18. Black Lives Matter To Me

On Tuesday, April 6, 2021, I turned on social media to see an alarming post:  My friend Venton Hill-Jones, CEO of the Southern Black Policy and Advocacy Network, an openly Black gay man living with HIV in Dallas, had his life publicly threatened after he removed an illegal campaign sign.  Johnny Aguinaga, a man who is currently running for a City Council seat in Venton’s own District 4 stated, “You need to [sic] out it back or I’ll have my cousin go deal with you. He carries heat too. He likes trouble like you.”  Aguinaga repeatedly harassed and threatened him throughout the afternoon and evening, making sure Venton was aware that he knew where he lived, that he had until “8am” the next day to replace the illegal sign, and “I’m serious about the 8am deadline.” Later Aguinaga defended his actions in the press stating Venton is a legal gun owner, and therefore a “threat” with whom he must address “in slang terms.” 

I watched these events unfold and wondered:  As a white man, if I removed a campaign sign in Dallas, would the same candidate vow to send his cousin to kill me?  If I was a legal gun carrier would he perceive my simple removal of an illegal campaign sign as a “threat?”  Would he impulsively threaten me “in slang terms” as he did with Venton?  Would any candidate in Dallas be able to continue running for public office after threatening to murder a white constituent in their own district?  For the record, I tried to ask Mr. Aguinaga these questions on Facebook.  He promptly blocked me, but he did not threaten to send his cousin nor his heat to Brooklyn.  

At the time I’m writing this there have been no legal or political consequences against Mr. Aguinaga for his homicidal threats.  There has been surprising very little coverage in the media, nor public support for Venton from the agencies or organizations he has faithfully served over the past decade.  To me this is a glaring symptom of a much larger systemic problem:  Black lives are seen as expendable, Black people are seen as “threats,” Black safety is not a priority in disagreement or conflict.  As a white man living in the United States, I didn’t fully understand or grasp the extent of this until fairly recently. 

19. "What About MY Voice?"

By summer of 1997 I was having one of my not-so-okay moments.  The only Work I had ever wanted to do my entire life was to serve as psychotherapist. I had set up a “therapy booth” in my parents’ living room, I had often been the one friends would come to with their struggles in High School,  I was that guy in gay bars that men seemed to want to cry to as they talked about their friends and lovers who died from AIDS, this just seemed to be my natural calling.  My mother was always supportive of my passion, and consistently encouraged me to follow my dream.  So I took the academic route to getting my psychotherapy license in California:  I majored in Psychology in college, pursued a Masters Degree in graduate school, began working in an internship to get my approved supervised hours. And therein lied the snag.  

Let’s start by unpacking what is inherently flawed about the system.  In order to qualify as a Licensed Marriage Family Therapist in the state of California, one must complete a Masters program and 3000 supervised clinical hours.  Typically a significant portion of these hours are unpaid, setting up a structure that statistically prioritizes white privilege over people of color and/or those financially struggling.  These unpaid hours are signed off by a supervisor who has the ability to exert power over you and potentially against you.  This person gets to decide how of if you will continue on your professional path.  If there are any cultural, theoretical, or philosophical differences, then the supervisor has the power to not sign off on your hours and recommend to your academic setting that you are not qualified to advance.  This leaves the unpaid student/intern extremely vulnerable to mental exploitation, emotional abuse, and an all around diminishment of their value.  In short, it is a hazing ritual that seems set up to break you down more than to actually educate, nurture, and shape professional development.

I was 25-years-old when I entered this pernicious system in Berkeley, California.  I couldn’t have been more excited to finally get professional mentoring to do the work I had been practicing and preparing for my entire life.  I was eager to work with a supervisor who could help me learn efficient and effective ways of using therapy to boost my community’s mental health and joy, resist social injustice, heal from the AIDS crisis, and improve sexual pleasure and relationships.    

The supervisor I was assigned to could not have been more of a mismatch.  She was older, conservative, reserved, seemed to lack any joy in her work, and typically prioritized a narrative of therapy as 100% neutral, “blank slate”, in which the therapist says and does very little.  I understood the historical context of that narrative — I learned about the theories of psychoanalysis that privileged European patriarchal values from the early 20th century.  But I did not find those narratives were a constructive fit in the late 1990s working with a diverse community in the Bay Area who were living in the here-and-now traumas related to AIDS deaths, racially based police violence, transphobia, and the beginnings of Silicon Valley's domination over housing markets and homelessness.  My clients weren’t asking for greater “insight” into their past problems, they were seeking very active collaboration and assistance with current traumas and threats. 

These differences between myself and the supervisor in and of themselves were not a problem.  But her handling of these differences became a source of tension and contention.  She questioned my verbal participation in the therapy room.  She discouraged active engagement and collaboration.   She sought to identify my role (essentially blame me) when clients didn’t return for therapy sessions.  The inherent structural inequity in the room prioritized the narrative that she was right, I was wrong.  She knew how to help clients, I didn’t.  She had the experience, I had none.  Ultimately she had the right to tell my school I shouldn’t be a therapist at all and made sure I knew that.  And after a year of this I started to believe her.  I had no other professional experience to compare this to.  I thought she’s licensed and I’m not, she must know what she’s talking about.  I was beat down, discouraged, and doubted every natural instinct I had ever had that I could help other human beings.  I almost dropped out completely.

