West of Independence Soundtrack Part 2

To Recap:
1. Willy Porter "Unconditional"
2. David Bowie "Heroes"
3. Journey "Don't Stop Believin'"

4. Matt Hires "State Lines"

Road trips are for me like therapy sessions without the couch. Wind from open windows blows the cobwebs from my mind and fills my lungs with the fresh air of adventure-fueled perspective. Junk food becomes healthy, familiar songs sound new, and strangers are made into friends. There is a healing power in those painted lines, and every mile marker passed offers new memories while troubles shrink away in the rear view mirror.

My family has a lot of healing to do. I haven’t had any great measure of a relationship with them for some time now, and I am not sure what the future holds for us. I am happy with my life, and sometimes the thought of never seeing them again is okay with me. There are moments, however, when I imagine one final family road trip to make it all right.

"we're crossing over state lines, and we're making up for lost time..."

Are there roads in the afterlife? I hope so.

From West of Independence page 46:

“And we are still in Oklahoma? I forgot how huge these states are out here.” Connor pulled out another cigarette.

“And flat,” I said, rolling down the windows. “You can see so far that you feel like you’re crawling, even when you’re doing close to ninety miles an hour.”

In the darkness, miles ahead of us, I could see the tiny flashing lights of a construction zone, proving my point. It took several minutes to reach the first blinking arrows, which indicated an impending split of the westbound lanes. When the time came I veered to the left, and we found ourselves speeding between parallel cement barriers. Our little car was so low to the ground that we couldn’t see over them, and it seemed as though we were driving through a canyon of grey.

“It feels like we're in the Death Star trench!” Connor turned to shout so I could hear.

I smiled and looked dead ahead, watching as the cement blurred into the grey walls of Darth Vader’s infamous death moon. The dark sky above, spotted with the bright twinkling of stars, added to the effect. I imagined Tie Fighters above us, the whine of their ion engines threatening as they gave chase. My imagination sent them careening into the walls behind us, their large, flat wings spinning off into space, leaving the ball-shaped cockpits to plow into the bottom of the trench with explosive displays of good winning over evil.

“Matthew, trust your feelings, feel the force within you!” I heard Connor shout over the thunder of battle, which was in truth just the wind whistling through the open windows.

I reached up and turned off the GPS, a young Jedi-in-training turning off his targeting system. We sped through the trench for another mile or so, and as it ended I swerved over to the right lane as if I had just fired the kill shot into that tiny exhaust port and wanted nothing more than to get away as the Death Star disintegrated into flaming space dust.

“Did you hear, that?” I shouted.

“Hear what?” Connor asked.

“I swear I just heard Han Solo shouting ‘Yahoo!”

5. Toad the Wet Sprocket "Windmills"


My demons lumber about on the horizon, just within sight. They never look my way, but why should they? I don't frighten them in the least. I am the one that is scared, and they know it. To say that I chase them is a delusion; the truth is that they lead me.

One day I will tilt against my windmills and chase them away for good. Until then, I give chase follow.

From West of Independence Page 50: 

As we neared the Texas border, the sun came up and my bladder neared its bursting point. Connor had been sleeping through the last stretches of highway that Oklahoma had to offer, and though I really had to pee, I had not wanted to pull over and risk waking him. He looked peaceful and at rest in the passenger seat, curled up as close to the fetal position as one could get while wearing a seat belt in such a tiny car.

To sacrifice an hour or more of internal pressure and let him sleep a while longer as we sped across the open plains was no small gift that I could give to my little brother. I knew that much like myself, Connor had slept very little over the past several months, the level of physical comfort having nothing to do with it.

Cotton fields began to line the highway, the acres of white blossoms laying low to the ground like clumps of melting snow. I decided that when Connor woke up we would pull over to pick some cotton.In the meantime I spied towering windmills dotting the plains in long white ranks, their blades turning lazily in the winds sweeping across the plains. In an instant Connor unwittingly became Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote, and together we gave chase to the savage titans that terrorized the land. I thought of Ella as my sweet Dulcinea back home. She had encouraged me to follow through on my quest, and I was lucky to have her.

“Are we in Texas yet?” Sancho was awake and wondering as to our progress.

“Almost. I have to piss like nobody’s business,” I said.

“Me too,” Connor yawned.

“Ok, we’ll stop at the border. I want some pictures of us at the welcome sign.”

We passed the next few miles in silence, and I returned to chasing windmills.

6. The Damnwells "Texas"

Have you ever been so far away from someone that you've never felt closer to them? Without separation, there can be no reunion. It is in those moments of loneliness, the times when I miss the ones I love, that I rediscover why it is that I love them.


