Ben

His name is Ben. His parents have made me more angry than I can recently remember being.

His name is Ben. He's my dance partner for a performance.

His name is Ben. He's my friend.

His name is Ben. He's gay.

And his parents disowned him for it.

*******

He came to morning rehearsal, looking upset and was asked multiple times what was wrong and evaded. Blamed lack of sleep, end of term papers, etc. Can't say that anyone was buying it but it eventually got dropped.

While we were alone in the studio, I asked him again what was wrong, and he was near the verge of tears when he asked me to sit down because he had something to tell me. And so I sat. He took a deep breath and finally told me he was gay.

I say finally because I've had a feeling since I met him. He's not the effeminate very-obviously-gay type at all; he's the opposite. He looks like a jock. Acts like one of the boys. But I had a feeling, but never pushed the subject, figuring he'd tell me when or if he wanted to.

When I told him that it didn't matter, didn't change anything...that he was still Ben and I was still me and nothing was different...the tears finally did spill over, and he told me his parents didn't have quite the same reaction when he had told them the day before. Understatement of the century. I'll spare you the nasty things his father said to him because they near brought me to tears, but the closing remark was, "No son of mine is a *insert gay slur here*, so you're no son of mine." His mother drove him back to school in silence. Not a word from either of them since.

I sat there with my friend, while he cried, and I did my best to comfort him, despite the boiling rage that was hiding just beneath the surface. I told him all the things I should: that his true friends won't care, that it doesn't matter who does, that he is the same person as he was before he decided to come out. But what can you do to soothe the hurt of a parent's rejection of their own child?

*******

The rage is still here. I thought this was the 21st century. I thought this was Canada. I thought we were accepting...not just tolerant, but accepting. I thought a parent's love for their child was unconditional.

Apparently, I thought wrong.

My friend is hurting like hell right now. Not because of some random stranger yelling a slur at him, or a jerk at school. Not because of someone who's opinion doesn't matter to him at all. No, he got cut much deeper than that, by his own father, while his mother stood idly by.

And that is WRONG.

Ben deserves better. Everyone like Ben deserves better. And it makes me sad and angry that they don't have it yet.

That Type

You know the type of person that can never just let things run smoothly the way they're planned? Or go somewhere on the day you ask them to? Or be somewhere at the time you ask them to? It always has to be a different plan. Or a different day. Or a different time.

And its never for a good reason. Its just because you want to go Monday, so they insist on Tuesday, although they have nothing planned for Monday. You want to be there at noon, but they can't be there until 2 even though they've been sitting around in pajamas all morning. You want to go to Store A, but they insist on Store B, although they won't be buying anything from either store.

You know the type? I live with one of these control freaks. I call her "Mom" and she's driving me to drink. That is all.

Change? Who are you kidding?

I don't like change. No, that's an understatement. I effin hate change. Yes, that's more accurate. I like to say its because I'm a traditionalist, dammit, but the truth is its because I enjoy my comfort zone more than most people.

Its not that I am not adventurous. I've travelled more than most people twice my age. As a cracka-white girl (I'm allowed to say that when I'm referring to myself, thank you), I eat a heck of a lot of ethnic foods that I actually have to drive to get because they don't have it "round these here parts."

But I do all of my travelling, trying new things, adventuring and generally acting like the 21 year old that I am knowing that if they don't work for me, or I'm not happy, I still have my comfort zone to fall back on. If I don't like moving somewhere, I can always move home. If I don't like eating something, I can go back to foods I know.

When people threaten that comfort zone though, that's when I get testy. You can push my boundaries all you like, but touch my foundation and you're in big trouble. My dad's been casually talking about letting some of the farmland we own hit the real estate market after this season is over. He knows, as well as I do, that a neighbour is extremely interested. And I don't like it one bit.

Both of my parents have jobs and own businesses outside of the farm. Most of the administrative work for the farm is left to me (business accounting, buying seed, selling crop, etc) and so is a lot of the physical labour. Seeding, fertilizing, spraying, spreading, harvesting...I'm always out there on a machine. Its my domain and suddenly, there's talk of it being pulled out from under me. Me. No. Likey.

