Crunching My Facebook Numbers

April 21, 2015
Day 356

It took me a long time to prepare today's blog, because I had to do a lot of counting.

First I counted how many family members I was connected to on Facebook (35), and thought how surprisingly low that number was.  Then I counted the number of people I've met through work, past and present (38), and that number made sense.  Next I counted how many people I was friends with through Billy Elliot (86), which I'd always suspected was a high number, and it really is, especially considering I've got "only" 335 Facebook friends.

After all that, I counted how many people I've known since high school or before, and was only slightly surprised to see the number was so low (12).  The number of people I've known since college or just afterward, basically from the age of 18 to 24, was even lower (7), but that makes more sense, because that was the time I was in the religious life, and many of my friends just after that time either disowned me or we just mutually lost touch.

The number of people I'm connected to on Facebook who I met through Andy is pretty low (9), but the number of people I'm connected to because of the Long Island GLBT community is high (30).

Finally, after crunching all of those numbers, I did two more searches through my friends list... 

Of my 335 Facebook friends, there are only 25 I've not yet met in person.  (That says a lot about how closed I've traditionally kept my Facebook, even though so many of my posts are public now.) 

And of my 335 Facebook friends, 59 of them I met online before I met them in person.  Some were guys I met for dates who later became friends, some were Billy Elliot fan friends I knew online before meeting in person, some were Long Island GLBT community people, and one was Andy.

Whew!  These numbers aren't exact in every case, I'd bet, because I moved fairly quickly through my list each time I made a new count, but they're pretty close.  It's a good list for me to have, and I suspect a very helpful list to look back on years from now too.

Unleashed

April 10, 2015
Day 345

I'll keep this one short because it's Friday, but also because I know my preaching posts don't always go over too well.  I no longer subscribe to any religion or church.  Though I still consider myself a Christian, and a Buddhist in some ways too, I'm more a fan of Jesus than a so-called Christian, and more a fan of Buddha than a so-called Buddhist. 

If Jesus had a "Lex Luthor" in his life, it was the Pharisees, the religious leaders of his day.  His greatest polar opposite was not Judas, Pilate, or even Lucifer.  No, his greatest battles were always fought with those representing the church of his day, the Pharisees.  They railed against Jesus, and even had him arrested because they hated how incendiary he was.

Why do I bring all this up...again?  Why do I insist on being downright incendiary at times?  Because I've been around for almost 40 years now, and I've seen a hell of a lot.  I've seen religion and religious people from every which angle.  I've been on the inside too, living as a monk and visiting with important Catholic Church leaders in their private residences in Rome.  And yes, I've met some very good people who are serving God happily and well from within the walls of religion. 

But I've also discovered how much more the soul comes alive when given the chance to run through the world without its leash on.  I've discovered how much more there is to see and learn in this beautiful world when you aren't just traveling around in the same tired old church van.  And I've discovered most of all that this is how it's supposed to be.  So go to the planetarium and watch the shows, learn what you can, and enjoy, but don't ever forget that there's a sky full of stars out there too, and sometimes you need to just lay down in the grass and look up to find answers on your own.

Editing My Life

April 8, 2015
Day 343

So I'm in the process now of proofreading and editing my third book ahead of a hoped-for June publication date.  I'm on page 95 of 313 pages, so I still have a ways to go, but it's a fun process for me, especially since this is the first time I'm even reading the book!  When you write a book, you're moving forward constantly, so you can't read it as a whole until you're done.

Strangely, that's not quite true for life.  We do review our lives all the time--we even edit some of the details too, at least publicly.  We say things are fine when they aren't, we cover up lies or embarrassments, we leave out details, and even lie to ourselves from time to time.

You can't really edit your life.  You can't go back and change your story so you never met that person who hurt you so much, or make it so you meet that other person even sooner.  You can't undo your job history or fix your grades or other struggles in school.  In my case, I can't un-fail out of high school, or go back and decide against giving four years of my life to the church as a monk.  Neither can I stop myself from gaining weight as much as I did, or throw a hand across my mouth to prevent me from saying that hurtful thing to a loved one.  Try as I might, none of it can be undone.

We can't just edit our lives after the fact.  It's just impossible.  What we can do, what we should do, is edit as we go: stop ourselves from getting angry as we're getting angry, calm ourselves as we're getting upset, and think a bit more when our hearts or mouths start running away from sanity.

Self-editing the book of our lives in a hundred little ways is always possible if we keep the possibility, like our mind, open all the time.  There won't always be an eraser or delete key handy to take back an angry word, gesture, or truth, but we can always add more words to our life story: sincere apologies, expressions of regret, and all new storylines filled only with love.

Chasing Chastity: I Failed

February 25, 2015
Day 301

There are some things I just won't talk about publicly, but twist my arm in private, and maybe give me a cocktail or six, and just wait 'til you hear what stories I could tell.  In my brief 4 years as a monk, I don't think any of the vows were completely safe, but for the most part, things were exactly as you'd expect them to be.

