Tag: Pride

Clinging to Pride

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Eight years ago last week, a man with a gun walked into Pulse Nightclub and murdered 49 people. 49 innocent people who were out dancing and having drinks with their friends. The gunman targeted Pulse Nightclub because it was an LGBTQ+ club. The gunman was looking for LGBTQ+ people to kill. He sought out queer people to kill (for simplicity I’m using the term “queer” here to cover the entire spectrum of the LGBTQ+ community). Of course, not everyone there was queer…because, in case you don’t know, queer people generally have straight friends…we don’t discriminate. 49 members of the community were gunned down for being queer or being friends with queer people.

It’s hard to remember Pulse Nightclub. It’s painful and traumatic. I didn’t live in Florida at the time, but it didn’t matter. LGBTQ+ people all over the country were as shocked and horrified as I was. I felt like we were being hunted…and we were. I think there were some questions about whether the gunman was gay. And I remember thinking, “you’d rather commit mass murder and die than be gay.” Seriously?! If that was true, it might be one of the saddest things ever.

Now, hold that thought in your head, Pulse Nightclub, 49 people dead, feeling hunted, the fear of going out…and imagine listening to a Supreme Court justice’s wife talk about how angry it makes her to look at a Pride flag in June. How much she hates it and wants to hang her own flag instead. And she described her flag (which she said she created in her mind) as white with yellow and orange flames framing the Italian word “vergogna” in the middle. The Italian word “vergogna” means “shame.” She created a flag in her head because she is so angry looking at the pride flag. Of course, first, she’d have to take down her US flag which she had hanging upside down at her house. She said this after almost daring the media to come after her because she’ll “get them.” Take that in for a moment…a US Supreme Court justice’s wife said that. And not just that, a US Supreme Court justice had the American flag hanging upside down at his own home. Just like the insurgents who stormed the US Capital on January 6th.

Now Justice Alito claims it was his wife who hung the flag upside down…way to throw her under the bus. There’s been statements from neighbors contradicting the justice’s report. He is also on tape talking about the necessity of returning to Christian nationalism, although this country was founded on religious freedom so it’s not a return, it’s a turn as far to the right as you can go. He also talked about not being able to really work with the other side…meaning people without his same views. Let me just say this…he’s a fucking US Supreme Court justice! His whole job is listening to different sides of arguments and applying the law fairly, regardless of his own opinions…which are supposed to remain private. That explains a lot about the current state of the Supreme Court.

I used to be intrigued by the Supreme Court and the justices. I admired them…some more than others. I got to hear oral arguments in front of them once, while I was in law school. They step out from behind the red curtains…it’s all very official, and intimidating. I used to read their decisions, and the dissenting opinions, to understand the laws that they were upholding or striking down. That was when I believed that the Supreme Court did uphold the constitution, legal precedents, and the settled law of this country. The legal term, as I was taught in law school, is “stare decisis” meaning “the thing is settled.”

Enter 2024, where the court overturned a 50-year precedent and the settled law of this country, because they personally object to abortion. They took away reproductive freedom from every woman in this country with that ruling. They also took away many options, sometimes the only option, women had for basic healthcare, because of all the clinics that were forced to close. And they have laid the groundwork to block access to gender affirming care for trans people…because women no longer have control over their own bodies. My ability to decide what I can and cannot do to my body has been stripped from me, stripped from all women. Perhaps the Supreme Court is going to make our decisions for us…we should have at least had a drink first, before the women of this nation were screwed. Healthcare is a personal matter. Reproductive healthcare even more so.

It’s Pride month and I want to be all out and loud and proud but I’m not. I’m scared. I’m scared for our country. I’m scared for all LGBTQ+ people in this nation. I remember when Jerry Falwell said that 9-11 was God’s punishment for homosexuality. I thought that was about as low as a person could go with their personal views. But WTF!?? Look who’s talking now! The impartial, not allowed to get involved in politics, 5 conservative justices of the Supreme Court. The ones who promised to be impartial and stated they would not overturn settled law… and they would not allow their personal beliefs to influence their decisions, even about abortion.

And they didn’t, until they actually started hearing cases…and then the precedents started to fall…Roe, affirmative action, bump stocks on guns…one by one they all fall down. And the always helpful, and rarely involved, Clarence Thomas, has said the court needs to revisit marriage equality…also settled law. Since when do the justices announce what kinds of cases they want so they can direct the laws and the country in the way they personally feel it should go? Never mind the 75% of people in this country who support marriage equality. And never mind that people in this country don’t get to decide whether they think I should have the right to marry the person I love or not. I don’t need your approval and frankly, I don’t want your opinion. It’s still illegal to legislate hatred.

We are a nation that has lost its way. We are an arrogant, self-righteous nation that is fucked up. And my wife and I are not the the problem. When 65% of republicans say voting for a convicted felon for president is not an issue to them…we have a problem. We are a nation that refuses to learn…or maybe we’re just reluctant to learn…or can’t see well with our heads up our asses. I’m angry. I’m angry and sad and scared.

It’s asinine to claim that you are upholding the constitution while you dismantle the very rights that are the law in this country…now past tense. If you want to stick with the framers of the constitution, which is the standard rational, then all the rights are for white men. The framers were interested in protecting the rights of wealthy, white, landowners…in other words, themselves. So, there would be no right to vote for women or any people of color, it would be illegal to be gay, we’d still have segregation, shit we’d still have slavery, if you stick with the framers. Because their concerns were for people like them. And be clear it’s men like them. The constitution is designed to be a living document that evolves as a country evolves, because the framers could not have imagined the world as it is now.

I heard President Biden talking about current issues with our country, or the leaders of our country, and he said they are “old ghosts in new garments.” My first thought was, who wears “garments?” No one since the 1800’s. But he’s right. We’re a better nation when our goal is equality…at least theoretically. We’re a better nation when we are moving forward and not recreating the mistakes of the past. We’re a better nation when all different people can marry…different races and same sexes. We’re a better nation when we don’t allow cruel and unusual punishment. When we require Miranda rights for people in police custody. When we acknowledge that all people should be equal, and we set our eyes on equality as our goal. Title IX, probable cause, the right to an attorney, non-discrimination, freedom of speech…and the list goes on. We’re a better nation when we follow our own fucking laws.

So, what do I do? What do WE do? Something’s gotta give or we’re in a huge crisis…more accurately, we’re in a huge crisis and I don’t want to see it spiral out of control anymore than it already has. I’m always talking about love but really what’s love got to do with it? RIP Tina Turner…it’s got everything to do with it. If I am loving my neighbor as myself, which is the golden rule after all, then I care what happens to you like I care what happens to me. I don’t want laws that hurt you anymore than I want to be hurt. I want you to have affordable healthcare. I want you to be free to make choices about your own body. I don’t want anyone to interfere with your right to vote and to have your voice heard. I want you to have equal access to schools, jobs, careers, housing, healthcare, and all the opportunities available in our country.