Wish me luck with reasoning with my father, because if I see a "For Sale" sign in front of my field, I'm gonna be one mean girl. I'm off to run down to my fields on the quad and check out my damn crops. What ever happened to "Daddy Won't Sell The Farm"?

A conversation between me and my mother

Scene: The Grown Up Teenager and She Who Spawned The Grown Up Teenager are gardening. *shudder* The mother decides that a sapling which DARES to grow near her carefully manicured path needs to die--I mean, be cut down, and enlists The Grown Up Teenager to do so. The Grown Up Teenager begins sawing at the (annoying alive, bendy and difficult tree with an apparent will to live) sapling. The Mom folk decides to try to hold it still for the manual labourer also known as her daughter, thus placing her ankle in range of the saw.

Me: Mom, no offense, but I don't want your ankle anywhere near me right now.
Mom: Excuse me?
Me: Saw blade, your ankle, blood, stitches, bad.
Mom: Fair point.
Me: And I don't feel like going to the *insert nearest city here* ER, they're slow.
Mom: Somehow, I have a feeling that if I went with you, I'd get service pretty quickly.
Me: Oh yeah, why's that? Because I have frequent flyer miles and know all the doctors and nurses? Or because I've got a temper that intimidates anyone under 7 feet tall?
Mom: Well....a little of column A...a little of column B...
Me: *smirks, says nothing, continues sawing*



For the record, no one's ankle ended up meeting a saw blade, but the conversation was nevertheless amusing.

"You're next!"

Its my uncle's favourite thing to tell me at family holidays. "You're next!" Why am I next? Because in order of age of my cousins, I'm next in line to get married and start popping out the rugrats. Good times, good times. With my cousin who's two years older than me getting married next month, I'm the last grandchild that's marrying age that is unwed. And with many friends from high school getting engaged, married and announcing pregnancies, my head can't help but think, "HUH?! ALREADY?! But...but...we're so young!" (VERY early 20s, for those of you keeping score at home)

And good for them, if they're happy. I mean that sincerely. If its right for them, good for them. But when I see someone carting a baby seat around at a party, you'll have a hard time selling it to me that they're happy. Parents who bring their baby somewhere where their friends are boozing hard don't want to be mommies at that point in time. They just want to be like the rest of us, who aren't getting up at 3 AM for a feeding.

I look at some single mothers my age, and watch them trying to balance school (if they haven't already dropped out), the baby, their family, their friends and social life, child support and visits (sometimes supervised - way to choose a winner there) with babydaddy and all I can think is "No. Thank. You." I don't ever want that life. I don't want to live off a combo of welfare, support payments and mothers allowance. Not on your life.

So maybe I'm next. I still makes me want to backhand the person who says that. But you better believe that when I have kids, I'll be having kids because I'm ready to be a mom...not because I was forced to be a mom to a baby that was already here. My test for whether I'm ready for parenthood is simple. When I see on the stick and it says positive, I want to say "YES!!!!" instead of "Oh shit, what now?"

How far back did I lose you?

Isn't it weird when someone who you would expect to know you quite well does something stupid and mundane that proves they really have no idea?

My mom came home with a painting for me. The woman who waxes my eyebrows did it...she's on some Zen trip, and painting is her way to make others happy, which is supposed to make her happy. I don't know, but whatever floats her boat, right? She asked my mom which I would like: yellow or blue. My mom picked yellow.

My favourite colour is blue.

My favourite colour has been blue since I was in elementary school. I wear blue, I decorate with blue, I like blue. Do I really need to say more on how out of touch with who I am my mother has suddenly become? It freaks me out, possibly more than it should, that she couldn't pick something I'd pick in colours. Not taste, clothes, style, anything else. Just a colour. Am I freaking out too much over something stupid?

(Disclaimer: I'm an equally opportunity colour person. I don't hate yellow, although sometimes its a little too in your face happy. But anyone who knows me knows that, if given a choice between blue and green, its blue every time)