported back to 1955 as he out runs a group of Libyan terrorist in a Mall Parking lot. Once back in time, Marty reconnects with Doc Brown, and his would be parents 30 years in the past and has to play matchmaker to bring them together so he can exist in the future. Thus is the paradox of time travel.

I’m all for brighter days between November to March, especially since the sun is barely visible for 8 short hours each day, when it’s not cloudy or snowing. I’m also attracted to the idea of forming a stronger allegiance between our Canadian neighbors, Nova Scotia, the birthplace of my mother’s parents and ancestors, a place I visited as a child, once thinking it was exotic simply because it was in a completely different time zone. I eventually learned the truth, Nova Scotia was only a few hundred nautical miles from Boston, where I lived, and I could even listen to the Red Sox on a small radio when I visited Canada in the early 70’s. Time, I learned from early age, was indeed relative.

As part of my job, I regularly attend and present at conferences advocating on behalf of the LGBTQ community, and every time is different. Recently, after a panel discussion on Aging Creatively, a gentle looking and soft-spoken older man asked me if I wouldn’t mind speaking with him in private. We exited the banquet hall through the server’s door in the rear of the half-filled room of LGBTQ elders and found a spot in the beige colored hallway that lead to the kitchen to talk. The gentleman looked faintly familiar. He was probably in his mid to late sixties, his skin was pale and body unformed, like a butternut squash left in garden all winter to freeze and thaw.

After quick introductions we figured out we had indeed met a few years back; it was when I was speaking to gay men’s group, a vestigial remnant from the HIV/AIDS crisis in the 1980’s.  I often look back at that time in my life with bittersweet memories. As a young adult and before I embraced my identity as a woman, I assumed a was a gay man, and why wouldn’t I have, I enjoyed, and continue to enjoy flirting, kissing, and having sex with men. But the virus never took hold in me, like it did Jhan, one of my first boyfriends, who by the end of his life, accepted his fate, stopped taking his drugs, and died, like we all will, just fucking too soon.

After getting our introductions out of the way, he asked if he could share something very private with me. I agreed, as this is has become a regular request; it feel like I’ve become a traveling quasi therapist, but without the degrees or series of letters after my name. He leaned in close, and as the faint scent of Gray Flannel floated between us, he whispered in my right ear, “when I dream, I always dream of himself as a woman. Always have.”

He pulled back for a second, then leaned back in again, “do you think this means I’m transgender?” he asked with the utmost sincerity.

I breathed in his fragile words, letting them fall gently into my consciousness, like I was trying to catch large brown oak leaves in my hands, slowly descending to earth, without crushing them.

Smiling  back, I exhaled. “I don’t know what your dreams means” I shared, hesitantly. “Have you talked to anyone else about this, your partner, a therapist perhaps?”

“No, you’re the first person I’ve ever mentioned it to.”

His words shook me, and it took me a moment to reply, “Thank you, I’m honored, really, I mean it. Thank you for trusting in me”

I asked a few more questions “were there any other clues or breadcrumbs you’ve noticed looking back, other feelings related to your dreams?
“Well…I’ve never felt completely happy, and I wonder if this is part of it, maybe I am … really a woman” he replied with some reservation.

I kept my eyes connected with his, and could see that he was scared. I reached my hands out in front of me, palms up, and he placed is baby soft hands in mine, and we gently held each other, quietly for moment. I then tried to reassure him by saying “it’s going to be alright, it will” and as I was saying those words, a server approached us from the kitchen; so we let our hands drop to allow him to pass.

We talked for a few more minutes and out of nowhere he began to recall other moments from his childhood, pictures, magazines, and even dresses. The doors had been unlocked, and with that, there was a twinkle in his eyes, a light, a child perhaps, calling out to him from his past, sailing between the two of us on the river of time.

Words are Not Enough

This the text from a speech I wrote for tonight's vigil in Portland, Maine, as the spokesperson for EqualityMaine, in response to the tragedy in Orlando. 

Hello, my name is Gia Drew, and I’m honored to work as program director at EqualityMaine, and humbled to work on behalf of all of you, Maine’s LGBT community.

I’m also a very proud bisexual transgender woman!

As many of you know, EqualityMaine has been working to secure full equality for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender Mainers for 32 years. We are committed to ensuring every member of our community feels safe and welcome in every aspect of their lives, at every age and wherever they may be in this beautiful state.

This morning I awoke with the promise of enjoying this spring day at home, possibly going for a bike ride, and even getting my hands a little dirty in my garden. That all changed when I learned of the shooting at Pulse in Orlando. I immediately texted my girlfriend in Boston. “hope you are you okay - thinking of you - hug me”

She had heard the news too.  “Wish we were together - I’m angry more than anything”  

I knew what she meant, I was angry too. “Go, go, get out and breathe the air.”

“I love you”

“I love you too”

25  years ago I was living in Boston. I was 24, recently out of college, and I was walking down Boylston street with my boyfriend, Kevin. But we were both afraid to hold each other's hands in public, and it wasn’t until we were inside Club Cafe, yes it's still there, that we felt safe enough to so. So we did, and as you can imagine, we also kissed and danced. And in the words of President Obama, who spoke earlier today, we were living. For many in our community, clubs have always been be our safe haven, they are the places we go to celebrate our identities in safety, to dance, laugh, kiss, hook-up, and have a drink. They are places like Pulse in Orlando, and here in Maine we have Blackstone's, Styxx, Flask,Maine Street and several others.  

So the news this morning was startling, like a home invasion. Someone broke into our house and killed members of our family. Like you, I’m angry, I’m sad, I’m scared, and i’m in shock. I don’t really know what to tell you, other than we will not hide. We will not go back in the closet, never!