So that’s what I do. That’s what we do. We engage. We pay attention. We love when it would be so much easier to hate. We look for common ground…our common humanity. We look for the strands of the values we believe in within other people. We look for ways to unite our country, our communities, because they are so divided right now. We recognize that everyone wants to be loved. Everyone wants to be part of a community, to belong. Everyone wants to be safe and happy. We take baby steps toward understanding views that differ from our own. We look for commonalities rather than focus on differences. I understand that I am not the only person afraid in our country. I can empathize with others…we can empathize with others. We can be open minded, kind, compassionate, and honest. We can choose to love over and over again until love wins. Because love always wins…it must win. It’s the perfect time to remember that in the end all that matters is how we love people. Buddha said, “Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal rule.” Let’s try the eternal rule for a change.

Did I Mention My Parents Are Dead?

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

I realized today that both of my parents are dead. Dead?! WTF!? I know now why my kids never want to talk about my death, someday far away (I hope)…parents don’t fucking die! My kids assure me that they’ll take care of me and braid my hair. I ask them how long I will have been in a vegetative state for them to be able to braid my hair? My hair is maybe an inch long. It’s hard for them to imagine a world without me in it…it’s hard for me to imagine too.

I picked up my mother’s ashes today and suddenly all of this is very real…in a new way. When she died, I was in Colorado visiting my kids and grandkids and our new great grandson. So maybe things didn’t seem so real. My parents were never in Colorado, well not since 2009, so it was easy to think they were fine in Florida…maybe not my dad because he’s been gone a while but definitely my mom. As we were driving home it started to feel very real. I could feel her absence as I got closer to Florida. It’s weird to feel the absence of something, instead of the presence.

My mom had been asking to go to Bob Evans for breakfast and I never had the chance to take her…she got way too weak too fast. We ate there many times with my parents and had a lot of fun drinking mimosas and telling stories about our lives. I learned a lot about my parents there. The food is not my favorite, although if you like grease and fat pull up a chair. It wasn’t our favorite restaurant, but both of my parents really loved it.

Today Bob Evans wasn’t fun. It was sad. Sad because the reality of them being gone smacked me right in the head…I gotta start wearing a helmet. I can’t go visit my mom anymore and there are no more phone calls. We also picked up her belongings from her assisted living facility…the apartment, as she referred to it. One day recently, she asked me if I thought we needed that big of apartment. It made me smile. I didn’t really want to pick up her things, but it had to be done. My wife went with me and that helped. My sister and brother-in-law are coming this week too…I’m really glad.

I remember a cousin of mine telling me not to visit my mom everyday in the nursing home because then I would be lost when she was gone. She gave this advice after losing her father. I did not visit her every day, but it turns out you can still feel lost. I think I may actually feel like an orphan. Shit.

My parents and I had a challenging relationship…mostly my mom and me. Although my dad would always defend her. We had periods of years where we didn’t communicate at all or where my mom wouldn’t communicate with me. I’d try but after so many unanswered calls I’d give up…I guess that’s not great. I felt so rejected and every call made it worse. I guess I was protecting myself…I don’t know if that was a good thing to do or not, but I can only take so much. But seriously, I did not expect them to die. Parents don’t die. Not this soon anyway…maybe not at all. I’m okay with the fact that my parents were both ready to die. I’m just not okay with them being dead. If you’re confused, welcome to my world.

Given everything that went on with my mom and dealing with her anger, I thought I might feel relieved when she died. I’m looking at those words I just wrote and cringing a bit. You are not supposed to feel relieved when someone dies, especially your mother…that’ll send ya straight to hell. My physical therapist told me one day that I was a good person for taking care of my parents. What “good person” thinks they’ll feel relieved when their mother dies?

I thought I’d feel relieved that I didn’t need to be afraid of her anymore. I wouldn’t be wondering what her mood was going to be when I saw her. Turns out I don’t feel relieved…so my soul might be saved. I feel like I’m missing something. Like I went out without a jacket and am stuck outside in the snow. Like you know something isn’t right, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

And here’s a strange thing…when we picked up her things no one said anything at all. No “We’re sorry for your loss” or “We loved your mom” or “We miss her.” Nothing. No comments at all from any staff. I guess they go through this all the time. Maybe it’s old hat for them but not for me. I wanted to yell, “You know my mother is dead right?!” Say something…say some fucking thing. Don’t act like it’s just a normal Tuesday. It’s not normal. Nothing is normal. My mom died. She’s dead. She’s gone.

Let’s be real…my mom died and nothing is okay. I need to learn how to navigate a world that she’s not in, neither is my dad. Am I still a daughter if my parents are gone? Who am I if I’m not busy being their daughter? Who am I when I’m just me on my own…not me in reaction to them? Who am I if I define myself without their input or opinion? Maybe we really don’t grow up until our parents are gone. Maybe that’s when we can be free enough to allow who we really are to shine…when we can come out of the shadows. I told my wife that I spent a lot of time trying to be invisible growing up. If you’re invisible, then you can’t be in trouble or wrong or bad. 

Now I need to become comfortable with visibility. I don’t need to hide in the shadows. Now I really don’t need my parent’s approval…even if I do, it ain’t happening. I loved my mom and dad. I believe they knew that…that they were loved. They had grandchildren and great grandchildren that adored them…and my sister was always there for them. My parents are gone but love continues to win. My mom wanted to be with my dad, and now she is. Maybe that’s the power of love, to take you where you want to be. 

Love is a powerful force. It’s a force that needs attention and direction. Let’s love consciously, with intention. Love is not something to do half-assed…because in the end, all that matters is how we love each other…so do it with your whole self. Love must continue to win. Always.

What’s In A Name?

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

I remember when I was expecting my first baby…it was all very exciting. Everyone was asking if we had picked a name yet. Naming a human being is an interesting task…an important mission. So, we started looking at names. How do you pick a name from literally every name in the world for this little being you have not even met? No pressure there. And the possible list is a bit much. We didn’t even know if we were having a boy or a girl (more discussion on gender assigning at a later date). I suppose we weren’t picking from every name in the world. We were never big on Boris, Ivan, or Helga. Anyway, it was hard to even know where to start. I bought name books and spent days scouring them for the perfect name. 

Recently, my grandson, and his girlfriend, had a beautiful baby boy. My first question was whether the baby was healthy and the second was what’s his name? He told me they didn’t know yet. I’m way too type A to register “we don’t know yet” comfortably. How do you not know?! You’ve had nine months to decide. You only had two jobs…grow a healthy human and name him. Fifty percent completion rate is not that good…it’s a D. My great-grandson (and yes, I am way too young for that ancient title) deserves better than a D.

Of course, I did not say any of those things to my grandson or his girlfriend…those were just the musings of my mind…”musing” might be too gentle of a word…the roller coaster of my mind…the bumper car…that’s more accurate. I did ask when they were going to decide and my grandson said, “We don’t know. We’re going to get to know him a little and then decide.” When did my grandson become the Buddha or the Yoda? The simple wisdom in that answer did not escape me. Now my question was why doesn’t everyone do that? You give birth and then there’s a three-day waiting period before you can pick a name that child will have for the rest of their lives. That seems reasonable.

When I was pregnant, I spent a lot of time repeating names over and over, trying to see if I would like the name forever. We had a beautiful, healthy baby girl, and named her Jessica. It’s been almost forty years and I still love saying it…and Amy and Ben…can’t have anyone feeling left out. 