From West of Independence page 57:

Back on the road, I looked in the mirror and threw Jared a smile. After a shaky start, the trip was shaping up to be everything I had hoped it would be.

7. Ian Axel "Gone"

I would like to think that homes creak and groan in the night out of memory reflex, because they miss someone whose life they shared. Floorboards chuckling as they think of tiny feet that once skipped across them, door frames creaking as they reach out to accept the imagined shoulder of someone who used to lean on them, and walls groaning in an attempt to recreate the happy sounds of laughter that bounced between them long ago.

Experience is telling me that the secret to a happy life isn't in leaving behind a big empty space that is difficult to fill when you die, but rather in making room in your life for others, and in appreciating the space that they fill around you.

Before they are gone.


From West of Independence Page 82:

Once through the fence, we ran towards the abandoned town like sixth graders let off the bus on the last day of school. We slowed to a walk and surveyed the area as we approached the front steps of the nearest building, a little house with front porch and boarded windows. To one side of the house we could see an ancient truck. The yellow paint of the cab was mottled with rust, and it had long ago settled comfortably onto flat tires that dug into the red earth beneath them.

I followed Connor up the steps and onto the sagging porch. He entered the house, but I stayed outside, fascinated by the yellow truck. I imagined the family that had lived there long ago. I pictured a husband, his wife, and their two little girls. The young couple had spotted each other across a dance hall in Albuquerque. He had been too scared to ask such a pretty girl to dance, but both his friends and hers had pushed them out onto the floor. They were married three weeks later. Soon a baby was on the way, and he had moved them out to their own little house, far away from the pressing matters of the “big” city.

They had been happy. A second baby girl had added to their joy, and his modest trucking business had provided well enough. His weeks were long, but coming home after a haul was the greatest feeling in the world. He would honk his horn as he drew up, and his girls would come running out, waving and laughing as he parked his bright yellow truck next to the little house. He would leap from the cab, scoop his daughters up in his arms and spin them around, kissing them and loving on them, their laughter and adoration renewing his will to live. As he put them down and they spun away in dizzy circles, his wife would step out onto the porch, an apron tied tightly around her tiny waist, a smile on her face. He would approach the porch, stopping before the top step so as to look straight into her happy eyes before kissing her deeply.

It was their heaven on earth, their own private eternity. Everything they could ever want was growing old within the walls of that house.

West of Independence Soundtrack Part 1

Music will always be a part of West of Independence. A long playlist accompanied me as I wrote the book, and readers won't find a page of it that was written in silence. At every moment of the process, music was sounding in my ears, making me smile, causing my heart to race, or filling my eyes with tears.

I have long believed that books should be sold with a recommended playlist attached, and have often wondered why someone hasn't figured out a way to make it happen. Well, since writing West of Independence, I have come to understand why. Each chapter of such a personal story deserves to live with the music that helped to write it, and whittling the playlist down to something reasonable requires the elimination of songs that are not easily let go. I set out to do it, and the task has proven to be my Gordian Knot.

Nevertheless, I have done my best to build a "soundtrack" that I feel comfortable releasing to the world. But rather than list them all at once and be done with it, I am going to pay them each the respect that they deserve and post them a few at a time, along with carefully selected excerpts from the book and links to the best playable versions I could find on the web.

I hope that these songs adds to the experience of reading West of Independence, because it certainly added to the experience of writing it.

1. Willy Porter "Unconditional"

"maybe he was a Muslim, a Christian, or a Jew...I hope that he was laughing when off that bike he flew...maybe he struggled to believe, just like me and you...as the ambulance is too late arriving...now he stares into the sky above, into the face of unconditional love..."

The words of this song inspire me while putting me to shame. I have learned the hard way that selfishness, no matter the driving force behind it, cannot exist in the same heart with unconditional love.

From West of Independence page 25:

"It was hard for me to accept that my older brother was gay, and so I didn’t. While I loved him for so many reasons, I also hated Harrison for causing so much confusion in my life. I was incapable of seeing his lifestyle as anything other than a bad choice, his failure to find love and comfort with girls driving him to decide that he must be gay. It disrupted my parent’s lives, and since I had blindly followed my parents into the black and white fog of unyielding religious beliefs, it disrupted my life as well. I felt committed to my parents and all that they had taught us growing up in the Mormon religion. Harrison had decided to be gay, and therefore was subject to harsh judgments, condemnation, and a life full of misery. He would never be truly happy, and would risk the dangers of a promiscuous and unnatural life, namely AIDS and a horrible death.

