Greetings from the Grand Canyon

14 03 2012

So it has been a while since I have been consistently blogging and a lot has changed in my life. I am writing to you from the Grand Canyon in Northern Arizona where I have accepted a job working — and living — inside America’s most famous National Park. It was a very hard decision to come here and I still am not sure if I have made the right decision.

The bottom line is I need to work and it was becoming obvious to everyone that it wasn’t going to happen in Panama City. I had revealed my political leanings and championed labor during a state level campaign and for that I was blacklisted, just as my campaign manager had warned.

“You’ll never work again in Panama City after this, John. You realize that.” she said.

But I didn’t realize it and instead continued to apply for jobs and attend job fairs with the hopes that my public community service would be beneficial in landing a job. Ironically, it was my very public service that was keeping me from being employed again.

Frustration began to set in after Sears canceled an interview. If I couldn’t get on at a shopping mall department store, it was truly a lost cause.

It was around that time that a phone call came from Arizona. It was Thom, Jim’s friend from the Grand Canyon, and he was curious as to why Jim did not make his annual visit. I had to inform Thom of Jim’s untimely passing which led to a long conversation. I was glad Thom called, I enjoyed his company. He was a gregarious burly man and very bright. Thom was also a published author and quite the authority on the Grand Canyon, having lived there for more than 30 years.

It was during our telephone chat that I relayed to Thom how depressed I had become at my long term unemployment. I asked him if the Canyon was hiring and he said yes, but added the conditions “could be hard a tender fellow from Florida.”

Of course, I took this as a challenge and when the application arrived in the mail a few weeks later, I promptly filled it out and mailed it back. Having completed so many applications I really didn’t give it much thought. It had become so routine.

But then the email came with words that were almost unrecognizable: “Job Offer”

Surprised by this sudden turn of events, I talked it over with David, who was happy for me. If anyone knew the struggles of the last four years, it was David. The next step was breaking the news to my family and friends. Mom and Dad were very hostile at first, worried that I was going off on some mid-life crisis. Most of my friends were supportive.

“How many times do you get to live inside one of the seven wonders of the world?,” my whimiscal artist friend Paulette asked.

To satisfy the folks, I made one last run at employment in Panama City. With a job offer in hand from a world class tourist destination, I attended the Windham Job Fair at Bay Point in Panama City Beach — just a few blocks away from my house. It was at this job fair where I became convinced I was indeed blacklisted in Bay County.

The human resources manager had a look of distain as she reviewed my resume and application. She was anything but pleasant. When I pressed her about the job opportunities available, she promised to be in touch. Of course, a call never came.

Roseanne, my dear sweet campaign manager, was right all along.

I would never work in Panama City again.


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Categories : Grand Canyon, Panama City, Work

Off to the Big Easy

23 02 2012

The drive to New Orleans was fun. We rented a car at the new Panama City airport and departed on a gorgeous January day. A new year beginning with longtime friends reuniting on a trip across the Gulf Coast.

Bjork didn’t have an American driver’s license so I handled the chores and was glad to be behind the wheel of a new Chevy Cruze. Like most seasoned travelers, Bjork was eager to check a few more states off his bucket list. This trip would be his first venture into Alabama and he joked that a new controversial immigration law the state had recently instituted might place us in danger.

I doubt those lawmakers had Brits in mind when they crafted this legislation. Nevertheless, we skirted across the Alabama coastline, stopping briefly at a “welcome center” to use the facilities and study some the of historical images plastered across its walls.

Bjork was fascinated by the civil rights struggles of the Deep South and the antebellum traditions that still remained entrenched across Dixie. In New Orleans, we toured some of the landmarks, cemeteries and museums that contained those stories as well as some of the more modern aspects  of Southern life.

On our first night in the Big Easy, we dined at a very upscale French restaurant. Bjork made the reservations in advance and I donned a jacket for the special occasion. It had been a while since I had been in such a nice restaurant and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. We talked a lot about my future, the frustration of my extended unemployment and desire to relocate.

Bjork has always been a good listener. I wonder sometimes if I shouldn’t have snapped him up a decade ago when I had the chance. I could be living in London now, living the ex-pat life with the intellectual elite crowd.

“David seems like a really great guy,” Bjork said, moving the conversation to what I did have.

“Yes he is,” I replied. “He has saved my life.”

