Category Archives: My Life

The Long Road to Where I Am–Part 1

Posted on August 10, 2007 | 5 comments

I have purposefully avoided blogging too much about my days at bible college. Or, about the process of my coming out. I know that a lot of people I went to school with read my blog. So, I’ve tried to avoid those subjects in order to make most everyone happy. But, I have to be honest, my college days not only were rife with personal strife; but also, they were rife with some seriously funny shit. Well, at least, it’s funny now…to me…anyway. And, I will get to that funny shit in future posts. I’m sorry to offend anyone. But, I’m writing these blogs more for myself than anyone else. 😉 I’m happy if you enjoy them, but this is therapeutic for me. And, I’ve got to tell ya that I love therapy. Sometimes…anyway.

Therapy for me is all about growth and self-improvement. And, I’ve always been a bit obsessed about self-improvement. I love the “idea” of becoming a “better me.” Despite all of my best intentions, though, I haven’t always been that good at actually seeing certain things through. For example, my bookshelves are full of self-help books. I especially love the “…for Dummies” series. I have “Nutrition for Dummies;” “Bartending for Dummies;” “MySpace for Dummies,” etc. etc. Most of them, as you might suspect, have been only partially read. I have ordered “life-changing” products from numerous infomercials. All of which, either have been thrown away, or are still in a corner waiting for that special day, when I will finally discover with great confidence that they do not solve my issues with working out. I haven’t truly succeeded in most of these attempts at improving myself–except for one. And, I feel like it’s the one that matters the most to me. I, with great effort, have come to terms with myself. Meaning…I love me for who I am.

It was several trips to a therapist during my fourth year of college that changed everything for me. I decided to go to a local pastor who was also a licensed therapist. You see, this was when I still believed that a person could change their sexual orientation. Let me clarify–I never have believed that being gay is a choice. Even while I was trying to change it, I didn’t believe that I chose it. Put the “nature vs. nurture” argument aside. Either way, I did not choose my sexual orientation. But, I used to believe that with enough prayer and counseling, it could be changed. Which is why I went to this particular therapist. I can’t say that I regret going; because, my few sessions with him really were a turning point for me. Obviously, this is not what he intended to do.

I don’t need to rehash my short stint in homosexual recovery. It should suffice to say that I have never felt worse about myself or about those around me than while I was with that therapist. Although, it did take me a little longer to officially come out, that was the last straw. It was after my second session with this pastor that I realized I wanted and needed to love myself. And, in order to do that, I had to be true to all of myself–which included being gay.

It’s also taken me a long time to admit it, but, I don’t regret going to bible college. I did for a long time, though. I’ve always thought that I would have been so much better off at a regular school–not having to “go through” all of that personal turmoil. I now believe that the experience of being a closeted gay man in that environment, although being tumultuous and painful, eventually made me stronger and more sure of myself. And, I should thank Ozark Christian College for that.

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Posted in Family, Food for Thought, Gay, My Life, The College Years

My First Kiss…well, almost.

Posted on July 22, 2007 | 1 comment

I love girls. In fact, I loved girls so much in grade school that I always had a gaggle of them surrounding me. I was totally in a chick clique. We played tag together and pretty much totally ignored all of the boys. This is how I met my first girlfriend Penny.

The girls and I were playing tag one day when this loud and brash vision of a third grader came at me hand outstretched. When I realized that I was her target, I dodged her tag. She missed me, but unfortunately, did not miss the window that was directly behind me. After crashing through the window, and subsequently receiving multiple stitches, Penny and I became best friends.

She was the first in a long series of “girlfriends.” Here’s how the progression usually went:

Step 1: Meet a girl who is funny and goofy, or loud and brash…not your typical “pretty girl.”

Step 2: Become “best friends” with the girl. Pass lots of notes to each other.

Step 3: Mutually decide to “go together.” (NOTE: I actually sent Penny a note that said, “Do you want to go together? Check yes__ or, no__” I liked clarity evidently.)

Step 4: After going together for a short while, get really uncomfortable and move on to the next victim…I mean best friend.

Step 5: Repeat steps 1-4.

Penny was different, being that she was the first. I almost made it halfway to first base with her. We were at a high school football game, running around with our gaggle of third-grade friends, when somehow we ended up behind this tractor that was parked off to the side of the field. Penny asked me to kiss her. The game was almost over, and we would have to leave soon. So, the pressure was on. The clock, or game timer, actually, was counting down…10, 9, 8, 7… and soon it was all over–both the game and my “relationship” with Penny.