And Harrison's earthly life wasn't the only life at risk. My big brother was endangering his eternal soul, and along with it the eternal nature of our family. Without him we could not be an Eternal Family, a blessing promised to the obedient and faithful.

I didn’t want to believe this, and secretly hoped that God would have some small measure of mercy for my brother, if not for his sake, then for mine."

2. David Bowie "Heroes"

Anyone who knew Jared will remember that he loved David Bowie. We spent weeks worth of time in our attic bedroom listening to his Bowie records, and together we went to see Bowie's Glass Spider rock show in the late Eighties. I remember walking all around the stadium with Jared, looking for some part of the fence through which we could enter ahead of the crowd, since our tickets were general admission on the field, and I feared being so far back into the crowd that Jared wouldn't be able to soak up the full David Bowie experience. We found our gap, made a mad dash for the front, and ended up center stage. It was hot and humid that night, and people were passing out all around us as "Ziggy Stardust" wowed us with his voice, his music, and his theatrics. I will never forget the smile on Jared's happy face as he stood oblivious to the chaos around him, captivated by his musical hero. 

To do the same again with Jared, "just for one day" would be worth anything you might ask of me.

From West of Independence page 30:

"Weeks passed, and though it was tight quarters, no one complained. Jared slept while we were at work, and woke up to eat dinner and spend some time with us before walking to work. I was employed cleaning carpets at the time, and Jared would abandon sleep a couple of days a week to work with me and make some extra cash. We drove around Seattle together in a big van with a colorful carpet cleaning super hero painted on the sides.

The job sucked. Cleaning dirt, food, sewage, and various bodily fluids from stranger’s carpets was gross, but the time spent working with Jared became something to look forward to each week. We made a habit of raiding the customer’s kitchens for food, turning their stereos up too loud, and riding the carpet buffer across their living rooms. We dreamed aloud of being free and happy, living as we pleased someday, un-tethered by the worries of the average jerk. I hoped to become a published writer, and Jared a successful artist, but we gave little thought to the effort and heartache required to achieve such elusive aspirations.

To dwell on the hows was too depressing anyway. I had little hope or talent with which to materialize my own dream, while Jared was sure to succeed due to the raw creative genius that seemed to course through his veins and flow out his fingertips as he drew or painted."

3. Journey "Don't Stop Believin'"

Has anyone ever taken a road trip without listening to Journey? I am pretty certain there is a federal law that states "when crossing more than two state borders in a car, no fewer than six Journey songs must be played at full volume, without regard for embarrassment during vocals and air guitaring."

Tell me, what good is a road trip without nostalgia, and with that nostalgia, a little self inspection and regret?

From West of Independence page 41:

“Uh-huh,” Connor said, acknowledging my request. He dropped the Ipod back into the dock, and the car was filled with the sounds of keyboards, guitars, and the Eighties. The unmistakable music of our youth threatened to blow the speakers as we cruised down the highway in our tiny black rental car, trying to match the singer's long high notes and jamming out the well-known but never tiresome riffs on our air guitars. I knew it was silly and cliché, but it didn’t feel that way. We kept it up for miles, working our way through a long list of favorites.

When the playlist ended, Connor reclined his seat and settled in for a nap. The ability to sleep anywhere, at any time, was a skill that both my younger brothers had always possessed. On all of our many road trips as kids, outside on our trampoline, and while camping with our friends in high school, I had watched them drop to whatever disagreeable surface was available, falling asleep without too much trouble while I laid awake, uncomfortable and jealous of their deep breathing and unconscious state.

Connor had once slept in the bottom of our canoe for an entire day on a river, not even stirring when we ran some rapids. I was so worried he might be dead that I poked him hard with my paddle. It was like waking a sleeping bear by sticking a lit cherry bomb up his ass. Connor was so pissed off at me for waking him up that he thrashed around and nearly dumped us into the water.

I smiled at the memory, and at the realization that once more I had found myself awake with my little brothers at rest around me. Setting the cruise control at eighty-five, I sat up tall in the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel, my hands at ten and two in order to ensure that I would not relax too much and risk falling asleep. The white center lines whipped past, disappearing into the darkness as the miles stacked up behind us."

Bon Vivant

"Man, this woman is going to be your wife forever!" Alex almost shouts, pointing at Elizabeth.

I grin, and look over at my forever-wife. Elizabeth is fanning her denimed butt over the flames of a gas fireplace. She shakes her head in dismissal of our conversation about love, life without passion, and NORAD. The mock dismissal is forgiven when she smiles wide at us.

Us: Alex Dezen, lead singer of The Damnwells, and me, author of "West of Independence," standing together on the back patio of a stranger's house.

"I'm singing in my sleep, driving across Texas with you..."