“In what way?” Bjork asked.

“He has rebuilt me,” I said. “And he has brought me closer to God.”

For some thinkers this admission would have opened a whole debate about religion and the very existence of a higher power. Bjork didn’t go that route, however, and for good reason, I suspect. He had recently had a book published about the Catholic Church in Eastern Europe and confessed he was a spiritual person.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” I said. Bjork grinned and sipped on his glass of wine. It was one of those moments.

After dinner we rode the streetcar back to a boutique hotel in the garden district, where we bedded down for the evening. Along the way, I received a familiar text message from David.

“I love you” it read.

It was just what I needed to keep the allure of Bourbon Street at bay. I went to sleep that night happy to be traveling again with a dear friend and comforted to know I had a hero waiting for me at home.


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Categories : Faith, Louisiana, Relationships

A Houston Connection

28 12 2011

I first met Bjork in Houston, a year of my life I have tried to forget. Things did not go so smoothly during my time in the sultry Texas metropolis, but Bjork was a bright spot that I chose to keep with me and I’m glad I did.

He arrives at week’s end for a long overdue visit. Bjork is a quiet man, whose wonkish demeanor fits all the stereotypes one would expect in a college professor. He was teaching at Rice University, a prestigious private school neatly tucked away inside the sprawling Houston city limits, when we first met. I was holding down two jobs at the time, intent on making my mark in a big city far from home and Bjork, a lifelong city dweller was trying to adjust to driving a car on a full time basis.

We spent most of our time together going out for dinner and sharing philosophical discussions about our backgrounds, which were vastly different. Bjork received his undergraduate education at Georgetown University in the shadow of our nation’s capital, but despite his formal training was unaware of Troy State University and all it had to offer until our paths crossed.

He seemed intrigued by my small town upbringing and big city ambition and I likewise was drawn to his nerdiness. At Rice, Bjork taught European history and would often visit the Borders bookstore where I worked. We could talk for hours about international affairs and politics and usually did. Later, when Bjork moved to England, he would run up phone bills while I ran down the Bush administration.

“You know, John,” he recalled during a recent conversation. “You were pretty radical back then. I was starting to worry.”

Radical and stupid. I did a lot of stupid stuff in Houston. The allure of the club scene was strong for a newcomer fresh from the Alabama backwoods. Bjork didn’t participate in the long nights and early mornings of the Houston club scene, but was always eager to listen to my dating experiences. If you can call them that. I kept a diary at times, but destroyed the evidence after moving away from Houston. Again, I was naive, innocent and stupid which can be a deadly combination in the big city.

It was a miracle I escaped alive.

That was almost a decade ago and since Bjork and I have shared many trips. Not long after we both had left Houston I went to visit him at his new job at Colgate University, making my first foray into the cold winter of upstate New York. It snowed terribly during my visit and the campus seemed unusually stuffy even by preppy, private school standards. Bjork, remembering my love for sports, arranged for a day trip to Cooperstown, the home of major league baseball’s hall of fame, but it was the snow that I will always remember.

I was still regaining my health after the year in Houston and the blizzard of 2003 presented a challenge. I remember roaming across the snow covered Colgate campus in shorts and tee shirt, I suppose to prove a point to myself and display a sign of strength. It was also during this trip to see Bjork that I would reveal more of my inner self to test our friendship… And the professor passed with flying colours.


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Categories : Texas

Holiday Hibernation

13 12 2011

I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. Much more than even I am accustomed to. I’ve always had a passion for sleeping, which has aggravated my mother to no end.

“You’re sleeping you’re life away!, John!!,” she would declare when I would come home from college and stumble downstairs around two in the afternoon.

One year I spent the holidays with my aunt Tammy and uncle Doug in Montgomery, Alabama and took a job at the neighborhood Winn-Dixie, working the “graveyard” shift. I was part of a stocking crew that would arrive at the store as they were closing the doors to the public. We usually worked from 10 p.m. to 7 a.m. and, as I remember we had a supervisor who was a real joy to be around. Sarcasm fully intended.

Looking back, I can understand why he was such a jerk to me. I was the college kid, working a few months to have some spending money for the next semester. And he was a small man in stature, and having found a smaller person to boss around was surely a delight for him.

I do not remember his name, only his chain smoking habit and coke bottled glasses. This will be the last I write of him.