20. No One Can Make You Feel "Special"

"If we think we are something special or not special enough, then fear, nervousness, stress, and anxiety arise. We are the same."  --  The Dalai Lama 

In previous posts I’ve discussed ways I've learned about how to give and receive authentic love.  In Lesson 43, I shared my guide for beginning to love one’s self first.  In Lesson 33, I discussed the problematic nature of disavowing your own emotional responsibility in favor of blaming others for how you feel.  And in Lesson 27, I outlined the suffering inherent when one uses a romantic partner for identity and validation.  I've applied these lessons to gay men frequently in my Work over the past 25 years,  but I believe they can be applied to anyone who is sabotaging relationships this way. 

“But isn’t it important to find one person in this world who thinks you are special?”  

Let’s start by going further with the concept of “special.”  By definition, if one is “special” then they are separate from others, different from non-special humans, set apart and greater-than in a unique way.  At the same time, we have an epidemic of loneliness in the United States which presents much higher in gay men.  So there is a culture saying that you “should” feel unique and different from others; that that experience must come directly from a spouse or partner; and you'll never find that person unless you stay young and thin.  And then if you do find him, you’ll still have to worry about keeping him and make great efforts to ensure you don't lose him.    

If the ability to feel special derives primarily from another person, then it logically follows that one would be on the lookout and scanning for applicants to fill the job.  Meeting people and dating then becomes an activity with a clear goal: Find the one to make you feel special.  Conversations become job interviews, affections become strategies followed by the desperate anticipation, “will he call me, will he text me, what if he doesn’t want to see me again?” Beneath that worry lies the Big Fear, “What if no one makes me feel special?”

Now let’s say there is a connection, and that new guy really does want to make you feel special.  I’ve seen that go one of two ways:  (1) He completely fails at the task at hand, which results in disappointment, despair, and resentment.  (2) He succeeds at the task, but the chemical high of  “special” only lasts so long, and soon he must prove to you that you are special again.  Like any addictive drug, you build tolerance quickly, and you must keep upping the ante to get same effect.  So a dozen flowers becomes two dozen flowers, a weekend getaway becomes a luxury vacation.  There must always be a new way for him to prove you are special, which ultimately leads back to disappointment, despair, resentment, and sometimes violence. 

And then we wonder why depression and drug abuse is so common in the gay community.  

There is a much easier way of getting older, connecting with others, and prioritizing self-care. 

21. Love Is Infinite, Only Humans Set Limits

Whenever I fly across the United States I look down at the land below in wonder.  All the mountains, lakes, and open fields that encompass the majority of this country are simply beautiful.  It reminds me that the land itself is without definition or boundaries --  it is human beings who have given it definitions, borders, quantification.  It is people who say, “this piece of land is New York, this segment of land is Pennsylvania,” and so on.  The land itself just exists, it’s just there.

I see love in very much the same way.  Love is abundant, it is ubiquitous, it is all around us if we allow it to be.  It provides great comfort, great connection, great warmth in its truest state.  Unfortunately, most people don’t understand how to give and receive love this way.  We live in a culture that teaches love has “shoulds” - that it should look a certain way, it should be defined by certain categories (like boyfriend, husband…) and it should meet your needs by “making” you feel valued, attractive, important.  Just like we separate land by randomly calling them “states,”  humans tend to randomly dichotimize loving connections into all-or-nothing relationships, which often ends up in "nothing", which subsequently fuels the epidemic of loneliness in this country. 

In my own life,  I’ve had no better guide for learning the true value of love and friendship than from Matt Cameron.

Matt and I met on May 12, 2004, while we were both still

2004

living in Palm Springs, CA.  As I mentioned
in Lesson 27 I had spent most of my twenties chasing after men who were charismatic, yet deeply unbalanced and unhealthy.  By the time I met Matt I was 33-years-old, well on a journey of understanding self-love and God in a satisfying way.  Matt was 26-years-old, and also on his journey of learning how to be healthy, connected, and use his job as an Occupational Therapist to connect with his greater purpose.  I told him from the outset, “I am not looking for a boyfriend, husband, relationship, significant other… And I’m moving to New York next year.”  Matt accepted all of that.  The fact that he made space for me to be who I am, without judgement or “should”, made me want to know him better, trust him, change my mind about the boundaries I had initially placed, and ultimately move in with him in New York City.  

Matt and I became “boyfriends” and later legalized that into becoming Domestic Partners in New York in 2007 (this was before marriage was legal).  We were friends together, shared meals together, shared struggles together.  We had a great arrangement…until we didn’t.  

By 2010, Matt and I essentially had grown apart.  I know that’s a cliche term that people use but in my personal and professional life I have seen this is a common and valid event.  Think of it this way — when you have two different people, in their twenties and thirties, actively living life, exploring, evolving, learning lessons, having new experiences, they don’t always grow and expand in a way that compliment each other.  Many they stay together anyway out of sense of obligation, guilt, fear or "should".  After years of forced couplehood they tend to resent the hell out of each other, and extinguish all the good will and friendship that was there in the beginning.  I never wanted that to happen with Matt, and neither did he.  