Surreal doesn't cut it, while epic is just stupid and exhausted.

Comfortable; that's what this is.

Ryan steps through the sliding glass door, a red cup of warmth in one hand, two pieces of pizza in the other. Nazi-hunting-war-corresponding-tour-managing-sidekicking buddy to Alex, Ryan is more than a character. This self professed "bon vivant" carries knowledge and experience on constant offer, and he underlines all of it with a humor-colored highlighter.

"What are we talking-whoa, drop it like it's hot!" Ryan interrupts his own question when he notices Elizabeth waving her tush over the fire.

"You look so good..."

My head feels light, but it isn't the altitude.

To say that this is a moment long in coming would be a lie. I had never bothered to imagine the chance to personally thank Alex for keeping me company on my drive across Texas in 2009, my little brother's ashes resting in the back seat.

Ryan is arguing with Elizabeth; he thinks she has long legs.

Alex has just played a private show for us. Every song had spread a new layer of goosebumps over the tiny crowd. Emotion arced across the room, interrupted only by the banter, praise, and laughter shared in between songs.

And then he sang "Texas."

A sleepy poem about love and distance, put to music made for counting highway mile markers, "Texas" is a song that sneaks up on me and puts a comfortable pressure on my chest. By its end I am miles from home, the one that I love most in the world sleeping in the passenger seat as we drive through the night across the flat, wide, thought-provoking expanse of the southwest.

"I could stay another day with you, stall the winter's pain 'til June..."

The song is as much a part of "West of Independence" as the paper (or pixels) upon which it is printed. It not only journeyed with me across Texas, but across page after page of the writing process as well. As Alex began to play it, I held my phone up to record the moment. A few lyrics in, and I couldn't hold the phone steady; my arm shook and my eyes clouded. As a lump filled my throat, I turned off the phone, choosing to live the moment rather than record it.

And to drive across Texas one more time.

Thanks Alex.

Missed Moment

“Two bobs left, two bobs right, then one left, one right, one left, and then it starts all over again, but from right to left,” Jared explained.

I watched, dizzied as my little brother bobbed his head from side to side in perfect rhythm.

“And you're always telling me that it's my turn to move, when I wonder what could make the needle jump the groove,” Amiee sang to the beat.

Jared’s head danced while I waited for the right moment to join in, like a little girl watching for her cue to leap between whirling double-dutch jump ropes.

My head bobbed left twice, right twice, and then back to the right for a single bob, just as Jared had instructed. I was feeling pretty good about my chances, and went left.

For two bobs…

Jared laughed as I tried to correct and catch up to his easy going movements. It was too late; my head frenzied back and forth in a seizure-like loop as Aimee sang on.

“Acting steady always ready to defend your fears, what's the matter with the truth, did I offend your ears?”

“Kid, it’s not that hard,” Jared said.

“Maybe for you it isn’t, but my head has a mind of its own,” I replied in jesting defense

.

“Just follow me,” my brother said, ignoring my protest. His head began to bob.

Aimee ignored us both. “Now I could talk to you till I'm blue in the face, But we still would arrive at the very same place, with you running around and me out of the race…”

I followed Jared’s example, and he nodded with encouragement as my head bobbed for one complete, correct, and rhythmic cycle.

“You got it!”

I grinned, and the multitasking center in my brain flickered under the sudden load. My head threatened calamity with a feint to the left, but just then a synapse fired, sending my head to the right, back in sync with Jared’s.

We spent the rest of the afternoon driving around Seattle to carpet-cleaning appointments, rewinding the tape and playing the song over and over again, our heads bobbing in unison to the rhythm of Aimee’s counsel.

“You're like a sleepwalking man, it's a danger to wake you, even when it is apparent where your actions will take you,” Aimee sang.

"That's just what you are..."

--

Happy Birthday, Jared. I hope you know that I am no longer a sleepwalking man; that's just not who I am...anymore.

Aimee Mann's "That's Just What You Are"

The King's Vampire

One of my teachers in high school claimed to have been babysitter to a young Stephen King. He told us that even as a boy, the best-selling author of horror was a "weirdo." I wasn't completely convinced that his claim to have known Mr. King was true because he was drunk most days of the week, and therefore spent the better part of class time wandering between moods of nostalgia, indifference, and belligerence, and lecturing us accordingly.

I read a lot as a teenager, but I didn't read any of King’s books. The made-for-TV adaptations of his works were a series of cheesy disappointments that didn't send me running for the library to check out an armful of them to read. It wasn't until a vampire drove Elizabeth into my arms that I took an interest in the "weirdo's" macabre scribblings.

