We have now lived in Portland longer, but when I think about what city I feel the most connected to, where my feet took root and will always belong, it’s Boston.

Watching the video of the explosions I felt scared, heartbroken, powerless, angry, and confused. The Boston Marathon is not like any other race. It’s an event and a day celebrated and embraced by its city more than anything I’ve seen anywhere else.

It’s full of love and strength and courage and hospitality and cheering and undeniable happiness. Honestly, if you haven’t experienced it, it’s almost impossible to describe.

amputee

All my thoughts are with the victims of this horrible tragedy, and I wish so badly that I could be with my city and grieve with my city.

It feels really difficult to grasp that this day I love so much now makes me feel like this. But I don’t want to forget what is at the heart of this race. It brings out the absolute best in people. So here are some of my memories, big or small, of the best day in the best city.

Freshman year at Emerson, eating lunch in the dining hall, and watching marathoners with their space blankets hugging their families on Boylston Street.

army

A couple of runners stopped in front of Dean Road, where we watched every year in Brookline, and exchanged vows in front of the church there. They kept running with “Just Married” bibs pinned to their backs.

A runner slowed to a stop and slumped over, exhausted. The crowd erupted with encouragement and cheers and he got back up and continued on.

wheelchair

Riding the T with the runners right next to you.

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Yelling the names of every person who has theirs written on themselves. While we lived there, we never knew anyone who ran. But we felt like we knew everyone.

A runner jogged towards a group of girls who were drinking beers and yelled “Who’s got one for me???” and then he chugged it.

beer

Riding the T a day before the race, a visiting runner was talking to a Bostonian about how amazing it feels to be a runner in the Boston Marathon. Not because of the glory, but because of the crowd. He told this stranger that no other marathon is like that, and no other city welcomes him like Boston does.

Seeing marathon-themed advertisements on the subway every year as spring approached. Namely one with pictures of Kathrine Switzer as the first woman to enter the Marathon, and the word “Courage.”

0415_marathon-switzer

Leaving dinner around Copley, we started walking down the street, deserted and full of crushed gatorade cups, until we heard sirens. It was an escort for the last runner of the race. There were a few other people out on either side of the street, who stopped and did what we did. What anyone who has ever been in this city on Patriots’ Day would do. Clapped and screamed and cheered. “You’re almost there, man!! Yes!”

gatorade

I was always so proud of my city every year after the Marathon. The way we treated the runners. The way we treated each other.

This year is no different.

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Just like many Queers on the Internet, I’m real good at over identifying with things. Especially on Tumblr.

So when one of my friends reblogged this comic by Maxwell, I was immediately flooded with lots of feelings.

Mostly people seem to know how I identify, but I get a lot of mistaken “sirs,” especially when I’m traveling. And I’ve never once corrected someone.

I wonder a lot why that is. I always tell people it’s because I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable, and in reality it’s not a huge deal, it’s a simple mistake that anyone could make.

(AlthoughAllYouHaveToDoIsUseGenderNeutralPronounsIDoThisEveryDayItIsReallyNotThatHardYouGuys)

As a kid, my parents were always really amazing about everything, and they let me pick my clothes out and never shamed me for hating dresses or anything like that. But sadly when you’re young, your parents are not the only opinions you get to experience.

I grew up with the question “are you a boy or a girl” constantly hurled at me by peers. It didn’t matter if I had short or long hair or who I was hanging out with or what. There was always something I was doing or wearing that was too masculine for other kids. I always felt like I was wrong and weird. I kept doing what I felt right doing. But I dreaded having to deal with the reactions.

Looking back, I get that it wasn’t them, that it was society. Society was throwing pine cones and rocks at me, society was making me feel like there was something wrong with wearing a baseball hat or wanting to wear a clip-on tie. I know that the people who did and said these things to me are different now, many of them are awesome allies. I know they probably look back on that stuff and cringe, just like I have stuff that I can’t believe I thought or said as a kid. Still, it’s not something I can forget, or something I want to forget.

But maybe this is all a part of why I don’t correct or bother people about it now. Not because I’m afraid to. I already had emotional breakdowns about people’s reactions to my gender presentation, so now it’s just funny to me. And I do hope that the look in their eyes when they realize I’m not a sir is something that will keep them from using gender specific pronouns towards strangers.

Maybe it will stop them from making some kid feel like shit. And maybe, eventually, it’ll stop their kids or their grandkids from feeling the need to verbally beat down a transboy or a femme gay kid or anyone different.

It’s not our responsibility, duty, or right to decide or judge someone’s identity.

I guess what I’m saying is, I’m totes not gonna correct anyone, but I will continue to bask in the glory of the awkwardness.

So I don’t mean to get ~preachy up in herre, but sometimes… I have feelings.

Last night, Jill and I were enjoying our weekly dose of ridiculous tears and happiness from one of the best things on TV, Parenthood. In this episode, Max began puberty.

As always the subject was handled with incredible humor and grace by the writers of the show and Max was perfect like he is every week.

But there was something that grated my every nerve while I was watching.

And now, I don’t know what they’re setting up to have happen. Maybe Max will be gay, what do I know? (no spoilerz)

I just know that the way his parents kept talking to each other and to him about girls and how he’s going to see girls differently and how exciting it is to start to like girls and they were SO PUMPED about him liking girls. It made me want to diiiiiiie.