She was also the first in a long line of girls that I loved, but not the way that they wanted me to. It wasn’t too long afterwards that I realized why it was that I didn’t want to kiss Penny…

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Posted in Gay, Humor, My Life, The Early Years

4-H, 4-You! 4-America! 4-H!

Posted on June 30, 2007 | 1 comment

Picture this. July, 1985. The height of the Reagan Era. “Like A Virgin” and “Careless Whisper” topped the pop music charts. The Marion County Fair was in its prime. And, it was the end of farming for yours truly.

I must say that as a gay kid growing up in rural Iowa, I did the best that I could. While I would have rather been in the house baking cookies and reorganizing my bedroom, I was out feeding the calves and “walking” the electric fence. (farming 101–the electric fence surrounded the pasture where the cattle grazed–we had to make sure no weeds were touching the fence…) I spent most of my chore time talking and singing to myself, unaware that anyone could possibly hear me. My point is, I would have rather been indoors.

Each summer me, my three siblings, and our “prize” heifers (farming 101a–heifers are young, female cows) would make the trip to the Marion County Fair. What a nightmare. I hated this time of year more than anything. It meant hours upon hours of washing, combing, training, feeding our “prize” heifers for the competition. And, I usually approached it with the excitement one usually reserves for root canals. That is, until the 1985 Marion County Fair.

I decided that for this year, I was done taking last place. I was a winner and the judges somehow continually misjudged me. Ok. I’m not fooling anybody. I was the least interested of my siblings in this bullshit (pun intended); and so, I always got the runt of the heifers. One year, I actually was given a deformed calf. Her name was Martha, and she was born with her head on sideways (seriously). Needless to say, Martha didn’t live long enough to even make it to the fair, but my point is clear.

However, there was one prize I could take: The Marion County Fair, Dairy Division, Livestock Showmanship Award. The title alone made me twirl and giggle with glee. And, the thought of that trophy in my bedroom simply made me gitty. I was already redecorating my bedroom around it. This award was given to the one individual who took the best care of their heifer during the week of the fair. I just had to do the best job of shoveling poop. It was as good as mine.

So, during the fair, when I would have normally been spending every waking moment on the carnival rides, allowing my heifer to starve; I went crazy shoveling poop. If my heifer even looked like she was going to poop, I was there waiting to catch it in my shovel. I was a farming rockstar.

It was no surprise that I took last place in the actual competition. But, my showmanship trophy would be given to me on Friday at the end of the fair. When I wasn’t hovering behind my heifer, waiting for her to defecate; I was practicing my surprised reactions for when I was announced as the winner. I also was taking note of my competition. There wasn’t any. Simply no one was spending nearly the amount of time with their heifer that I was. No one.

The moment finally arrived for me to accept my award. The 4-H Superintendant of the Dairy Barn gathered everyone together to make the big announcement. After making the standard announcements, she finally got to the point. “The Marion County Fair, Dairy Division, Livestock Showmanship Award” goes to… I could feel myself get light-headed. And, I think that I actually blacked-out for a few moments, because I didn’t hear her say my name. I didn’t hear her say anyone’s name. I just saw some dumb-ass loser kid walking up to take my trophy.

What happened next will go down in the Marion County 4-H program history books. It was also when I learned how to make a dramatic exit. I couldn’t control what happened next. It just happened. I wailed. Literally. This shriek of horror escaped my lungs as I turned and ran. Straight to our fold-down camper. I cried so hard and for so long that my parents actually had to get the Dairy Superintendant to come to the camper and console me. She gave me some lame reason why we are all winners…but, it didn’t matter, though, it was just confirmation of what I already knew…I was not a farmer.

I don’t know if it was from embarassment or pity, but, my parents never really pushed me to do anything 4-H-related again. And, when my parents sold our dairy operation several years later, I knew it was because I was secretly willing all of those cows to break out through the electric fence and never return.

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Posted in Family, Gay, Humor, My Life, The Early Years

@$%#!

Posted on June 21, 2007 | 4 comments

My entire family lives in Iowa. Mostly around Pleasantville. And you guessed it… the name says it all! I think that still is the town of 1,500’s motto. Go Trojans! Anyway, that’s what it was 15 years ago when I left.

As much as I like to poke fun at my hometown, it is an essential part of my story. You can’t really know me until you know that I grew up on a dairy farm in rural Iowa. And, really, it explains a lot. For instance, growing up on the farm explains why I can curse like a farmer. I heard words from my frustrated, farmer father that would shock sailors.