When I was born my parents wanted a boy, so the only name they picked was Kenneth, after my dad. That’s not really a pick because they didn’t have to come up with the name. For it to be a “pick” you gotta do the work. My family has a thing about names that begin with the letter K. My sister’s name is Kathy, well Kathleen. We only use the full name for dramatic effect. My parents decided on Karen for me. My two cousins are Kevin and Kelly. I’m not sure of the reason for the attachment to K…but there I was Karen Ann Morrison. 

You would need to live in a box to not have heard of all the bad press the name “Karen” has been getting. My summation is that some “Karen’s” have been complete assholes and managed to get themselves all over social media acting like the privileged fuckers they are. Now you can “be a Karen”… that’s a real thing…and it’s a really bad thing. It is bad to become a verb. WTF?!

The BBC gives this explanation. “‘Karen’ has, in recent years become a widespread meme referencing a specific type of middle-class white woman, who exhibits behaviors that stem from privilege. To give some examples, ‘Karen’ is associated with the kind of person who demands to ‘speak to the manager’ in order to belittle service industry workers, is anti-vaccination, and carries out racist micro aggressions, such as asking to touch a black person’s hair. But a predominant feature of the ‘Karen’ stereotype is that they weaponize their relative privilege against people of color – for example, when making police complaints against black people for minor or even – in numerous cases – fictitious infringements.” Now who wouldn’t want to be associated with that bullshit? Don’t be a “Karen.” But I am one. Thanks parents.

In the last two years, I’ve heard my mom say my name hundreds of times. The majority of the time she wasn’t saying it as much as screaming it…with much hostility. She used my name when she told me she hated my fucking guts. She used my name when she told me she was going to call the police, lie, and tell them I hit her. She used my name when she told me I had always been the bad seed of the family. She used my name when she told me the worst thing she ever did was move to Florida with me. I’ve heard my name a lot…too fucking much really.

My mom doesn’t actually say my name. She screams it, yells it, and spits it at me full of venom and animus. I can feel the hatred when she says it. She spews it at me as if it’s a curse she’s put on me. I have heard the name “Karen” more than I ever wanted to. I dread hearing my name now. I cringe when my mom says it because I never know what’s coming next. I have become so conditioned to the hostility in her voice that when she says it nicely, I don’t believe her.

Names are a strange thing. I’ve been thinking that parents should only be able to give a child a temporary name. You name the baby, after the three-day waiting period, and that name sticks until the child is old enough to pick their own name. What age would that be? I’m not sure. It can’t be too young. We don’t want a slew of Cinderella’s, Snow White’s, Spider-Men, or Thor’s. Someone might grow up and regret that choice…at least it was their choice. There’s power in naming something…power in naming yourself. You picked it, you own it.

I’ve read that the sound that people love to hear most is the sound of their own name. Personally, I’ve lost the enjoyment of hearing other people say my name. I used to love hearing my wife say it in her sweet Texas drawl. Family, friends, acquaintances, I don’t want to hear it at all. So, I have decided to pick my own name. I’m 63 so I should be old enough to pick a reasonable name…P!nk is tempting, but already taken.

When I was little my family called me KayKay. So, I thought maybe Kay. That might work. Then I heard my mom call me that and I understood something…I need a name my mother has never said. When I hear “Karen” I hear it from my mom, regardless of who’s speaking. It’s painful to hear it at times. The hate is all I hear now. I need a name that no one says around her, so she never hears it, so she can’t repeat it. Then I can get rid of “Karen” except with her. She’s the only voice I hear anyway. Then I will no longer be a “Karen.”

So, what do I want my name to be? One of the things about the name “Karen” is that it doesn’t mean anything to me. I wasn’t named after anyone…no best friend, favorite relative, or someone loved and admired by my parents. I’ve been pretty much the only “Karen” I’ve known. Well Karen Carpenter…I might have accepted being named after her. 

I realized that the name I pick has to mean something. It has to mean something to me. Meaning is very important to me. My tattoos were selected because of their meaning. All the jewelry I wear, and even my key chain has special meaning to me. Meaning is a big deal.

So…sticking with the “K” theme, my family seems fond of, I’ve decided on “Kai.” Why “Kai”? I’ll tell you. I like the sound of it, and I love what it means. “Kai” is a gender-neutral name that is Welch in origin and means “keeper of the keys and earth.” In Hawaiian, “Kai” means “ocean” or “sea.” In Japanese, “restoration” and “recovery” are included in the meaning. The ocean is my favorite place on earth, and I am restored when I am there. I am renewed and free in the ocean. I am not in pain in the ocean. I don’t have a disability either…I am restored. 

The Navajo say that “Kai” means “willow tree” whose spiritual properties include “protection” and “healing.” It’s also associated with “love” and “being lovable.” I think we all know love is an important theme to me…I do mention it on occasion. After a lifetime of negative messages, it took a long time to finally believe that I am lovable. Everything I talk about, everything I read about, everything I think about is focused on healing…my own, other peoples, and the worlds. “Divine is the task to ease pain.” I choose a name that means healing, lovable, and ocean. Kai. It’s perfect. It’s me in a name. Kai. It’s my name. It’s MY name. Kai Ann Raines…hmmm…I will not be using my middle name…lol.

Let’s be real…choosing a new name doesn’t necessarily solve anything. It does give me the joy of not being a “Karen” anymore. The name change moves me and creates a change of perspective…I’m not that person, I’m this person. The pain and damage caused by the misuse and weaponization of my name aren’t suddenly gone…although that would be awesome. The name change allows some space and fluidity in my thoughts and perspective. That movement allows me to see myself differently. It allows me to see myself through my-self…my own eyes…my own knowing. I see a bigger picture, not someone else’s narrow or biased view. I can be brand new, like a baby you get to know before you name him. I have gotten to know myself. I know who I am. I am a Kai, not a Karen.

Oh yeah…my great-grandson’s name is Zacary…it’s perfect just like he is. Good job mom and dad. I love that little baby. He reminds me that there is still hope and so much possibility in the world. So, I’m gonna love him the best I can. I want him to grow up feeling swaddled in love. And from that secure place he can see the possibilities and hope as well. I want him to see all he has to offer this world. I’m going to lead with love in all my interactions. I’m going to model love for him, the best I can.

Let’s love generously. Let’s be extravagant in our love…giving much and often…without conditions. Let loving actions take the place of empty words. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people. Love is a verb. That’s a verb I can get behind.

Floating and Falling

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

The Grammy Awards were last Sunday. I love Billie Eilish and that night she won “Song of the Year” for, “What Was I Made For?” If you haven’t heard it, you should change that…now. It’s an amazing song…in my opinion. She wrote it for the movie “Barbie” which I have not seen yet. Anyway, the beginning of the song says, “I used to float, now I just fall down. I used to know, but I’m not sure now….” As I’ve gotten older there are so many more things, I’m not sure of. Everything was so clear when I was in my 20’s…so simple…so black and white…so rigid.

