Labels
By George Murphy
UUFH Pride Service – June 14, 2009 

LABELS: Apply with caution / express your reservations periodically.
Dad always said, “If you don’t have something good to say about someone, don’t say anything.” That’s often been useful advice, but it can be taken too far. Things can get very quiet…
I would add, “work at finding something good to say that still acknowledges what isn’t being said.” But I admit to being often at a loss--- Cat Stevens’ opening line to the Foreigner Suite speaks to this: (sung) “There are no words I can use because the meaning still leaves for you to choose, and I couldn’t stand to let them be abused by you.”
Take the “gay” label---- please!
I find it convenient when applied to things, as in “what are the gayest record albums of all time?”
But “gay” as a word applied to people has never appealed to me--- it does not ring true for one thing, because I’ve never bought the gay / straight dichotomy. I think of that as an artifice created for certain political reasons that have as much negative impetus as positive.
But because “gay” has such wide usage in this culture, I find myself constantly acknowledging it, with my usually silent reservations, because I need “gay” things in my life to balance the tedium of heterosexist society. And of course there are folks who describe themselves as “gay” --- no reservations needed--- who are essential to my sense of having my own tribe.
What labels do I apply to myself? The only political label I’m comfortable with seems to be “Treehugger”.
I’m a slightly Druidic lay-Franciscan. (Did I say that?) … a godfather, … a naturalist, but not a naturist…
In writing this I was at first tempted to say that I’m not a joiner, but that is not true. Yes, a boy who actually brings a book to read out in right field can’t really be said to be a part of the baseball team. But I have been in choirs and choruses since elementary school and have formed at least four musical groups since joining this fellowship in 1994---another instance of joining.
I’m the second half of Natalie and George.
I’m a Queazle ---google that!
And I’m exactly half of George and Harvey or Harvey and George, …….depending on who’s talking.
I’d like to leave you with these words from Quentin Crisp, in his book “Manners from Heaven--- A Divine Guide to Good Behavior”:  There are always penalties up to any age for presenting the world with a highly individualized image, but if it is the genuine you and not some affectation (a distinction which, I realize, may take years to sort out) then you must be what you are, honestly and bravely, with all the taste and intelligence you can muster. Life will be more difficult if you try to fulfill yourself, but avoiding this difficulty renders life meaningless. To arrive at the end of your life thinking, I never did anything I really wanted to do... must be one of the most profound miseries the human soul is capable of feeling -- and one for which there is no last minute cure or consolation.

Scary Moments near the Beach
By Lynn Cryer
UUFH Pride Service – June 14, 2009

Walking down Brown’s Road by the beach, I see something dark on the side of the road. It’s a Horseshoe Crab, stuck on her back. I bend down and see her legs and center body writhing. I’m a stranger to the inner self of this creature; I find her being in the road scary—for her. I’m moved to do something and that too is scary for me. I’ve never even touched an alive Horseshoe.

Before I know it , her outer cover is in my hands and I’m heading toward the shoreline’s sand and water.

What moved me to even think of this plan, to pick her up, to walk her back to her safe place? I could not leave her on the asphalt—let alone on her back on the asphalt. As I walked her, I imagined a little moaning sound from her body—a thank you? A don’t bother? An I’m an explorer out there beyond the usual beach place for horseshoes?

Dare we ever consider what it’s like for our sisters and brothers to be on their backs in a strange and scary terrain? Yes, we have come a long way. We are more welcomed and at ease than in the past, but at times, we still find ourselves on asphalt, out of sync, unknown, writhing in confusion and pain. What would it be like to have a brother or sister reach over and offer a return to the familiar? What would it mean to have someone take the time to give a damn, to notice that we too are quite human…no matter what our label…that our difference and uniqueness are reason enough to return ourselves or be returned to where we can breathe and swim with more ease.


Know Thyself – The Labels Of Life
By Rich Buley-Neumar
UUFH Pride Service – June 14, 2009

Know thyself. These words were inscribed at the Temple of Apollo at Delphi by ancient followers of Socrates. But what is NOT inscribed is just how you accomplish that. How do you know yourself?

Labels. How many of you cringe… even just a little… at the idea of being labeled? Well, get over yourselves, because you can’t avoid it. It’s who we are. Each of us is a collection of labels. Go ahead and say, “I refuse to be defined by labels.” Guess what, you are now defined as a “person who refuses to be defined by labels.”

You may embrace labels, or you may shun them. You may accept labels that others impose on you, or you may rebel against them, defy them; or you may take them on and then go the extra mile to make them REALLY apply to you. Sometimes labels define us, and sometimes we define them. But no matter what, labels are always there. They are phases of our lives, rites of passage. And it is through these labels that we attempt to make ourselves matter, to find our place in the world. To know ourselves.

When I was a little boy, labels were soft, warm sweaters. I was a son. I was a big brother. I was the teacher’s pet in kindergarten. I was the first grandchild. I was… sensitive – OK, first hint at something yet to come, but back then, my mother would hug me and say that I was a “boy with a big heart.” I slipped my head and arms into those labels and wore them proudly, so that people could see who I was. And for that glorious time, that IS who I was.