To take this a step further, I think that farmers are much more creative in their swearing. For instance, while your average cusser might say, “You fucking bastard,” which does have a nice punch to it; a farmer would say, “You pencil-dicked fuckwad.” Much more creative. Sometimes, a situation would require simply a list of all the curse words one could think of; for instance, when a cow would step on a farmer’s foot you might hear: “Fuck, you mother-fuckin’, son of a bitchin’, bastardless, chickenshit…shithead, damn it, shitfaced cow!” I’m not sure what some of that even means. I just knew to clear the area once the cursing list started.

My mother, on the other hand, was a patriotic swearer. Her favorite phrase was, “Shit! Blessed America!” or just “Blessed America!” Me, however–I have taken to using biblical references such as: “Son of a bitch, Zaccheus, and all the Apostles, too. Damn it.” I have been known to also give Jesus Christ several various middle initials. (i.e. H. F. T.) I guess the middle initial just takes it up a notch. Which initial I give just depends on how pissed off I am.

I have always been curious about cuss words. True story. When I was about 10, I was still a cussing virgin. So, I went into the bathroom, locked the door, stared into the mirror, and said, “fuck.” Scandalous. I had essentially popped my cursing cherry. And, it was all over. I was a closeted swearer from then on. I have always been well-behaved in public. It is the other side of growing up on a farm–learning manners. But, when alone, I practiced it intensely.

I do think that I have a thorough curse word vocabulary. However, I am always interested in adding new phrases to my repertoire. I also like the funny phrases that people have created to use as alternatives. Like saying, “Shut the front door!” instead of “Shut the fuck up!”

So, if you haven’t been too offended to read this far and are willing to share some of your most creative phrases… fuck it…let’s hear ’em. Come on, I know you want to share…leave a comment. Let’s see who has the most creative cursing vocabulary!

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Posted in Family, Food for Thought, Humor, My Life, The Early Years

I’m done with it.

Posted on June 8, 2007 | 2 comments

I like how my friend “Juan” puts it. There’s a reason you get sick. Some negative energy or stress in your life is rearing its ugly head. This makes you sick. Or, better, when you are stressed, your body is busy dealing with that. Your defenses are down. And, you get sick. And believe me I am sick. I’ll spare you the gory details of my sinus and ear infection…it’s not pretty. But, it got me thinking about how I have always done this. I always get sick when I get stressed.

Normally, I have this natural tension valve that automatically shuts off at the first sign of too much stress. I just quit. Stop working. My college roommate Chris knows exactly what I am talking about. He loves to tell stories about how we would both be working on “important” papers; and, at about 11:00 pm the night before it was due I would be in bed with the paper done…or not. Actually, as he puts it, I would start to yawn and stretch and whine and end up asleep in bed while he stayed up until 5:00 am finishing his paper. I cannot tell you how many papers never were finished because of this tension shut-off valve. It’s a miracle I ever graduated from college. And, I’m not sure who’s more amazed…me or Chris.

I’ve already told the story of how, when I was in 1st grade, I just froze and “shut off” when the stress of writing my letter to Santa got to be too much. (read “I’m Special”) But, another time comes to mind. When I was a kid, I was dragged to every sporting event in Pleasantville, Iowa. And, believe it or not there was a time when I actually “played” in sports. In third grade, I was signed up for little league baseball. It lasted… until the stress of playing got to be too much. I think somewhere in the Clark family photo archives there is probably a picture of me sitting in the outfield picking dandelions right below a sign that read “Winners Never Quit and Quitters Never Win!!!” Obviously, the sign had no affect on me whatsoever. Clearly, baseball was just too stressful.

Two years later I walked off the court in the middle of a little league basketball game because the coaches wanted to play “shirts vs. skins.” This meant I would have to take off my shirt. And, this definitely qualified as a too much stress moment. That was it, no more little league basketball for Tyler. (An interesting side note: one of my few other encounters with basketball occurred in junior high. I was asked to video tape the high school girls varsity team’s games. This lasted only because it meant I could travel–my first step into the travel industry–to other sprawling cites like Prairie City, Eddyville…you get the idea. Also, it was an opportunity to be artistic, which I know was appreciated by the basketball girls.)

When I am done…I am done. Finished. I couldn’t go any further if I tried. Unfortunately, in my adulthood I have learned to bypass my stress threshold. And, when I do that, I get sick. This whole decision process pushed me beyond what my body could handle. (read “It’s hot as hell up in here“) The biggest reason I didn’t decide to take the job was that it was going to be too stressful. I really believe I made the right decision. And, now I am done.

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Posted in Food for Thought, Gay, Humor, My Life, The College Years