It’s so sad to get reminded that parents still build this life of expected outcomes for their children and push them into this box where they don’t necessarily belong. And it applies to a ton of things: jobs, looks, athletic skills, smarts, gender, and sexual preference are all facets of life that many parents (understandably) dream about for their kids. These dreams are often very specific. And again, I get it, it’s your kid. You think about their future and what it might be like. My problem is when you start to project that onto them, before they’ve given you any indication of anything.

If Max is gay, he’s being told by his parents that the feelings he’s having for guys are totally wrong. And that they want him to have those feelings for girls. And that SCIENTIFICALLY, that’s what’s supposed to happen. Because when puberty hits, you like girls. So he sees himself as some sort of mutated deviation of what is supposed to be, as well as a failure in the eyes of his folks.

I know parents never mean to do that. But it happens. A lot. And it was breaking my heart to see it unfolding in front of my eyes like that. I couldn’t stop cringing.

All I’d like to ask of my family and friends who have kids, are about to have kids, or are planning to start a family in the future, is PLEASE don’t make your kid feel that way. To have to deconstruct your parents’ dream of your future is awful.

So don’t give them these expectations of a life that they might decide they need to fake in order to make you happy.

Let them tell you and show you who they are. Give them clear options of who they could be. Show them different representations in movies and books and in the people in your life. Let them know that however they are, you’ll love them. And they can be excited about any fucking person they wanna be.

The only time I forgive the Sci-Fi channel for changing their name to the embarrassingly ridiculous Syfy is during the biannual Twilight Zone marathon.

look at that skinny tie. he's a sexy mother fucker.

Even though I have all the episodes on my computer, there’s nothing better than flipping this on and letting the television gods decide which episodes I get to watch. It’s one of the reasons I’m excited to have cable back this year. Choosing my own episodes is just NOT the same.

There are so many FLAWLESS episodes, with aliens and Santas and Communism and time-loops and ghosts, but you really can’t beat Time Enough At Last.

It’s perfect. The ridiculous characters and the slow build-up to the twist. I mean, all this guy wants to do is read.

That’s all.

Just read. HE LOVES READING, YOU GUYS. And in some Road Dahl type shit, all his wife wants is to ruin any opportunity he has to read.

and she's smiling the whole time!!!

LOOK AT WHAT SHE DID TO HIS BOOK FOR NO REASON AT ALL AND SHE LET HIM THINK HE WAS GONNA GET TO READ HER A POEM. Helen, you sadistic bitch.

I also love that he gets saved by being in a bank vault. Is that shit really gonna protect you against an H-Bomb?

And then he stumbles around the ruins, realizes everyone is dead and he’s the sole survivor, and says my faaaaavorite line.

Thing of it is, though… thing of it is… I’m not at all sure… that I want to be alive.

guns are also indestructable.

But then, before he pulls the trigger, he sees his salvation. The library, obvs.

HE’S JUST SO HAPPY ABOUT IT AND I LOVE YOU HENRY BEMIS!!!

stop getting so fucking happy and excited before reading, we all know something terrible is going to happen to you.

And then nothing else happens in the episode and why are you looking at me like that, IT JUST ENDS PERFECTLY AND HE READS FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE UNINTERRUPTED WITH ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD, AND THOSE REALLY THICK GLASSES ARE JUST PART OF HIS CHARACTER AND NOT AT ALL A PLOT DEVICE, AND…

christ.

Oh, fuck you, Rod Serling.

editor’s note: lolz you guys, it’s just me. I wrote this a year ago and it was on a blog that has now been deleted because sometimes assholes delete blogs that you had together without asking you. I’m re-posting it with some edits because I’d like to start writing stuff again. I miss it a lot. Maybe this blog will have a name or a theme but it doesn’t right now.

I LOVE CHRISTMAS MOVIES.

If I could watch them all year, I would. But I know it would make them less special. So I’m glad I have Jill to keep me in check. NOT UNTIL THANKSGIVING NIGHT, YOU GUYS. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Perfect bangs.

I have a lot of favorites, depending on my mood. Sad, Funny, Touching, they all make my heart beat with nostalgia. But the one that probably makes me feel the pitter-patter of little feelings more than others is Meet Me In St. Louis. Like a true queer boi.

I feel this way because of reasons (for the season).

she dressed as a terrible drunk.
TOOTIE. Oh. My. God. I forget every year how hilarious she is. Telling the milkman about how ill all her dolls are, and that they might die at any moment. Telling the neighborhood kids that she’s killed a man. She is a dream.

none of this looks PC.
THE DANCING. You guys, there are so many wonderful dancing scenes in this movie. Judy dances with Tootie to some racist or somethingist song. Judy dances with her grandfather AND FEELS LIKE SHE’S GOING TO CRY. Yes, I’m calling her Judy even though her name is Esther in the movie. I don’t even care.

don't look directly into her eyes.
THE TROLLEY SONG. Whatever, it’s not Christmas at this point in the movie, but I don’t give a shit. My 4th grade chorus sang this song. Our director was basically a gay man in an uptight woman-who-always-wore-her-hair-in-a-bun’s body. I could sing along to this song for days. So much clanging and zinging and dinging.

don't you fucking dare move to nyc, you jerks.
THE SNOW PEOPLE AND HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS.
I honestly can’t even talk about this part at all. It makes my insides get all twisty. When I hear a version of this song that isn’t sung by Judy Garland, the parts of my soul that aren’t already dead die a little bit.

Also, have I mentioned I know every line from Home Alone?

I really like Christmas.