Not too many years later, labels were remote, deserted islands. I was a bookworm, a nerd. I was the kid with bad knees who never played with anyone. I no longer had a big heart, now I was a crybaby. To my daredevil sister and fearless brother, I was a scaredy-cat, because I wouldn’t jump off the top of the bleachers. I never invited anyone to my house, so I didn’t have close friends. For all they knew, it was because I was a weirdo, so that’s the label they gave me. They didn’t know that they couldn’t come over because my father was an alcoholic. Child of a drunk - that was a private label I gave myself. I also began to wonder why I started to look at boys differently, but back then, that was as far as my understanding went – I was “different.” So each of these labels gave me reason to isolate myself, to be alone, sometimes to wallow, sometimes to wonder. I didn’t embrace the labels, but each one was there regardless, under and around me, an island, a place to be, a person to be.

In my late teens and early twenties, labels were ghettos, awful, miserable places surrounded by barbed wire fences. And why were they so awful? Because I had reached the time where I had to start making decisions about my life. I was forced to make choices, and it was freakin’ scary! On the one hand, I now knew what my feelings meant. I mean, on prom night, I was making out with my girlfriend, and she put my hand on her chest, and I thought, “So that’s what it feels like. IWWWWW!” This thought was immediately followed by panic. Everything that I had ever heard told me that being gay meant being sexually promiscuous, but ultimately, being alone. Never having a family. Talking with a lisp and having limp wrists, and saying everything was “Fabulous.” And then finally dying of AIDS. I knew that as soon as I entered that ghetto, the barbed wire would keep me there forever. I could never get out. But what was the alternative? Trying to force myself to love and marry a woman based on lies, father children to whom I would spend my life lying, deny my feelings and lie to myself. Live in a ghetto filled with lies, surrounded by a happy white picket fence topped with that same barbed wire. For years I lived immobilized by the fear of choosing a label. Looking back, I can see that I was already wearing a big label – “Hi, my name is Denial.” And that was the truth. I was my label, and I was afraid to be anything else.

When I came out, labels were a seeing-eye guide dog, sometimes gently tugging me in a direction, sometimes barking at me to choose a path and get moving. First, I had to finally come out to myself. It was like pasting a label right over my eyes, and there I stood, blind, waiting for a hint of where to go. The first tug on the lead came when an opportunity arose to tell my brother who I was, to show him what label I was now going to wear. And when I said the words aloud to another human being, for the first time in my life… my brother gave me more labels. He said I was, “still the same guy,” and “still his brother.” He also said, “It was pretty obvious, I already knew anyway.” I was so encouraged and full of hope, that I followed the tug of the lead, and went to my mother. It wasn’t until later that someone explained to me why she did not take it as well. It was because of the label she gave me the very moment I said, “Mom, I’m gay.” I became the killer of grandchildren, daughter-in-law, house, two dogs, manicured lawn and damn white picket fence, and all of the plans and dreams she had for me ever since I was that “boy with a big heart.” I was also “He who will come to his senses some day.” That label was the barking dog, telling me to pay attention and stay on the path, or I would get lost. I stayed on the path. I kept walking forward.

And then labels became a maypole, and I grabbed the end of a ribbon and joined in, trying to see how my past and my present could be woven together, to discover who I would turn out to be. I got an apartment so I could try on each label without someone telling me it made me look fat, or it was a bad color for me. I became “the guy who dated cautiously.” I became “the guy who went dancing.” I became “the guy who finally kissed another guy.” And at the same time, I became the guy who was indignant about not having rights, and the guy who feared that maybe I would always have to worry about who was listening. And with a shock, I realized that I was now a MINORITY! I continued to dance and weave, to add strands of ribbon, to change colors, to come together with others, do-si-do with them, and move apart again, to watch an incredible pattern develop of who I was meant to be.

Today, I am a husband. I am a father. I am a guy with a house, a yard, a family. I am a son, a brother, an uncle. I am an adoption advocate. I am a “big guy.” I am a gay man. I am a lucky bastard. I am a semi-activist, and a guy who strives to do what is right. I am a man who makes no apologies for who I am or what I believe.

Sometimes, for a moment, I slip off to one of those islands, to remember the hurt, but to revel in my individuality and personal strength. Sometimes I jump into those ghettos, to comfort those trapped inside, and encourage them to rise up and push those fences down. Always, I feel the tug of my guide dog, making sure I don’t get complacent, don’t take the path for granted, stay on my toes and keep moving. And I continue to weave strands into the pattern of my life, and I dance when I can.

But mostly, I am back to wearing my labels, the labels I have chosen, the ones that are put on me, the ones I embrace, like the comfortable old sweaters of old, and I like the way they feel against my skin. Sometimes I happily bundle up with so many layers of who-I-am sweaters that I think I could face any harsh winter, and I dare you to throw snowballs at me.

Because finally, I know myself.