So after working the graveyard shift, I would come home and eat breakfast and then go to bed. This seemed to aggravate my aunt Tammy, who was pregnant at the time and experiencing the lonely housewife blues.

My uncle Doug even gave me the nickname “Rip” — short for Rip Van Winkle.

When people often remark how young I look for my age, I usually credit the complement with my many years of sleep.

“I’ve slept a lot,” I tell them.

And it is the truth. The last two months, I’ve no doubt been horizontal much more than I have been vertical.

David calls it a destructive pattern. He’s probably right.

I’m over living in Panama City, I’m over being unemployed, I’m over being broke and I’m over fighting losing political battles.

So I have gone inward and slept. And slept. and slept some more. Each day waking with dwindling hope for the future.

I realize only I can break this behavior and, thankfully, there is incentive. David and I will spend Christmas in Port St. Joe with my parents and little brother who is bringing his young and growing family down from Alabama. Being around his new baby girl should brighten the holidays.

And then there is a blast from the past arriving soon.

Bjork, a longtime friend, from my Texas years, is coming to visit at the end of the month. He lives in England now and is a college professor. We haven’t seen each other in nearly five years and it will be exciting to catch up as Bjork has arranged for a short sidetrip to New Orleans, providing a refreshing change of scenery.

And I shall be well rested for the occasion.


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Categories : Alabama, Family

Putting politics on hold

9 11 2011

Florida’s Democrats gathered inside Walt Disney World last weekend to plot a course for the 2012 elections. Twenty-one of us from Bay County were in attendance, including former mayors and state representatives.

‘Former’ being the key word.

It’s no secret the Republican Party has taken a dominating hold of the Sunshine State. The midterm elections gave the GOP a sweep of cabinet positions, the Governor’s Mansion and a ‘super’ majority in both the House and Senate. Simply put, these are tough times to be a Democrat in Florida.

And yet there is no place to go but up.

I was excited just to be getting out of town and to be surrounded by true believers. David and I shared a ride with Don and Fran, two wonderfully honest and caring men, whose conversation made the seven hour drive to Orlando go by effortlessly.

Don handled the driving and Fran, with his effervescent personality, was quick with the quips. As a gay interracial couple living in the Florida Panhandle, nobody had to tell these two about adversity.

We arrived at the convention just as Vice President Joe Biden was addressing the delegates who were fortunate enough to afford the $175 ticket for Friday night’s opening dinner. We would have to wait for the second hand reviews Saturday morning.

Vice President Joe Biden, Senator Bill Nelson and Jill Biden at the 2011 FDP Convention

Being my first convention the entire weekend seemed a tad overwhelming with more issues at play than glad handing politicians and overzealous activists. David was not in good health and frankly I was amazed he decided to make the trip.

The man who nursed me back to health — who has supported me through the toughest period of my life and stood by me when everyone else scattered, was now suffering and in pain.

His condition was never far from my mind and faced with this, I felt helpless in room after room full of power.

Earlier in the week, I had tried to talk David out of making the trip. He was battling a case of the shingles and it was not pretty. My vanity would have never allowed me to attend this convention in his condition, but David, as I have so fondly come to learn, is nothing like me. He’s an Aries and much like the domesticated symbol of the Democratic Party, he’s stubborn.

Much of the focus during the weekend centered around getting out the vote efforts in various communities. Outside the general assembly, there were a host of caucus meetings and parties designed to bring people together around one central theme. We tried to make as many as we could, but there would be no late night hotel room hopping.

On the drive home, David’s condition began to worsen. Don, ever the sympathetic driver, must have pulled off on the side of the road 20 times so David could run into the bushes in an attempt to relieve himself from the pain. His plight put a lot of the weekend in perspective for me.

Politics has consumed too much of my life. In seeking to make a better community, I have neglected my own household. No more.

As I prepare to go down a new road in my life and open a chapter of caregiving, it is time to put things aside that are out of my control. Politics can wait. My partner’s health and well being is of the utmost importance.

Your thoughts and prayers are much appreciated.


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Categories : Democrats, Politics, Relationships

Retreating into the Heart

25 10 2011

The word ‘retreat’ has always bothered me.

I don’t like the whole concept, really, as it puts one into a defeatist attitude. Nevertheless, I went on a retreat this weekend — deep into the North Florida woods — where a group of gay men gathered to talk about their past, present and clouded future.