When I was younger, I was an athlete. I played basketball, softball, and I swam…all competitively. I was coordinated. I could stumble and catch myself easily before I’d ever fall. I could run forward and backward…I thank basketball for that. When I went to college, the basketball coach was interested in me for the team. It was a very small school but still that was a dream come true. I ended up having knee surgery instead of trying out for the team (thank you field hockey…I should have never trusted a sport that makes you wear a skirt) and that was a big loss for me. Being an athlete was a huge part of my identity then. I think it was my identify. Everything in my life was connected to sports, all my friends played, and we spent our time together on and off the court. I had a basketball with me all the time and got really good at spinning it on my finger…I could even switch fingers and hands (my grandkids used to think that was very cool when they were little).

I wrote about my accidental fall, surgery, and ongoing recovery a couple weeks ago. I wasn’t really planning on writing anymore about it because it was done. Right? Then I was walking my dog and I tripped on my crutch and that whole accident came crashing down on me. I was back on the beach as if it was happening again right then. I saw myself fall. I heard and felt the crunch and snap of my arm breaking. My heart started racing and I felt the warmth of tears welling up in my eyes. I felt overwhelming fear and sadness, even though I was fine in that moment. I did not fall. I did not even come close to falling. I just tripped. I was so afraid.

I used to float…I’m not sure I ever floated but I didn’t fall. I wasn’t clumsy. I was coordinated. Now I just fall down, randomly and for no reason or that’s how it feels to me. And worst of all, I don’t know how to stop it. Missteps that I could have easily corrected in the past, knock me to the ground now. And I am afraid. Afraid to live in my body. Afraid to feel in my body. Afraid to fall in my body. How can I mentally feel like I’m 40 and physically move like I’m 90? That’s fucked up. I feel like everyone treats me like I’m fragile and about to break. But I’m not…okay I did break but I’ve been put back together with metal and cadaver bones. Just missing duct tape.

“I don’t know how to feel but I wanna try.” Feelings are hard for me. As a child, I was encouraged not to have them. Feelings are messy. No one wanted to know how I felt. How do I know this? No one ever asked. No one cared how I felt. If I was angry, I got in trouble, even though anger seemed like the go to emotion for my parents. And if I was sad or cried, I was teased or taunted. I felt humiliated. I decided emotions were way too much trouble for me.

Let me be real… I don’t know how to feel because I’m having difficulty being in my body right now. I was learning to be present in my body and feel my feelings and then I fell…my catastrophic fall. I feel fragile and I am not a fragile person…so that pisses me off…which I’m sure is helpful. I am not fragile. I’m fucking Superwoman. I deal with, manage, and take care of tons of shit every day. I am not fragile. Fragile feels bad to me, weak. I am not weak. I can’t be weak.

I don’t know how to feel…that’s true two ways. The “I don’t know” as in I don’t recognize the feeling, and/or the “I don’t know” as in I can’t decide, too many choices. I’m with number 2. I can identify feelings, I’m better at it with other people’s feelings but I can get to mine…it may take a minute. I have a master’s degree in counseling…I know lots of feelings…a grade 18th’s worth. But it’s not so much that I don’t know how to feel as I don’t how I can manage all these feelings. I have a fucking tsunami of feelings.

You see, it turns out I have all the feelings. So many feelings. I have spent years learning to feel my feelings…years. And convincing myself to stay present in my body, even when my body hurts. To stay with the physical pain and any feelings that arise from it. I feel afraid of all the feelings inside me. Afraid of being devoured by them. I’m afraid and sad. I feel diminished by falling. I became a fragile and weak person in other people’s eyes, and they question my capabilities…and their doubts eat away at me…and so do mine.

Now let’s be real…I might have some PTSD, just a tiny bit. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of being me and living in this body. I feel fragile and vulnerable in a predatory way…like my body is out to get me. I don’t know how to be in my body right now, it feels complicated. I’m afraid of my body, as if it’s separate from me, and can damage me on its own. I feel breakable in a new way since I fell. And it’s not so helpful that my mom tells me I need to stop falling because I’ll end up in “bad shape,” basically dead is what she means. If it was as simple as deciding not to fall, then it would never happen again. It’s not that simple. I’m careful and I fell. I’m careful and I’m afraid. 

It feels strange to say that I am scared of myself. Makes me feel a little bit like I have multiple personalities and I’m afraid of one of them…the one making me fall. I don’t know exactly what to do. I can pretend that there was no impact on me from the fall but the the slightest misstep or stumble and my insides collapse. Physically being put back together didn’t fix my fears. My bones have healed but not my heart.

 Let’s be real…I can’t outrun my feelings. I actually can’t outrun anyone, except maybe my English Bulldog. And neither of us believe in running. What’s the worst thing that can happen if I stay with my feelings? Allow myself to sit with my fear and sadness? I suppose I’ll feel way more than I want to but what else? What’s the worse thing that can happen if I feel…feel it all? And what’s the best thing that could happen if I allow myself to feel that whole tsunami of feelings? They are messy and I am messy, but would I learn to believe? Believe in myself. Believe in my ability to handle anything that comes up for me. Believe I can feel a tsunami and survive. Believe I am bigger and stronger and smarter than my fear. Believe in myself and my potential just like I promised myself I would. Perhaps practice what I preached just a month ago…there’s a whole lot of believing that’s ready to go on here…and all I have to do is stay, relax, and feel. So simple and so scary. Until you do it…until I do it.

Post traumatic stress disorder is a big topic so next week I’ll talk more about PTSD and the fear and sadness that can accompany it. In the meantime, I’m gonna practice what I preach and I’m going to love. I’m going to love myself and the people around me. I’m going to practice a loving attitude toward the world. Love will keep me a glass half full kind of person. It’s all in my perspective…so I’m keeping mine focused on love, because in the end all that matters is how we love people…including ourselves.

2024

~ Kai Raines ~ 1 Comment

Another new year…a time to say goodbye to 2023 and welcome the all new 2024. The usual suggestion for the new year is a resolution. Resolution, “a firm decision to do or not to do something, being determined or resolute.” I’m not a big fan of resolutions, primarily because I don’t keep them. Sometimes I make them anyway. This year I resolved to eat a more plant-based diet and move closer to being vegan. I mention this because I just ate cheese pizza for lunch…so there’s that. Resolutions feel forced and kind of artificial to me. I have done resolutions before because I felt pressured to. And no, pressure does not help me stay resolved. Sometimes resolutions feel like they’re more for show because we’re expected to have a grand plan for the new year and the changes we want to make to our lives.

I am not good with resolutions. I am very good with intentions. An intention is an “aim or a plan.” I have a plan for 2024. I have big plans this year. I intend to fulfill all my plans. I have a purpose in my plans…I have a purpose. Each year we decide who we will be, who we will become, how we will live and move and interact in this world. Each year, each moment, we choose to grow into more or retreat into less. That’s the choice that I face. That’s the choice we all face…be more or be less.

It seems like that’s a simple enough choice, right? Who would choose to be less? Not me. I want to grow into more. I want to grow but I understand the inclination to retreat into safety…the safety of what already is, the safety of not rocking the boat. Leave things the way they are, maybe they aren’t great but they’re comfortable. We like to be comfortable. We think that even though our lives may not be all we want them to be, it’s what we’re used to and it’s what we know. Overcoming our desire for comfort and sameness can be a huge obstacle to growth.

