Other Voices

Opinions, Observations, Information

Graffiti In Lost-ville

originally published July 19, 2006

Out for a ride in my automobile: those words sang through my head as I joyfully set out to get lost, with no particular place to go. Aaahhhh, yes, that sweet four-letter word l-o-s-t. Now granted, getting lost was my ultimate goal for the weekend. However, I did mean figuratively - but the gods have it out for anyone who uses the word lost in such a specific manner as trying to regain their sanity.

I’m sure you can identify; every person in the world at one time or another has wanted to get lost from life: to lose the lunacy, get away from work and the daily pressures of living. If you are lucky enough to live in a city like New York, then you know the realities of elbow space, or the lack thereof, and praying that you don’t get jabbed in the ribs yet one more time.

Getting lost, even literally, can be the best thing for your soul. The hard part is trying not to get irritated at the stupidity surrounding the vehicle beneath your bum. Even a free-spirited gal like me freaked out once I realized I was somewhere unexpected. Because, let’s face it, getting lost in the backwoods of Georgia, is scary - not that getting lost in Georgia is a bad thing. I’m a city girl used to finding a restaurant on every corner, and getting lost in the country is not something I’m used to. It is a sight to behold. However, being an artistic soul, I decided to take advantage of my dilemma and the beautiful scenery before me.

After I dutifully checked for snakes and other wildlife that might rip me to shreds, I grabbed my camera equipment and headed out. I trudged my way through thickets and happened upon something unanticipated. The realization struck hard that city and country aren’t so different. Even the laid-back country life we city folk hear so much about gets graffiti. Graffiti! Something I didn’t think I’d ever see outside of highway overpasses. But there it was plain as day, writing all over the wall: it spoke volumes. Blue and white paint proudly spattered an old wooden and metal shack, a testament to the youth of today’s lack of respect. A few of the trees left there to linger on seemed to be weeping over the tragedy released upon this old home that had bothered no one.

I carefully watched for creeping varmints that could ravish my feet and made my way back to the car. I sat in silence and pondered. Are there hoodlums this far back into the country? Why would anyone travel so far out of their way to desecrate something? Is it the power one feels over an inanimate object? Or just youth gone wild, yet again? And what exactly do all the letters and numbers mean, if anything? Does one side of the shack belong to a certain person or group and they simply place their initials on the old heap? It’s like an onslaught of initials having been placed there for my viewing pleasure - or not: SUR, BPA, ICS 4-14cx… it’s mind-boggling. All these questions still plague me every time I look at the photographs. Perhaps this graffiti, way out off the much traveled road, is another display of artwork, which is always in the eye of the beholder.

Bella Dante

Bella Dante

Other Voices

Opinions, Observations, Information

My Slip Is Showing

originally published July 19, 2006

Poll after poll shows that the majority of Americans, including our own George Dubya, oppose legalizing same-sex marriages. If I had been polled, I would have landed in the minority that supports the idea of same-sex couples getting hitched, matching wedding dresses or tuxedos and all. My opinion on this controversially charged issue doesn't stem directly from any of my political leanings or personal beliefs, but rather because it would make life less complicated for me as a straight dude.

I once had a crush on a co-worker who, unknown to me, was a lesbian. She usually came in to work wearing neatly pressed blouses and a polished smile. Her hair was always freshly curled, and she was rarely without makeup. Thus to my untrained and wandering eye, I couldn’t detect the red, or more appropriately, purple flags I often associated with the more stereotypically familiar Harley-revving Xena types.

My thick-headedness was compounded by the political correctness of workplace culture. We worked in television, and like any other business, there were the usual suspects of opportunistic ass-kissers and corporate climbers who would whisper disparaging information in a heartbeat to rise within company ranks. Consequently, wariness was rampant and the gainfully employed, who valued their precious 401Ks, were mindful to keep personal opinions and motives to themselves.

Because of this hush-hush protocol, I had to tactfully maneuver my subtle advances around the eyes and ears of suspicious cubicle-dwellers. We shared a few brief exchanges about films we saw and our weekend itineraries - an effort to connect with her beyond stale office gossip and gripes about the malfunctioning fax machine. When I had nothing to say, I would sashay past her workspace about 20 times a day, pretending to use the John, hoping she would engage me with a smile and that breakthrough deep conversation I was pining for. She never did stop me, though employees probably thought I had overactive bladder issues.

A year after I left the company and Los Angeles, I googled her to see whatever happened to my colleague. Turns out, she was a member of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance and also had an outspoken blog chock full of anti-Bush rants interspersed with lustings about Angelina Jolie and Denise Richards. I was disconcerted, not just by my Homer Simpson obtuseness, but by her need for on-the-job discretion.

Sure, you can say sexual orientation is, after all, private business and has no relevance to professional work. But our society’s adverse attitude toward same-sex relationships makes it unlikely and even dangerous for gays like her to talk publicly about dating and relationships like, say, my ex-boss, who complained incessantly about his wife to anybody unwittingly passing by his office. She wasn’t part of the KKK or worse, a member of the K-Fed fan club. So why should she unfairly be made to feel as if she harbors those kinds of perspectives?

Normalizing gay marriage would be a hugely progressive step towards ushering in this kind of social fairness. Not only would it bring clarity to a public sector already obscured by a self-imposed culture of don’t asks, don’t tells, it would also make it easier for people like me who lack reliable gaydar.

Tuan Chau Nguyen

Tuan Chau Nguyen