The first movie Elizabeth and I watched together as we were dating was Disney’s animated version of “The Jungle Book.” Not exactly a roll-around-on-the-couch-and-make-out flick, but more a sit-close-and-hold-her-hand-to-prove-that-you-would-make-a-kind-and-sensitive-husband-and-father movie. (It worked.)

The next movie that we watched together was suggested by Elizabeth herself, with the disclaimer that it had always frightened her to a thrill. I began to realize that she wasn't anything like the girls I had been running with, and looked forward to sitting beside her when she got scared.

“Salem’s Lot” is another of King’s TV adaptations, and although it is dripping with cheese, if you watch it in the dark after the sun goes down, it leaves a mark on your soul. (You’ll please excuse the pun; David Soul of Starsky and Hutch fame stars as the hero.) There are a few terrifying moments spent with the vampire, but the best is when he confronts the family’s priest, who has come to talk sense into the teenage son that believes that a vampire has come to their small town. Moments after the mother tells her son that “nightmares seem real,” the creature rises from the floor like a black curtain of death hoisted by Satan himself. The pale undead skin of the vampire’s face stretches tight over his ancient skull, his eyes glow bright yet lifeless, and his fangs appear as a work of disgusting, terrible, yellow beauty.

Elizabeth sought shelter in my puny arms, and I have loved that vampire ever since.

After watching “Salem’s Lot,” I read a lot of Stephen King’s books. I liked most of them, and learned a greater appreciation for him as a writer. Prolific, yes, terrifying, yes, twisted, most definitely; the drunken declarations of my High School teacher seemed very plausible. Stephen King was most certainly a weirdo, but he was a weirdo that I could admire.

Years later, Elizabeth began to tire of my own constant and vocal wishing to someday become a writer. The trouble was that I almost never wrote, and when I did it never amounted to more than a page of dreadful musings. Having no writing discipline, I had no claim to the title of writer.

That all changed in a moment, however, on the day that Elizabeth said to me, “Would you please either start writing, or shut up about becoming a writer!?”

Her words were not harsh in their honest delivery, but still I felt hurt and humiliated for a moment, before realizing that she was right. I didn't start writing, but I did take to thinking more about the actual writing process and promised myself that I would start writing very soon. I just needed more time.

But I wasn't allowed any more time. Elizabeth didn't stop with her demand that I pen up or shut up. She found a local writing group that met every month at the Wiggin Memorial Library in Stratham, New Hampshire.

And then she had the nerve to make me join it.

I wrote a story about "durt" and the group loved it, in spite of it being almost fifteen pages of terrible writing. They voiced their praise along with a few edits, and in one hit the writing group became a drug. I couldn't wait for the month to pass so that I could get my next fix. I started to write almost every day, even if it was just a few lines at a time.

Still, Elizabeth didn't stop there. She also bought me a book; a book about writing, written by Stephen King. More a memoir than an instructional text on how to become a writing legend, the book put my dream into perspective and inspired me to keep at it. I was encouraged to learn that Stephen King had not just fallen out of the black sky at midnight with an armful of pre-written best-sellers and a fat stack of cash in his backpack.

No, he didn't succeed out of nowhere; he labored at it. He wrote. And wrote. And wrote. And while he wrote he lived, and while he lived he worked, suffered, loved, laughed, cried, survived, and went a little crazy. But through it all, he wrote. Even after being hit by a car and suffering debilitating injuries that left many unsure as to his continued success as a best-selling powerhouse, he wrote.

So I kept on writing. And while I wrote, I lived, and while I lived, I suffered, loved, laughed-you get the idea.

Then Jared died.

So I wrote. And went a little crazy.

Crazy enough that it came time to move. We needed to find some happy in a new and unfamiliar place, a place where we could drive for miles without passing the dark forest where we had found Jared. But halfway through our move west, with houses nearly sold and bought, I started to panic at the thought of leaving a successful business, a beloved neighborhood, and a number of dear friends for a new life which promised no certainty other than challenge. Elizabeth's response over the phone while house-hunting 2,500 miles away left me with no doubt that we were doing the right thing.

“If we don’t go for it now, we never will,” she declared, adding, “I want you to come to Oakley and take a break. No job, no worries, just writing,” she said.

“But-“ I began to worry at once.

“No buts!” Elizabeth sliced my worry in half with a gentle shout. “We’ll make it work. I’ll find a couple of jobs if I have to. Enough already; you need to finish this book! If you don’t finish it now, you won’t ever finish it, and then you’ll always wonder if you could have done it, and so many people will never hear Jared's story,” she concluded.

So we moved to Oakley. I finished the book. It’s called “Westof Independence.” That’s it in the picture, sitting on a library shelf beside one of Stephen King's.