Baggage was brought and left and I am much more enlightened for the experience.

The group was assembled across generational lines. I wasn’t the youngest there, but not nearly the oldest. Some of the men were accompanied by their significant other, partner, lover or husband. Whatever term you prefer.

Others came alone and it showed.

We were assigned cabins and received three meals a day inside a mess hall style kitchen that reminded me of my summer camp days as a happy go lucky youth. I was so care free then, unaware of the issues awaiting in grownup life. Now those issues were staring me in the face.

Each day of the retreat featured a ‘heart circle’ in which the participants would gather under one roof and talk about whatever came to mind. Sometimes, the confessions carried tears.

As legend has it, men are supposed to be strong, especially men of the wilderness, but, true is, we are all granted a few tender moments. As I listened intently to each man tell his story, I searched for empathy and, at times, it was difficult.  The last few years have hardened my heart and I wonder if I have lost the ability to grieve. Or maybe, I have grieved too much. Is this what a doctor experiences?

Death and mortality, subjects of popular discussion during the weekend, and yet I came away from the retreat feeling more alive and empowered than ever.

On the final night, we were asked to gathered around a fire pit. A cold front had sweep into the Florida Panhandle over the weekend making conditions unusually chilly this time of year. Such made the fire pit an even more welcome venue.

The facilitator asked each of us to write down something that we wanted to give up on a notecard and throw it into the fire. David had passed me his note just after dinner. He would not make it to the fire that night, but both of our notes went up and flames and, God willingly, we are both free of weighty problems.

All in all, despite a somber feel, this weekend was a good experience inside a valuable support group. I learned a lot, but above all, I learned that gay men face many battles throughout life and because of that, a retreat, however difficult, is required.

 

 

 

 

 


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Categories : Humility, Love, Relationships

Writing for Courage

29 09 2011

Thursday morning listening to Adam Levine’s “Moves like Jagger” and writing cover letters to editors. And it goes like this:

Physically I have never been stronger. Wisdom, from years of surrounding myself with mature friends, is starting to pay off. My social network has opened doors that were no doubt locked a few years ago.

A recent trip to Philadelphia opened my eyes to the current climate of the media business. Newspapers continue to cut staff and lay off journalists, while the blogosphere gradually grows and builds influence.

David, my stalwart companion, has been preaching this tune for some time now.

“You have to free yourself from that ‘working for a paycheck’ mentality,” he continues to say.

Meanwhile, David continues to carry the load for the two of us financially and while this has always bothered my manly, independent pride, it has also allowed me to regroup, rebuild and demonstrate that I am, indeed, capable of producing again.

On the political scene, I’m still attending meetings and staying active in the community. My presence as a voice on the Left is very much needed in Panama City, if nothing else to contrast the chorus of angry rhetoric from the Right.

In that respect, I have established my niche here. My Twitter profile says it all: “I’m a Kennedy-esque Liberal living in the belly of the GOP beast. Send food and help, please.”

It’s amusing to most and by using not-so-subtle humor, I have found a way to reach people as my following on Twitter continues to rise.

“You need to be writing more,” David says.

And, of course, he is right. Writing is what I was born to do. The block, however, is hard to overcome sometimes.

I never want to offend anyone. My inner Libra is all about balance and in the current political climate, writing to not offend can be a difficult chore.

And then I am reminded of that oh so familiar line, ‘You have to stand for something or you’ll fall for anything.”

What I stand for is Compassion, Honesty, Caring, Community, Family and Faith. Easy subjects to get behind, sure. But to articulate those views one must first have Courage.

And with that, I’m off to see the Wizard. Let’s hope he’s read my cover letter.

 

 


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Categories : Humility, Love, Politics

RIP Old Friend

14 07 2011

My friend Jim is dead.

The crusty ol’ conservative engineer from Arkansas has left this world. There will not be a third road trip to Vegas and back. And his death, at this point, remains a mystery.

I received word a few weeks ago from a mutual friend that Jim had taken his own life. This was shocking news, but it seems Jim had run into some financial difficulties that he was not prepared to combat.

You see, Jim was a proud man. His wealth, gained through hard work and vast knowledge, was slipping away. At 74, he would not transition well into a life of poverty, so he did what he has always done — he took control of the situation and fired up his vintage 1960 Thunderbird one last time inside a closed garage.