I could tell you stories of how poverty was easier than you'd think it was, or how obedience was worse than you'd ever guess at (you didn't think you had a right to open your own mail, did you?), but I suspect gossip about chastity is what you'd really want to hear.

So let me be very clear: I never broke my vow of chastity, but I did absolutely come close on multiple occasions.  I was a kid, 18 to 22 while I was there, and I was gay, living in a house with only men.  That's like throwing a straight college kid into a sorority and expecting him to be an angel.  It's impossible.  It was impossible for me at least.  You better believe I tried very hard at first, and weeks went by before I...well, before I spent a particular kind of private time with myself.  When I finally did, it felt both great and awful at the same time, and I understood what Adam must have felt when he bit into the forbidden fruit. 

I don't know why, but I genuinely thought my attractions to guys would go away once I joined the monastery (which was not the reason I joined).  I joined because I felt God called me to be there, and I still believe this to be true.  Getting past my homosexuality was just a happy side effect, another impossibility, I quickly learned.  Still, my affections for and attractions to other guys were thankfully rare, and my extremely busy school and monastic schedule were enough to keep me distracted. 

By my senior year of college though, my fourth and final year as Brother Sean, my headspace was more and more confused.  A good man I knew from college helped me very much, never pushing me in any way to leave the order, yet assuring me I was a good person despite my same-sex attractions.  He helped me see that truth is not licensed out to only one person or church.  For his grievous sin of being a genuinely good and loving human being to me, the brothers of my community tried to have his tenure revoked.  Even worse, he was led to believe I had turned him in.  My guess is, more of my personal mail was opened, and other invasions of my monastic space (all under the umbrella of obedience) led to this.

Between the small gay books' section at the Hofstra University Library and the Village Voice copies I'd occasionally pick up at the local 7-Eleven, I only had slight hints at a possible gay community that might welcome me one day.  And this was 1997!  The world was about to change in a very big way, yet for all I knew, my homosexuality might remain a secret even if I left the order.  I had no hopes or dreams of a better tomorrow in or outside of religious life, and soon fell into the worst days of my clinical depression, which lasted until the fall of 1997, well after I was shown the other side of the monastery door.

"Confessions" of an Altar Boy

February 21, 2015
Day 297

Okay, so maybe I don't have much to confess, at least in terms of my 8 or 9 years as an alter server.  I was always the good kid when it came to church stuff, and always very dependable too.  When asked to fill in for other altar servers, I always said yes, and if I got to church on Sunday and noticed they were down a person, I'd immediately "suit up" and fill in for whomever didn't show.  That often meant priests and parishioners alike thought I was the one assigned, and just horribly late, but whatever.  I did what I thought was right.

The job of an altar boy was a full one, not least of all because it meant serving at mass fairly frequently, often at odd hours.  The priest in charge tried not to put us all on the 6:30 AM weekday masses often, but they were certainly part of the regular rotation, as were funeral masses and weddings, both of which meant extra duties and more stress.  If it were a funeral mass, I'd make certain I stayed calm and looked spiritual for the mourners.  If it were a wedding, I smiled more and made sure I looked good for the cameras.

In both cases, I was guaranteed a tip, either from the funeral director or the best man, depending.  A funeral mass would earn me maybe $6, and a wedding anywhere from $10 to $20, all of which were very appreciated as a kid!

Sure I had my setbacks too, the occasional trip as I walked up the stairs--those cassocks were long--and once I even got sick during mass, though thankfully not until I was "backstage" in the sacristy.  Some priests were more serious with us than others, and you tried very hard to not make a mistake, lest they scold you.  If you were late reaching the altar with the wine and water cruets, or with the water and cloth after Communion when the priest cleaned his hands, the priest might scowl or even meet you halfway with impatience.  It was always a very serious business.

St. Agnes Cathedral, Rockville Centre, NY

St. Agnes Cathedral, Rockville Centre, NY

This was all at St. Agnes Cathedral, too, the center of the diocese on Long Island, so there were tons of people watching from the pews, and everything felt very important. 

I was a good kid, like I said, and at home, I even said mass from time to time!  I was maybe 11 or 12 years old, but some Coca-Cola in one of my mom's nice wine glasses, and a piece of Wonder Bread cut carefully in a circle worked well.  Everyone always told me I'd be a priest one day, and they were mostly right.  A monk doesn't say mass, but I did give sermons to my brothers in the monastery, and served Communion and the Blood of Christ as well. 

So confessions?  Maybe not.  I guess that's a good thing, though.  There are enough horror stories out there, and even just tales of rambunctious kids doing crazy things at church.  The worst I ever did was light a few matches or go through some of the drawers in the sacristy.  A rebel I was not.  Still, I look back on those years with great fondness and appreciation.  I learned about the church from "the inside" very early on, and it gave me much... what's the word? ...perspective for the road!

I wish I could go back to college

January 19, 2015
Day 264

I wish I could go back to college
In college you know who you are
You sit in the quad
And think oh my God
I am totally gonna go far

(I Wish I Could Go Back To College,
song lyrics from Avenue Q)

Yesterday afternoon, quite unexpectedly, I found myself staring at my college campus for the first time in over 17 years.