So I write, but not to have my book(s) beside Stephen King’s. I write because I love to, even when it’s hard to. I write because it gives so much back to me, even when the readers are few and the sales are slow. I write because my little brother Jared died of loneliness, and I feel terrible at how I treated him, believing that he would always come back to hug me and hang out with me in spite of my abuse, self-righteousness, and callous indifference to his suffering. I write because I want my kids to know that no matter how impossible your dream, you have to try, because if you don’t try you have already failed.

And I write because a vampire chased a beautiful woman into my arms.

Thank-you Mr. King.

Affirmation Repayment Plan

I do not belong here, and these are not my people. They don’t want to read my book, and they are too wrapped up in their own moments to share one with me. How did I let Elizabeth talk me into this?

These were just a few of my nervous thoughts as I sat behind my assigned table at the Affirmation conference for LBGT Mormons and their families this past Saturday. Tucked back into a corner, further away from the foot traffic than most ware peddlers would want to be, the seclusion of my location was quickly becoming a comfort. I watched as gays and lesbians passed by on their way to workshops and speakers that were surely far more informative and experienced than myself and what I had to offer. Most of them were well-dressed men with perfect hair and broad smiles, and all of them appeared to be content, even confident, as they walked gaily past my table without so much as a glance.

There were a few that stopped (perhaps out of pity) to look at the photos of Jared, the Tribune article, and the reviews that Elizabeth had printed out and slipped into brand new clear acrylic display frames. I sat with my Mac on my lap, ticking away at what I hope will be my next book, trying to look legitimate and qualified as an author while feeling crippled with inadequacy. Unlike my father, who could sell life insurance to the already dead, I am not a good salesman.

I got a bump around 10:00 am when Carol Lynn Pearson, who was speaking at the conference, came and met me. She has been reading “West of Independence,” and to have such a giant among writers and poets hug me and tell me that I was doing a good work was rewarding, a real dream come true.

But soon after Carol’s visit the morning was dragging on, and were it not for my two fellow table-bound peddlers David Moore from Safe and Sound and fellow author Jeff Laver and the deep discussion we shared about so many things including God, gays, and redemption, I would have lost all hope, gathered up my wares, and left for good.

At last Elizabeth returned from the “Out of the Darkness Walk,” which she had done in memory of Jared. With her she brought me some sustenance, and not just in the form of food. She has long been my buoy, keeping my pessimistic head above water when all I see about me are heavy seas and wind driven rains. We eventually sold all but two of the copies we had brought with us, and handed out several “West of Independence” information cards. Things are always better with Elizabeth beside me.

The evening events started with a social hour, and the large room quickly filled to capacity with happy, smiling, eating gays and lesbians, some with parents and siblings, others with partners and friends, and still others with their adopted children. Elizabeth and I sat amidst the cheerful banter and watched as people connected and reconnected all around us. I felt a bit like Mr. Scrooge looking through frosted windows at happy Christmas families, wishing to be a part of the celebration but somehow unable to knock on the glass and selfishly draw their attention.

The social hour ended, and a testimony meeting began. For those not acquainted with the LDS faith, this is a meeting that is typically held once a month within each congregation. It is a chance for those who feel so inclined and inspired to stand up and share what they know and feel and believe to be true.  In this particular testimony meeting, I sat and listened as people stood and wept, overcome with emotion in a moment that for many was the first time they had felt able to bear their testimony in years. (Many gays and lesbians have been dis-fellowshipped or even excommunicated from the church, while others fear isolation should they stand and share their true selves with fellow members.)

I wanted nothing more during that hour than to stand and share Jared’s story, and to ask them for his forgiveness by proxy. My back began to ache with the stress of it, and I stood in order to pace at the back of the room. As a young man from South Africa stood to share his personal convictions and hope for the future, I felt crash over me a powerful wave of embarrassment at the realization that I have many times taken for granted the opportunities I have to worship, to learn, to serve, and most of all, to fit in at church. Rather than take time away from those that had been given the rare opportunity to stand and share their feelings, I chose to pace at the back and wish away a past that I cannot change.

During the very moving testimony of a man from South Africa, I recalled a particular moment of my past that has haunted me for more than two decades, and felt a tear-filled compulsion to send a letter of apology to my older brother.

The moment went like this: My brother (I call him Harrison in the book) and I were arguing about something quite forgettable in the upstairs hallway of our home in Connecticut. I had recently discovered the fact that he had “decided” to be gay. Pride and anger dictated that I had to win the argument, and so I uttered with great disdain a word that I knew would cut him to the quick.