As you know, it’s pride month. And we will be out and proud, and celebrating our identities and the diversity of our community together all month. We were already at Central Maine Pride in Waterville last weekend, yesterday, we were at Pride events in both Belfast and Bar Harbor, we’ll be Pride Portland all week, and next week we’ll be at Bangor Pride.

Our hearts hurt as we think about all the lives taken from us this morning and our thoughts are with the families and friends who are grieving the loss of their loved ones.  We stand united with the gay, lesbian, bisexual, trans, and latin-x communities of Orlando.

Yesterday at Belfast pride, I met so many wonderful people who were thrilled to finally have a pride event in their part of the state. There was a young girl, no more than 10, who came up to our table with her dad. We talked a little about what EqualityMaine does, then she interrupted us to tell me she had come out at school this spring as bisexual. “Cool! I replied, “Way to go!”  

So, as we grieve and mourn as a community,  I think of all the young people, like the girl I met yesterday, who should never feel ashamed about they are or have to worry about their safety in this world. We are committed to all of you -to your well being - young and old, wherever you live in Maine.

I know today is hard, but we have each other. So, hold each other’s hands more tightly, hug a little longer, kiss with more passion, look into each other’s eyes more deeply, dance like you’ve never danced before, and listen with more compassion than know you had, because so many of us are in pain and just need to be heard or hugged or both.    

Yes we are hurting, but together we are strong. We are, after all, family.

Denver

It’s seventy degrees in Denver.

A hive of queer activists buzzes about the hotel lobby.

I see some familiar faces and bump into friends.

Between the superficial hugs and kisses, there are warm and tender ones to be found.

To my surprise I stand on stage in protest.

I swim laps in the outdoor pool and breath in the mile high air every other stroke.

It’s February.

I scream with delight on a rickshaw ride I took into the night and eat half priced sushi.

Sitting on a hotel bed I stare at his pretty sky blue nails and hold back the tears.

I eat chicken enchiladas and ride the elevators.

There’s a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from my hotel room door.

I call a friend in Virginia.

It’s three in the morning and she’s sad.

I feel empowered my femme identity.

I’m excluded by a radical feminist and caught off guard.

I’m angry.

I feel hot in my new black dress.

I take selfies in my hotel room window and post them on Instagram.

It’s what we do.

The bartender looks like Elizabeth Berkley.

I have another at last call.

I feel dehydrated and have a headache.

My wig is packed in a zip lock bag.

I wait for the shuttle and talk to a stranger.

I complement him on his sharp navy blue wool tweed coat

His dad bought it for him when he started transitioning

My heart stops as our plane attempts to land during a snowstorm

A stoic young man holding flowers waits for someone to return

I am grateful for the ride home

Chasing Rainbows

Last night, the warm spring light of the evening mixed with milky clouds towards the horizon in the southwest as I drove from one end of Maine to other.  Pale pinks and yellow grays combined in swirls and the late April sky resembled the surface of Jupiter.  Twelve hours earlier I was racing East from Bangor to Machias along Route 9, known to locals as the Airline, which connects the Queen City to the Canadian boarder and Calais.  Maine Driver’s

Rt. 9 Washington County Maine

Licenses, used to have the phrase, “Where America’s Day Begins” printed along the top edge with the image of a sunrise and a lobster boat.  Now, my license has a Moose standing above a heart indicating I’m an organ honor and the image of Mt Katandin along the top. 

My day began an hour earlier at the Vacationland Motel, in a room where the lock didn’t seem to work all that well.  The night before I told myself that nothing bad would happen, but took precautions anyways, stuffing a towel at the base of the door and wedging the desk chair under the loose handle, hoping these meager steps would allow me a few hours sleep.  Earlier in the day I was presenting at a conference at the University of New Hampshire.  It was the first time this year that I felt the warmth of spring, and my armpits became wet with nervous sweat as I thought about my talk.   I noticed it was 73 degrees on the bank sign as I turned onto a different section of route 9 in Wells, 160 miles away.   Not surprising, I saw a shirtless man raking leaves in his front yard. His dark hair covered his round torso like a black bear and contrasted greatly to his bleached white skin that had been hibernating for the six months of winter that had just ended.

The Thing with Feathers

After an exhausting, yet exhilarating two weeks of traveling and attending conferences, I was headed home.  My Southwest 737-700 series Boeing airplane landed in Portland Maine just before midnight, but not before circling out over the dark and deep North Atlantic on a cold, but not frigid winter’s night. Now that I’m working in Portland, the 32 mile drive has become routine, and I tend to drive quickly down the turnpike, often sharing the highway with a handful late night drivers and the occasional truck hauling wood products to a their awaiting warm southern destination.  Flipping between John Tesh’s radio show, Intelligence for Your Life, and First Wave satellite radio, I realize I was tired, and raced home.

Exit 32 arrives and I step on the gas of my white 4-cylinder Elantra, trying to catch the fleeting green light and pass through the intersection to the route 1 connector and the back roads to my house. I don’t see another car the rest of my drive.  With a half mile to go, I turn right onto my tree lined road, and pass the darken

Into the Darkness      Maine

homes that are scattered acres apart, separated by woods and small fields.  No picket fences here. After leaving the highway, I drive a little more causally, aware that critters, like deer and the occasion moose, may suddenly appear in the road in front of me.  Before reaching the driveway, my salt covered headlights catch the slinky crawl of a small animal crossing the road.   It’s safely in the other lane and just about to disappear into the forest, but I notice a brilliant flash of white. I smiled to myself, knowing that the skunk and I avoided a life altering collision.