The circuitous way this happened is kind of crazy really, but interesting nonetheless.  Andy's Uncle Fai died in October, and their family friend Kathy spoke at the wake and funeral for him.  She gave a beautiful eulogy in the funeral parlor, and was just a very good, kind soul throughout the weekend.  This past week, Kathy's 97-year-old mom died, and though I personally might not have attended this wake otherwise, I really wanted to because of how great Kathy was to Andy's family a few months ago.  And the funeral parlor her mom was waked at?  It was on Broadway in Riverdale, just four blocks south of the Manhattan College campus.  I never would have guessed it would take 17 years and 8 months until I visited my college again, nor that it would have taken the death of my partner's uncle's wife's friend's mother to do it!

I loved college so much, and I really enjoyed my classes as much as the time in between my classes, reading in the library, or sitting out in the quad, just enjoying a warm spring day as people played Frisbee across the grass.  But college was also about the dream of what would follow. 

For me, that dream, that reality, was a very happy life as a monk and teacher.  When I left the campus that May (I wasn't allowed to attend graduation), I had every hope and expectation of a year of Master's courses followed by a wonderful lifelong career as a Catholic High School teacher.

I knew who I was, and I knew I would go far.  And then, on July 19th that summer, my life completely ended, and a new one began.  I was back to square one, having no idea what my life would now be.  I had very few belongings and zero money to my name.  By November, I began a career as a proofreader, but my new dream--my original, deeply felt dream of being a successful writer--was still just a far-off hope. 

At almost 40, I'm still not there.  Yes, I've had some successes along the way, and some of those successes include accomplishments I'm very proud of, but I know my potential, that my future still promises great leaps.  I am totally gonna go far, even if I haven't yet, and the part of me that stared back into my past yesterday at my alma mater just reminded me of this. 

Life changes.  Circumstances change as well.  But dreams only grow, and I'm going to keep working hard until all my dreams are realized.

My Monastery

The school's beautiful front entrance.

December 10, 2014
Day 224

I never felt like a co-owner of the building, but I did firmly believe I'd always be there, always be a monk until the day I died.  I gave up my life to the service of God as a religious brother, and my home during those four years was at Chaminade High School in Mineola, New York.

The Olympic-size swimming pool just steps from my bedroom door.

I never felt like I owned the school, a school I actually failed out of in 1990, but the monastery did always feel like my own.  When I walked the halls of the brothers' house, I felt like I was walking through a special place I'd always dwell in, and always be.

I had many difficult days there as Brother Sean.  It was a time in my life right after high school when I fully came to terms with the fact that I was a gay man, and I subsequently went through a very difficult bout with clinical depression, too.  The support I received from my superiors could be characterized as warm at best, far from loving.  I'd be offered a tissue, but never a hug, for instance.  And the way they showed me the door, followed by the cold shoulder these past 17 years, has hardly made me feel close to them since.

And yet I'd be lying if I said I didn't still want to be close to them, and to the community.  They were my brothers for just over four years, and like any family, we had our challenges together.  I still care very much for and about them, and I am forever grateful to them all for the help and guidance they gave me while I was there.

The monastery they still call their home was once my home too, and it's a place I will always think of with great fondness and happy memories.  No matter what struggles and issues befell me there, it was still my monastery, my home, and in some way, whether or not I ever step foot on those grounds again, I know it always will be.

Monastic Laundry

Not an actual photo from the monastery :)

 

 

November 24, 2014
Day 208

I was a young monk for just over four years, and for all four of those years, I was on laundry duty almost every week.  Always on a Saturday, and always with three or four other monks, laundry day meant doing the entire monastery's wash for the entire week. 

With 34 monks going through seven pairs of underwear and seven undershirts each, plus all their white dress shirts, socks, weekend and evening clothes, and assorted other items like tablecloths, sheets, towels, and napkins, it was an enormous amount of work!  All of the white shirts had to be ironed too, which was a job unto itself!

(Oh, how I wished we could all just wear traditional brown robes instead!)

Even with four or five monks working all day long from 9 to 5 with two brief coffee breaks plus lunch, we never finished everything.  Invariably, Brother Larry ended up doing more during the week. 

Each brother had his own cubby hole for laundry.  Dress shirts and pants were hung up separately.  You'd squeeze as much folded laundry as you could into the generously sized box for each monk, and then leave leftovers on the table in front of the box.  (I'd often pass a bit of silent judgment on the monks who went through more clothes than the rest.)

I don't think about those days much when I'm complaining about the one or two loads I do for Andy and me each week, but I probably should.  Perspective is, once again, one of my greatest teachers. 

The monastic laundry room was sometimes monastic, sometimes downright silly, and sometimes even contentious.  Most of all though?  It was a cooperative effort that always, always, always left us with a sense of pride and accomplishment.  We worked hard and worked quickly for the whole day, and when we were finally done, we knew we'd done something major, together.