I never got to say goodbye.

There has yet to be an obituary published in the local paper. Jim rarely spoke of any family. For the most part he was a loner, married to his work. And with work hard to come by these days, Jim decided to check out.

I’m frustrated that he could not ask for help and reminded of the biblical saying, “Pride cometh before the Fall.”

Our trips through the American Southwest were incredible and first class. Jim spared no expense and said he was taking me along for the ride because he knew that I would appreciate the experience.

He was right. I realize this now more than ever.

Maybe he knew something I didn’t. Maybe he knew time was running out and he wanted to share some wisdom with a young writer. Whatever the case, his passing leaves more questions that will probably never be answered.

One thing is for certain. The man who showed me the Grand Canyon for the first time is gone and there is a big hole left in my heart.

Goodbye Old Friend


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Categories : Education, Grand Canyon

Campaign Memories

20 06 2011

Last night, during a visit to a local bar & grill on the beach, I was asked again if I intended to run for public office.

It’s flattering, I guess. Particularly when it comes from a registered voter. And a government employee, no less.

I told the fellow, that I had no immediate plans of challenging our vaunted State Representative again.

“You have to chip away,” he said.

I appreciated the young man’s encouragement and over a few brews we shared our thoughts on the local political scene. I shared with him, some of the bizarre scenarios I encountered during my run — from the rousing ovation by the Muslim community to boos at a gay bar.

The 2010 campaign was a hard one for all Democrats, but for a political novice in Northwest Florida, it was downright impossible.

I had very little resources and no help from the state party. Still, I stuck to my values and provided an option that 10,000 people bought into.

My presence at the Bay Islamic Society’s annual Ramadan dinner was a fine illustration of the campaign’s message. We were intent on reaching out to everyone in the District to show the value of diversity. How I would be received, however, was in doubt.

The media was still ignoring me at this point. I arrived at the dinner to find a large and welcoming community and when one of the Muslim leaders asked that I address the crowd, I was completely caught off guard.

No speech in hand, I took to the podium and told the crowd that I was their Democratic nominee for the State House of Representatives. Coming into the event, there was an air of bitterness in the campaign rhetoric. The Republican primary for U.S. Congress had been recently decided and, in the closing weeks,  one of the candidates decided to slam Islam at a debate in a cheap attempt to curry favor with religious conservatives.

It didn’t help that this same man shared the first two letters of my last name. He was a “Mic” as the slang goes.

I knew I had to quell tensions in the community, tensions that had also been stoked by one of the local right-wing talk radio clowns.

So, without much preparation, I spoke from the heart that night.

“We are a nation of immigrants,” I said. “And we have to stop hurting each other.”

It was a short and sweet message and I thanked the audience for inviting me to the dinner. The applause I received that night was humbling. As I look back now, it was amazing.

A group of people who have every reason to doubt your intentions and judge your lifestyle showed me compassion and kindness that evening.

After the dinner, a woman approached me, her head covered in traditional Islam clothing. “You said what was on everyone’s mind,” she told me. “Thank you for speaking, Mr. McDonald.”

It was definitely one of the high points of the campaign. One to remember. Our goal all along was to make a difference — and on that night, we did just that.


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Categories : Islam, Panama City, Politics

Gaga Night

23 05 2011

I’m sleeping a lot now. The summer is about to begin and with it comes extreme heat, humidity and hoardes of tourists from the Deep South.

I’ve been through this routine so many times now, I might as well be sleep walking.

Meanwhile, the job hunt continues. Feelers are out in Maryland, South Florida and, of course, locally. I still maintain a glimmer of hope.

On Saturday, I went dancing with David at the gay club on the beach. It’s a modest venue, squeezed inside a glorified tiki bar. On this night, the theme was a tribute to Lady Gaga, the newly crowned gay icon. I dressed my best: blue jeans, tee shirt and running shoes.

Lady Gaga’s appeal is easy to see. She’s creative and inspiring and challenges the younger generations to get ‘on the right track’ by being who you are because you were ‘born this way.’

I had some interesting conversations at the club and my faith in the hipsters was renewed to a certain extent.

“There’s more of us out there than you think, John,” said one young lad, as we talked about the politics of community. “We’re just waiting for the playing field to be even.”

Alas, the waiting game for equal rights continues. Wake me up when full equality arrives.


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Categories : Equality

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