I understand the desire to feel safe and protected. I frequently build my home in the land of safety and protection. The crazy thing is that sense of safety is an illusion. No one can be safe or protected all of the time. The unplanned happens. The undesired comes walking into our living room or crashing through our front door. Our sense of safety gets crushed. All kinds of shit happens that we have no control over. The reality is that we have very little control over anything…and even less control over anyone. That can be overwhelming. Life can be overwhelming. It’s tempting to think that if I retreat and pull myself back into my own little cocoon, I can return to what’s comfortable. Maybe I won’t grow but I won’t be destroyed either. We can adopt a kind of a “don’t mess with anything” attitude. Things may not be great, but they could definitely be worse, so I’ll hang on to what I know. I’ll retreat to stay the same. The thing is we can’t stay the same, nothing can. We either move forward or backwards but we are always moving. So, pick your direction.

I have dreams and I have plans. I’ve had them for several years now. So why haven’t they happened yet? What’s holding me back? Me of course. I hold back and stay in my comfort zone, so I don’t disappoint anyone, including myself, and so I don’t fail. It’s not failing if you never really tried, right? I don’t have to justify or explain myself to anyone if I just stay the course and don’t take any risks. Nothing makes me feel less protected than venturing out into uncharted territory…no matter how much I want to.

I can choose to stay in my comfort zone and be safe or I can choose to become more. How can I ever really know all I’m capable of if I never give it my all? I have a ready-made excuse for not fulfilling my potential…I never really tried. Who wants to live a life of always wondering what could have been? Maybe I could have…whatever “it” is. Could I have published my book? Could I have built a presence on social media and used it to reach tons of people? Could I have helped those people move through the difficulties in their lives? Could I have helped people believe in themselves and become the best version of themselves? Could I have facilitated growth and encouraged people to use that growth to make changes in the world? There’s so much to change in the world and I want to be a part of that change. I believe I can, and I believe I can inspire others to do the same.

I have an intention for 2024. Believe. Believe in my growth, believe in my plans, and believe in what I am called to do. Believe in me. It’s not enough for me to just grow I need to believe in myself. Believe in my potential and grow in the direction I want to move. 

Now let’s be real…I need a plan. I’m not going to get to where I want to be without figuring out where I want to be. What do I want? That’s the question for me to answer…for myself. My starting point is pinpointing my “what.” So that’s the first step. And then? Develop my belief in myself. Strengthen my believing muscles. I need to focus on success not failure. My successes…and there are plenty of them. I am successful. As I grow my belief muscle, I can use it to believe big…go big or go home, right? I have big plans and big dreams and there’s no reason to hinder myself. I am capable of so much.

When I was a child protection caseworker, I had a boss who told me that my only fault was that I didn’t know how good I was. That was almost 30 years ago, and I still remember it so clearly, because it touched me so deeply. She was so much more than a boss to me. She was my mentor, and, in some ways, she was a mom to me…she did some re-mothering with me that changed my life and my path. She believed in me, and her belief never wavered. I came to see my own potential through her eyes, and I started to believe in myself for maybe the first time. So, this year, I am going to remind myself that I am better than I think I am. I have more potential than I think I do. Believing in myself is my choice.

My intention this year is BELIEVE. I will believe in myself. I will step out of my comfort zone to grow. I will choose growth over retreat. I will choose to believe. I won’t sabotage myself. I will invest fully and believe in my success. I am going to believe in me. And I am going to believe in love, giving it and receiving it. Because love always wins. Welcome to 2024!

Strangely Grateful

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes when people lecture me on being grateful, I want to punch them in the stomach…I never do which is a good choice on my part.  I am growing up. I’m not sure anyone can look at anyone else’s life and decide whether you’re grateful or not. I think gratitude looks different in everyone.

I consider myself a “glass half full” kinda person. I look for reasons to be grateful. I put a positive spin on things, I’m excellent at reframing, and I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. I work to be aware of my gratitude…and my attitude…which can have a rough edge at times. But sometimes shit goes down and I fear I may never be grateful again. The circumstances scream WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!!! And then I find myself grateful again, despite (or in spite of) my outer circumstances. I might surprise you. I shock the hell out of myself. I’m telling you sometimes I rise…me and the phoenix…fly baby fly!

Of course, all of this is leading to a point. I promise. I have the most amazing wife. She is literally my favorite person in the world…sorry P!nk. We got married on 11-11-11. We thought that would be a lucky day and its Veterans Day, so we got married on a Friday because our friends and family were off work. And now our anniversary is a national holiday…as it should be. Last year we weren’t able to be together for our anniversary, so this year we decided to start celebrating early. The plan was the beach…Treasure Island on Friday and Siesta Key on Saturday. We packed some bubbly (beer bubbles for her and Prosecco bubbles for me) and some snacks. It was a beautiful Friday. All sunshine all day. It was in the 80’s and so the water temperature was chilly but warm enough to swim. We floated out in the water and just hung out talking…about nothing really, and everything. 

When we were getting out of the water, I noticed there was a small step up out of the water and onto the sand…created by the tide I suppose. I walk with a crutch, and I use it at the beach and in the ocean. My point being that I was being careful and lest you think what happens next was alcohol involved, I had had maybe 6 ounces of Prosecco a couple hours earlier. So, I was steady on my feet…or as steady as I ever am on my feet. I started to step up out of the water twice and stopped myself because it didn’t feel safe with the waves. Finally, I took a step and as I did the sand gave way under me and I fell. I fell forward and on my outstretched left arm, which I heard snap and felt break. As a bonus, my elbow was also dislocated. This would be the time to tell you, or remind you, that I have an elbow replacement in my left arm. My interpretation of my elbow dislocating was that the replacement was completely mangled. When I cradled my left arm with my right hand, after I told Gayle to call 911, because I was definitely not okay, I could feel my replacement jiggling around…or my bones…or both. It felt like it was in three pieces. That’s a gross feeling. Even with all the surgeries I’ve had and the years of chronic pain, this is the first time I have ever told a medical professional that my pain was a ten…and I meant a FUCKING TEN!!!! 

People on the beach tried to help me stand up but I couldn’t take the pain of them trying to lift me under my arm. Finally, they pulled me by my shorts out of the water so I wouldn’t be knocked around with the tide coming in…I think it was coming in. I was getting wetter and colder by the minute. The paramedics carried me on a backboard to the ambulance. Slight side note, they put me on a backboard to the stretcher after I suggested it. I really think when you’re in a crisis you should not have to help the professionals with how to handle the situation. I’m making fun here, but they were great and very kind to me. Initially they were fixated on the idea of putting me in their wheelie chair thing and then confused by how they would roll it in the sand. So, the backboard was a welcome suggestion…a “good idea” even. 

Once I was in the ambulance, the EMT asked me if I had ever had fentanyl (I’m resisting the urge to make a bad joke here) and I said, “Yes, and if you have some I would like it NOW please.” Look at me still polite even while in raging pain. If I was a screamer or a crier, I would have been doing so much of both. Lucky for them I learned young to be quiet when in pain. No one wants to hear all that crying and whining anyway, even if your arm is in three pieces. Luckily the IV was put in quickly and a dose of Fentanyl followed. Five minutes later I asked for more. The first dose didn’t touch the pain. After the second dose I was able to relax the grimace that had become my face. I even managed to doze some during the 45-minute drive…I wanted to go to Morton Plant hospital and the EMT’s agreed…even though it was far. They really were great.