“Faggot!”

Cut him to the quick it did; I saw defeat and despair in my brother’s eyes. Over the next several years my behavior towards my two gay brothers followed suit.

Standing and pacing at the back of that testimony meeting, I realized that I had never truly apologized to Harrison for that moment. I left the meeting and made for my table of solitude.

The evening program was about to begin, and people began to once again pass by the peddler’s tables. A woman approached my display, and after a moment stated that she would like to buy a copy.

“Do you have change?” She asked, pulling a fifty from her bra.

“There’s something about a woman that keeps money in her bra,” I remarked.

“Can you trust such a woman?” She asked.

“I’d probably trust her more for it,” I replied while counting out her change, grateful for the light-hearted moment.

I carried the last copy of my book into the large conference room and sat beside Elizabeth. We began the meeting with a standing congregational hymn entitled “The Spirit of God.” It was loud, and it was proud! I began to feel a comfortable welcome creep into my veins.

A man wearing a Hawaiian lei stood at the pulpit and recited a blessing in his island tongue. He then spoke about his first Affirmation conference some thirty-plus years ago, and the immediate feeling of belonging that he had felt for the very first time as a gay Mormon. It was very moving, but he didn't stop there. He then remembered and spoke the names of some old friends that had since passed away, and invited anyone who wished to stand and speak the names of loved ones gone but not forgotten. Without so much as a hint of trepidation, I stood in turn and with what I hoped was enough conviction and power to mask the complete sadness I felt at having to do so said aloud, “I remember my little brother Jared.”

As many others stood to remember loved ones, it became clear to me that Jared was not alone; he was not the only one who had taken his life after suffering rejection, confusion, and depression because he was gay.

The feeling of comfortable welcome was more than creeping now, it was rushing.

The program continued, and a woman named Judy Finch spoke to us about her own trials and joys of being a mother and grandmother to gay boys and men. It was of some comfort to hear that her own initial reaction to such a challenge had been similar to mine, but the greater comfort came upon hearing that time, faith, experience, and love had eventually won the day. She is now a pillar among the people, a champion for the good cause, and a true example of loving motherhood. A remarkable woman indeed.

The evening continued, and Steve Young (yes, that Steve Young) spoke. Being a Cowboys fan, I can still respect all that the man has accomplished on the field, but I honestly had no idea that he was such a true champion off the field. He spoke candidly about his own fears, his own weaknesses, and his own trials, and how he has learned to turn them into strengths. He spoke of “throwing without knowing,” which was something he had to do many times because at 6 feet (and three quarters) he was much shorter than many other great quarterbacks, and was therefore unable to see his receivers. He confessed that one of his greatest moments was hearing a stadium filled with opposing fans settle into silence as he lay underneath hundreds of pounds of defensive players; the pass he had thrown in faith as he went down had been caught to win the game. He was humble, honest, and hilarious, and I admire him for the good work that he does.

And then Barb Young, Steve’s wife spoke. Beautiful does not describe her, inside or out; she stood up and glowed. Her love and spirit were tangible; they seemed to fill the room. I somewhat irreverently pictured her warmth piercing the hearts of everyone in attendance, like the lightning at the end of “Raider’s of the Lost Ark” but in a good and kindly way. She moved us all from laughter to tears and back again, sharing her deep feelings of love, admiration, and hope for her beloved LGBT family.  What a pinnacle moment, to hear her share her convictions and love with such energy and sincerity.

To conclude the meeting we stood and held hands while singing the children's song “Love One Another.” I held Elizabeth’s hand and felt her tremble when the tears came. I thought back to growing up beside my sweet little brother and how as we grew older I had not lived the words of the song, in spite of a constant self-assurance that in rejecting him I was in fact, loving him. I bowed my head under the weight of a familiar sadness, lost in grief for a moment.

And then I looked up and around the room. I saw hundreds of people holding hands and singing words of love with powerful yet gentle conviction. My eyes were suddenly wet with happy tears, and I felt sure that Jared knew my heart. I felt sure that I belonged there in that moment, singing words that had never before meant so much to me.

The meeting ended with a prayer of hope, and people began to mill about and chat before reluctantly saying goodbye. I watched a mob descend upon the Youngs. They were all smiles and hugs, posing for photos and chatting quite comfortably with everyone who approached them. Elizabeth and I sat there for a few minutes, wondering if we were going to do the same, when we saw a break in the wall of people that had rushed to greet and thank Judy Finch. We stood and made our way over, hoping to thank her for her words. I carried under my arm the last copy “West of Independence,” with the thought of possibly gifting it to Barb Young should I suddenly become courageous enough to approach her.