By the time I turned 40, it was clear we were growing on very incompatible tracks.  But I still really loved him, I still really liked him, I still really admired him.  All the foundations of our friendship from seven years earlier were still there.  We got along well, we had a good time together, and I really liked his cooking.  It seemed foolish to throw away all the good parts just because were no longer together as a Couple.  

22. I'm Still Here, Dammit (Thank You, AARP)

Well, it happened! 

I came home the other night to find my invitation in the mail:  I am now eligible to join the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP).  This was the group I grew up perceiving as belonging to Barbara Bel Geddes, Dick Van Dyke, John Forsythe, or Frances Reid, not little Damon L. Jacobs.  Because I was the youngest one in my family, the youngest one in graduate school, and for awhile the youngest one in internships and work settings, it just seems outrageous to qualify for a group associated with gray hair and retirement. But here we are on the brink of turning 50, and my time has come.

I am well aware there is nothing particularly unique about this event.  Somehow AARP seems to know the aging timeline for everyone, and I've heard plenty of conversations and news feeds about the exact same letter arriving among many peers also turning fifty.  But for me, this moment has additional relevance, given there was a time it looked I wasn't going to get here.  

On January 18, 1993, during my senior year of college, I was afflicted with a devastating and unusual strain of spinal meningitis. If it wasn't for the life-saving actions taken by Sean Bumgarner and Michael Santos, I wouldn't be alive today.  The doctors told my parents I likely was not going to live.  Ultimately I was able to persevere and fight the illness thanks to an antibiotic called Rocephin, an incredible medical team at Dominican Hospital, and my stubborn Taurus will to survive.

The recovery afterward was lengthy and daunting. I literally had to practice walking again, taking one step in front of the other. My school gently suggested I take the quarter off to heal. After living through Lesson 41, I not-so-gently suggested they piss off.  However, I did drop to part-time student status, and took some necessary time to get my body and mind back into working order.

23. Stay Open, Remain Curious

Some of the worst stereotypes about aging is that it will automatically lead to condemning judgements, a tendency to say "no" to life's opportunities and adventures, and an overall lack of curiosity or interest in learning new things.  Although I can see some of my peers shutting down to new ideas, and passing morally superior generalizations against "millennials" and "Gen Zers" I'd say these are people who have generally been more risk adverse, rigid minded, limited in their thinking skills, and uninterested in taking time to understand the validity of different racial and generational experiences.  Getting older only solidifies the traits that were already there. 

There has persistently been a perception of a cultural divide between age spans in popular forms of entertainment. From the tropes I saw play out in the musical "Bye Bye Birdie" to "Rebel Without A Cause," from "The Graduate," to Will Smith's, "Parents Just Don't Understand," to every John Hughes movie ever made, there has always been a generational line in the sand that has dictated, "misunderstood youth here...lame old people there."

In real life, I have found humans to be much more complex. The older people in my family were mostly open minded, curious, and interested in learning about the different music and fashion trends I was following as a teenager. They may not have enjoyed the latest Prince or Pat Benatar singles, but they took the time to understand why I enjoyed them. I learned from role models like my Aunt Florrie that later years can be a time when one learns new skills, embraces life challenges, and opens up to learning more about people and human experiences. 

24. Your Work Vs. Your Job

In her autobiography My Life and Other Unfinished Business, Dolly Parton recounts her childhood memories of forcing pigs and chickens on her family farm to listen to her sing.  They weren’t the most captive audience, she recalls, but she had a song in her heart, a voice in her soul, and she had to find a way to express them somehow.

When I was five-years-old I set up a therapy stand in my parents’ living room.  Like Lucy of the Peanuts comics, I offered advice to any friends or family who came through the door, whether they wanted it or not.  The presenting problems didn’t carry much gravitas and pretty much encompassed the range of, “My husband won’t pick up his socks from the floor.” But I nonetheless had a natural urge to listen to people’s problems and had to find a way to try to help them feel better.  

One of the (many) things Dolly and I have in common is that we had an instinct to express something even before we had a practice or an audience to support it.  These were things we felt born to do, if not instilled by a Higher Power, and sought to sustain it as much as possible throughout our lives.

I have come to understand this natural calling as our “Work” (with a capital "W").  It is that thing that makes you feel alive, the reason you get out of bed, the thing you’d love to do even if no one paid you, the thing you need to do even if no one is watching.  It is the activity we nurture because it feels good and is often our source of comfort when we are struggling with pain or obstacles.   

This may or may not have anything to do with your “job” (lowercase "j"), ie, the thing you do for money.  Jobs are there to serve as a means to an end, a transaction of labor for financial gain, hopefully something that you can stand doing and brings your some sense of meaning.  When we’re truly fortunate in this world we are able to have a clear intersection between our Work and our job.  We are ideally able to contribute our instilled talents and energy to the activities we do for money.  When there’s not a clear overlapping between the two, it can often lead to emotional strain.