Then I got to the ER, got jiggled around, had X-rays, and some IV Dilaudid before I ever saw a doctor…at least I don’t think I had seen a doctor…my memory has a lot of fuzzy places. So, imagine my surprise when the doctor came in and said my arm was broken…that’s not the surprising part…wait for it…He said, “We’re going to admit you and you may have surgery tomorrow.” Now maybe I should have been prepared for that, given the circumstances, but I was not…not even a little.

Shortly after the doctor came in, I was moved to the surgical floor where some angelic nurses helped me change out of my swimsuit. I told them to cut the top off because I was not going to be lifting my three-piece arm to undress. They managed to get it off of me pretty easily, and without scissors. Turns out I had half of Treasure Island in my swim shorts. And that is the danger of pulling people, by their shorts, through the sand. Sand went everywhere. You could have built a small sandcastle in my room. I felt bad because someone from housekeeping had to come and clean it up. I just kept apologizing.

I did not meet my orthopedic surgeon until the next day. Dr. Andrew Boltuch, who my sister says is “too pretty” for her. There was more than one nurse who asked who he was after he left the room. He is very pretty…even a lesbian could see that. Not only is he pretty, but he’s also THE GUY for elbow replacements around here. Talk about serendipity…by the luck of who’s on call, I get the best specialist in the Clearwater/Tampa area…it might be all of Florida…or the United States…or the Universe! It’s hard to know.           

If you follow me, you know that I’ve had a lot of elbow surgeries, ten in fact. There have been repeated failures of the humeral component of my elbow replacement, and it has been revised four or five times in the past couple years. Including once when my joint got infected after surgery because of a sloppy stitching…and by that, I mean they left a fucking hole in my arm. That one surgery turned into three additional surgeries. Back to my point, my elbow is complicated. Even I know that. Dr. Boltuch told me that he had ordered a new humeral component with a longer stem so that it would go up beyond the fracture. He also ordered two cadaver bones to use to reinforce the fracture. So, there was no surgery Saturday. It took until Tuesday to get all the parts to put me back together again.

Tuesday, November 14th, I had a 6-hour surgery that began at 4:00 pm and ended at midnight. I realize that’s eight hours but that includes the getting me situated, asleep, sterilized, and then stapled back together parts. I love my doctor so much because whenever we’d ask him about the surgery, he’d think for a minute and then say, “It was so complicated.” I am hammered, glued, and nailed into place now. And except for the obvious healing pain, my elbow feels good. Better than it has in a couple years.

Now you may wonder, after ten surgeries and multiple revisions, why would I even consider having another implant put in. That’s a fair question and one my wife and I both asked. The doctor said he thought it was reasonable to try one last time with the new component parts and then if this one failed, he’d take the elbow replacement completely out. I would then be fitted for and wear a brace on my left elbow all the time. He said I’d have minimal use of my left hand. He also said that patients who have had that as their outcome are happy with it because they aren’t in pain anymore. Imagine that…no more pain. It made sense to me.

A small issue I haven’t mentioned yet is that the humeral component of my left elbow was already coming loose. When I would move my arm, the joint wouldn’t line up correctly and so I’d have to move it around until it was back where it was supposed to be. It was excruciating pain…although I only gave it a 9.5…because something could always hurt more…right? Anyway, I had an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon set for January to try and find out if anything could be done for my elbow…like injections or a brace. I had been told by the Mayo Clinic that unless something catastrophic happened to my elbow no one would ever do anything surgically to try and help it. At that time, I was already in pain every day…I’d say a 7 or 8…every day…every fucking day!

Now let’s be real…so far this story is pretty depressing. “Romantic day at the beach turns gruesome.” Some headline. I did start off talking about gratitude. And I did name this essay “Strangely Grateful,” so WTF?! The Fuck is that gratitude can find us, or be found, in the least likely circumstances. I was in excruciating pain all day every day because my elbow replacement was loose and moving around in me. With my history, no one was going to touch my elbow and I was depressed at the idea of living the next forty years in increasing pain. 

Enter catastrophic event…unplanned, unforeseen, and very unintended. I was being so careful. I am always careful because I don’t want to fall. That event, that catastrophic event, saved me. In that moment the best elbow doctor in this area (or the Universe) happened to be on call and happened to spend a good amount of time figuring out how to fix me. He had the answer for the chronic pain. Either this surgery works and I’m not in pain or the replacement gets removed and I’m not in pain. There’s no elbow pain at an 8 for the rest of my days. Catastrophe, serendipity, no more pain. I am grateful. I am fucking grateful! If my beautiful doctor wasn’t married, I’d marry him…well, if he wasn’t married, and I wasn’t married…and if I wasn’t a lesbian…you get the idea…we’d never be married. I do love that man and I am forever grateful to him for helping me. I can’t even imagine how complicated my surgery was, but he was in there for six hours doing everything he could to end my pain and leave me with a functioning arm. He came to see me after my surgery at 3:00 am to make sure I was doing okay. I did finally ask him if he ever sleeps because he does work some long ass hours.

Catastrophe, serendipity, no more pain. That’s my formula. Although a huge portion of the “no pain” is working through the healing pain to get to pain cessation. There are just never any good fucking shortcuts. So, catastrophe, serendipity, work your ass off, healing pain, no pain…at least not in that moment. I suppose the danger is in thinking we ever get to “no more pain” as a permanent place of residence. The amazing thing is that the catastrophe can lead to the end of your pain. I guess maybe our lives, if we’re really living them is just one catastrophe after another, with healing happening all around and within us…all the time.

Catastrophe, serendipity, healing pain, no pain…and never forget love. None of this means anything without love. The kindness we give strangers by pulling them out of the water by their shorts, the tenderness of professionals doing their best to ease your pain, the kindness of caring for another human being, the love of problem solving and mastering the complicated…all because we can. Because it is the kind and loving thing to do. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people. Divine is the task to ease pain. Let’s ease someone’s pain every day. Let’s be real…in the end love wins…always.

**Here’s a bonus “end of 2023” special for you…a little something for New Year’s Eve. At midnight open your back door to let the old year out and open your front door to let the new year in…don’t fuck up the order or you might get the same year over again. It’s an Irish tradition I’ve been told. I know I’m ready to open the back door and wish 2023 a fond farewell. 

Here’s to 2024 and all the catastrophes, serendipity, hard work, healing pain, no pain and love we can find, and we can share. Always share the love.

Happy 2024!

Happy New Birthday Year

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

I recently celebrated my 63rd birthday. I have been thinking for a while now that each person’s birthday should be their own personal New Years Day. Instead of some forced midnight tradition on January 1st it should be an individual occasion, shared with people of your choosing. Certainly, when we’re born that’s the original new year, new day, new moment. Every single thing is brand new. You may have a muffled recognition of some voices or sounds, like people talking under water, but everything else is new. Every thing, every person, every experience brand new…that’s exhausting. No wonder babies sleep so much. 

Seriously though, on my Happy New Birthday Year I like to think about the past year and what I’ve learned and to think about where I’m headed, what I want to learn, what I want to change, what I want to be (if I ever grow up), not so much “what” as “who” and “how” I want to be.