Judy Finch was an absolute doll. She took our hands and thanked us for being there, and we traded kind words and smiles before she asked what had brought us to the conference. I shared with her our story and told her about "West of Independence." She saw it under my arm, took it from me gently, and asked if she could buy it. I gifted it to her immediately. She asked for a way to contact me after she had finished reading it, to let me know what she thought. We said our thanks and goodbyes, but before leaving I had to share one more thought with her.

“I’m not gay,” I said, “but I have to say it; your hair is fabulous! You are a silver fox!” And she is.

We milled about the room some more, and I finally met John Gustav-Wrathall, who was a source of inspiration and comfort in the months following Jared’s death. His powerful testimony and endless service to others are benevolent forces to be reckoned with, and his words and faith blessed our lives in a time of great trial. I am sure that I was unable to communicate that effectively to him, but perhaps he will read this someday and know what he has meant to Elizabeth and to me.

Elizabeth then sent me over to meet a woman named Wendy Williams Montgomery while she stayed put in order to meet Barb Young. I walked shyly across the room and stood alone outside the circle of people that were hugging, laughing, and taking photos with a woman whose love for her gay Mormon son roars like a lion. After a few minutes I gathered up my courage and reached out to touch her shoulder.

“My wife sent me over here to meet you,” I said. “She says that you read my book after meeting her on Facebook.”

She had read it, and she loved it. I was in a weird way honored to hear her tell me that it moved her to tears. She pulled her husband Thomas over to meet me.

“Remember that book that I read, the one that made me bawl my eyes out? He wrote it,” she said by way of introduction to a man with whom I can relate in more ways than one, and hope to get to know better one day.

We chatted away like old friends, and I loved them both in an instant. Elizabeth made her way over for a hug and some happy conversation, and we took a photo together. They are special people; their courage as parents is infectious, and they will long serve as an example of unconditional love.

From there Elizabeth and I moved closer to Steve Young. The crowd around him was much smaller now, comprised of just a few men.

“How was Barb?” I asked, while waiting for a window.

“She was sweet, I am glad that I met her,” Elizabeth admitted.

“Screw it, I’m doing this,” I finally said, making my way over to shake Steve’s hand.

And to tell him that I am a Cowboys fan.

(Personal Note: when meeting a Super Bowl MVP and star quarterback, there is no need to inform him that you are not a fan…)

I recovered quickly by telling him that my Uncle Freddie “The Giant” had been a huge Forty-Niners fan.

And then I went in for the hug. Yes, I hugged Steve Young without warning.

“Hey look, six feet tall,” I then said like an idiot, waving my hand over both our heads.

I am pretty certain that Elizabeth made in that moment a conscious decision to keep me clear of heroes and celebrities.

But she did let me meet one more, and I am grateful. I walked over towards Barb Young with confidence, and then melted into a six foot tower of warm candle wax as I approached her. I felt like an idiot, out of place and naked. I stepped forward nonetheless, and was greeted by her dynamic, even explosive smile.

“I just wanted to thank you for your example,” I think I said.

She said something in reply, but my ears were burning with red-hot intensity as they often do when I am nervous, and so I can’t be sure of what she said.

I managed to tell her that I was like her friend, a former “sign-pounder.” In her talk, Barb had told the story of her Mormon friend from California that had pounded a “Yes on Prop 8” sign into her front yard. This sign pounder had subsequently learned a valuable lesson of love from her lesbian neighbors when she came to them literally on her knees and weeping to ask for their forgiveness when Prop 8 passed. They had held her close, forgiven her, and told her “all that matters is this moment.”

I told Barb about Jared’s suicide, my great shame, and my hope for redemption through “West of Independence.” Her reaction was unforgettable; she took my face in both her hands, her eyes conveying an empathy that I have not often seen in others.

Tears welled in my eyes as she said, “All that matters is this moment.”

We shared a hug, and I thanked her. I walked over to Elizabeth, and was at once welcomed into yet another happy conversation with friends that I hadn't yet met.

And then it struck me.

I had started out that morning feeling alone, unwanted, and afraid, surrounded by strangers that belonged with each other. I had watched them, envious at the comfortable way that they gathered together in a purpose that they loved and in which they believed. The isolation that I had experienced was but a fraction of what these same people often felt whenever they dared cross the threshold of their local Mormon churches in order to worship, learn, and grow.

I was lucky; it had only taken a few hours for me to be accepted, welcomed, loved, and taught by these wonderful people, while they have waited for years to enjoy the same from a church that they patiently love. And their wait goes on. I felt like a thief, having taken from them more than I think is possible to repay.

But I have to try, because all that matters is this moment.