What did I learn? That I can’t control everything and everyone, although sometimes I really want to. I don’t know what is best for everyone in every situation, although I often think I do. Other people’s choices don’t define me or make me good or bad. Sometimes things just are how they are, and everyone is doing the best they can, even if it’s not what I want. I continue to learn about loving, forgiving, and letting go. I learned more about being honest without being mean. Sometimes the truth is painful, but it doesn’t need to be intentionally mean or hurtful. I learned that people are allowed to have their own feelings and to feel them, even if I don’t like it or am uncomfortable with it. People having feelings is not an attempt to hurt me. Turns out I really am not the center of the universe…damn it. 

Continuing on…I’m learning that I can’t force people to have relationships they don’t want or to love people just because it makes me more comfortable, and I want them to. I get to have feelings too…all of them, even if my feelings make other people uncomfortable. It’s not my job to make people feel good, although I really like to. And people make mistakes and fuck up sometimes intentionally and more often accidentally. Either way they are still good people. And I don’t think it’s so much intentionally as it is unconsciously. Most people don’t set out to intentionally cause another person pain, but we do it all the time. That doesn’t make anyone a bad person. It makes us people who lack awareness. Awareness of what we are doing, why we’re doing it, and how it may impact other people. So much of what we do is habitual, and we don’t take the time to investigate why we do what we do. Everyone wants to be happy, sometimes we look for happiness in fucked up ways.

This next year I need to continue learning all the same things, in different configurations, but the same general ideas. I need to understand and change some of my habits, for example shutting down when I experience conflict. I do not like conflict, but it happens, and I need to be present with it. I need to feel my feelings even when they scare me. I need to worry less about my own comfort and more about my ability to be honest with myself and others. I don’t like other people to be uncomfortable, but I need to be honest and then allow people to manage their own emotions. Other people’s emotions are not my responsibility, regardless of what they think, or how guilty I feel…thank you Catholicism.

I need to stop allowing other people’s needs or wants to push my needs aside. I am allowed to need. I am allowed to meet my needs. I can be a priority to myself. It isn’t selfish to take care of myself. It’s selfish to expect other people to meet my needs, especially if I haven’t voiced them. People who love me do not need to read my mind. I can be open and honest about how I feel and what I need.

Here’s something real…I have 10 tattoos. I once had someone tell me I was the last person they ever thought would have tattoos, not sure what that meant. Anyway, I love when people explain their tattoos to me…why they picked them, what they mean. Now it turns out that these tattoos of mine cover everything I’ve learned, am learning, and need to learn. I watched a movie once that talked about our bodies being primarily water. A Japanese scientist,Masaru Emoto did an experiment by taping a word on the outside of a container of water to see how that word or intention might affect the molecular structure of water. He found that positive words, like love and kindness, formed beautiful, symmetrical crystalline structures when the water was frozen. When the words were negative, like hate and anger, the molecules formed disorganized, asymmetrical molecular structures.

So, what are the messages I put on my watery body to affect my molecules? In no particular order, they are the divine feminine or ground of being, endless possibilities, wealth, fearlessness, courage, the present, a lotus, equality, and my own symbol for integrity. It turns out I’ve put permanent symbols on my body of all the things I want to learn and be. So isn’t it serendipitous that any time I need a reminder I just have to look at myself. And don’t we always need to look at ourselves? The answer is right in front of me, well in front of me, or behind me. That was clever of me, and kind of coincidental.

Now the meaning of all those messages…Prajnaparamita, the great mother or ground of being, tattooed close to my heart…my ground of being. Not a white man with a beard, as God is often depicted, but a great mother, a divine feminine energy, a spiritual grounding. The courage to be present. Fearlessness, not having no fear but moving forward regardless of fear. And I am capable of so much…there are endless possibilities for me. Integrity meaning to be intact and whole. Wealth, not just physical wealth but spiritual and relationship wealth. A lotus, because it reminds me that out of shit something beautiful can grow…it doesn’t have to, but it can. That brings me to allowing. Letting go of my desire to control everything and allowing what is to be. Not fighting reality…a frequent pastime of mine. And equality…of course equality for all people, always. We should all have equality tattoos because that should be the ground under everyone everywhere always.

Let’s be real, I need to be more courageous. I think we all need more courage. I need to be courageous enough to be present in my life and the lives of those around me. I want to live fearlessly allowing what is to be. I have two more tattoos I want to permanently be a part of me, generosity and love wins. Wealth in any area of my life means so much less if I cling to it instead of spreading it around, generously. 

Love, integrity, allowing, spiritual grounding, generosity, courage, and more love. Love should the beginning and ending of everything we do, think, and are. Now stop, rewind, pause, and repeat, repeat, repeat. For love to win it has to be on continuous repeat, forever. In the end, all that matters is how we love people. May our ability to love, growbigger and deeper each Happy New Birthday Year…because love must win…that’s what’s real.

Gay By Design

~ Kai Raines ~ 1 Comment

I was watching a tv show the other day and this question was posed, “If you met your 18-year-old self and could only say 3 words, what would they be?” Immediately I knew mine were “Yes you are.”

My kids, all adults now, often wonder, out loud, how I could have ever NOT known that I’m gay. I fit all the stereotypes…I played a lot of sports when I was young, football with the boys in our backyard, basketball wherever and whenever I could. I loved the Dallas Cowboys and the Milwaukee Bucks. I had crushes on some of my female friends and on a whole slew of actresses at the time…Kate Jackson, Veronica Hamel, Kate Mulgrew…you get the idea. At the time, I never really thought about why I had crushes on girls and not boys. It wasn’t until I was in my 30’s that I realized I had been in love with a girl in high school. We were best friends, and I liked when she kissed me, but it never occurred to me to label myself a lesbian, or to even consider that I was in love with her. I didn’t know anyone who was gay. No one talked about being gay. No one even mentioned “gay” unless it was a in a horrible, homophobic joke. As far as I knew “gay” wasn’t a thing at all…it wasn’t an option in the world I was raised in.

I knew from a young age that I was expected to go to college and that college would be where I got my “MRS.” (I hope people don’t say that anymore.) I knew marriage and children were musts in my life and I never considered any other path. The first out lesbian I ever met was my freshman year of college. I’m not sure I even knew the word lesbian until college. I thought the lesbian (I have no idea what her name was) I met in college was cool. She was so at ease and confident in herself…maybe I envied that or maybe somewhere deep inside I understood that I was gay, but I couldn’t give it a label or a voice or claim it for myself when I was 18. She was lucky, or super brave…maybe both.

I transferred my junior year from Lake Forest College in Illinois, where I grew up, to the University of Colorado in Boulder. It was there that I met my future husband. We were married two years later and had three children together. My children like this part of my story way too much. We were married in the Catholic Church because I was raised Catholic. My future husband and I were into more evangelical churches and with that came very conservative beliefs, including no sex before marriage. Apparently, at 22, I preferred someone telling me what to think rather than figuring it out on my own. On our wedding night, my brand-new husband told me that he had known all of his life that he was gay. In response, I told him I had “kind of dated a girl” in high school. That was the beginning, middle, and end of the conversation. We did not talk about it again for seven years.

It’s possible we never would have talked about being gay if my husband hadn’t developed feelings for one his friends in the church we belonged to. He was so troubled by this that he confided in the pastor of the church and began attending events and counseling through an “ex-gay” ministry. When I think back on that now, I’m so sad for him and horrified that I ever supported him being a part of an ex-gay anything. My husband began a string of affairs. When he told me he met someone he wanted to build a relationship with, I told him I was filing for divorce. He was not surprised, perhaps relieved.

Divorce was scandalous in the church we belonged to…and being gay was over the top. He was definitely going to hell, and, in short order, I’d be going with him. He was outed to the whole church and kicked out of the membership. I wasn’t very sensitive to him back then. I was hurt and afraid. We had three children, five and under, and my very helpful “friends” were telling me that he would never see the kids, never pay child support and that he’d make them gay. Just the kind of support you need from friends. He didn’t do any of those things. He is, and always has been, a great dad.

After the divorce, I went to Seminary…conservative Baptist seminary…imagine the scandal now…and earned an MA in counseling. I chose Seminary because I wanted to study the Bible and learn about Greek words and what the Bible actually said instead of blindly following what I was told to believe.

I stayed very involved with the same church that had rejected my ex-husband. I was on the staff as a therapist, and I was part of the leadership of the church. I planned events and retreats, spoke at women’s events, and built a counseling practice. During that same time, I also spent a lot of time in therapy for myself. It was through that process, and graduate school, that I came to realize I am a lesbian. I’m not sure the conservative baptist seminary would use this information as a recruiting tool. I was thrilled at this revelation because it made me make sense to myself…and my obsession with Julia Roberts and Sharon Stone. With my newfound enthusiasm, I told the two pastors of the church, at our weekly staff meeting, that I was gay. Now I didn’t expect them to cheer me on, but I did expect understanding, support, and some sense of joy for me and how the pieces of my life came together. There were no more missing pieces, and no smashing pieces into places they didn’t fit.

“Joy” is not the word I would use to describe their reaction to me…I’m gonna go with repugnance. I was fired on the spot. They immediately took the key to my office and told me they could not recommend that anyone see me for therapy anymore. I was told I could make an appointment to move my belongings out of my office. And they said that the congregation would be told at a business meeting the next Sunday night. I was horrified and dumbfounded. The crazy thing is that both of these men had called me in crisis before and asked me to counsel members of their own families. But now, with one new piece of information about me, I was no longer qualified to counsel anyone. I was also told by the pastor that he knew I was gay by my haircut and the way I dressed. Both pastors said they were concerned I “hated men” because I was divorced. No stereotypes there, WTF!?

The pastors told me I could prepare a statement to read at the church business meeting, BUT I had to meet with the elders first and get their approval in order for that to happen. I’m sure you can guess what happened. I prepared a letter to read, and the elders said, “NO.” It was a big unanimous “no” and they told me I was being divisive. So, I sat through the meeting, silently, as they outed me to a room full of people, many who knew me and some who did not. When they finalized my ex-communication, I walked out.

I went home that night and turned my rejected statement into a letter that I sent to the whole congregation. I was not trying to be divisive, but I had something to say. I told them that I had learned that day, was what I had become to them, these people I considered my family. In the instant that they found out I was a lesbian, I was no longer a friend, colleague, counselor, and the person they called when they had a crisis…all they saw was me as I was now labeled and their judgment of that label. I was a lesbian and nothing else. An abomination. They did not want to hear that I had met someone and was really happy. If I wanted to be part of the church, I had to agree to be celibate for the rest of my life or attend conversion therapy. As fun as those options sound, I was not willing to do either.

My reaction to all of this was pretty much to tell them, and God, to fuck off. If they didn’t want me then I didn’t want them either. I lost all my friends and my job. The foundation of my life crumbled. The one friend I had who didn’t care I was gay, was pressured by other members of the church to end our relationship. She told me she couldn’t support my “lifestyle.” It took me eleven years to get to a place where I could even walk into a church without cringing in fear. I completely cut the spiritual part of me out of my life, and I functioned as part of a person…but not a whole one.

I was furious at the church and at God. I realized eleven years later, including many years of therapy, that I took their rejection as God’s rejection…but they were just people. People with harmful, hateful, bigoted ideas that they hammered into everyone under their control. God hadn’t really played into it at all. Gandhi said something about liking Jesus but not liking Christians because they are so unlike him. Seems accurate.

Sadly, I had been one of those people at one time. My ex-husband had too. We held those views. I held those views. I still feel ashamed of that fact. No doubt I couldn’t come out until I was able to think for myself and accept myself as I am. I had to address my own internal homophobia. Buddhism became my home. Kindness my religion. Inclusion and acceptance foundational in my thinking. Acceptance, not tolerance. I was never loved, I was indoctrinated. I was part of the “flock” as long as I believed and acted just like them.

When I got the boot, I found freedom. I found the freedom to love and be loved, to know and accept people for who they are, and to allow them to show me who they are. People know themselves better than I do, and I have no business trying to change anyone or make them feel ashamed of who God made them to be. I found the freedom to love and accept myself. I was free to own all the parts of me and my life…no hidden shame anymore. I am gay by design. I embrace who I am. I am grateful for my ability to love deeply, without conditions, because that was never a certainty. I am grateful for the ability to forgive others, and myself. Kindness, acceptance, and love, that’s what I know.

I Am The Parade

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

June is Pride

Honor the month…a day really

That people like me are noticed

We get to be surrounded by people like us

We the people outside of “the norm”

What’s a norm really?

Just a made up category 

Used to label and divide

They make me the “other“

But in June

All us “others”

Take pride in who we are

Hold our heads and flags up high

Hold hands…kiss my wife in public

We relax…I relax

And breathe deeply of a freedom

That isn’t usually there

In June we collectively blow the closets up

In a rainbow of colors

There’s a parade…music blasts

Balloons fly…floats float

And dykes on bikes…just are 

And in that moment

We are seen…I am seen

Maybe contemplated 

Perhaps considered for the first time

That I am just like you

Before I disappear in July

What about after the parade?

I go back to my life

As we all do

Some back to a closet

All of us with untamed fears

Fear of being harassed

Harmed or targeted

Fear of people’s stares or whispers 

Fear of more than whispers

The threats, open and veiled 

What will you do to me next?

Take my marriage away…just try

Legislate more hate

Further institutionalize homophobia and discrimination?

The parade is life

It’s being alive and unshackled

Marching in step with all those “others”

Who seek to do what I do…

Hold my head up high

Squeeze my place at the table

Demand to be part of the conversation

That has been about me

But hasn’t included me

It strikes me…

The parade isn’t the celebration 

I am

You are

There is no after the parade

It can’t pass me by

Because it is me

It isn’t a month

It’s a lifetime

The parade is living out and proud

Of who I am and who I love

It’s seeking justice

Practicing kindness

Loving mercy

Creating equality

Walking with humility

Teaching by example

Loving even when I am not

Going high when they often go so low

It doesn’t matter what day the parade is

Because every day

I am proud

I am a proud lesbian

I am a proud wife and mom

I wouldn’t change a thing

The parade can’t pass me by…

I am the parade