See? Someone raised this boy right…

Dance freely and whole-heartedly enough that you make people jealous of your spirit.

Some people ask why I don’t have children. It seems like a logical thing for people to do. Have kids. I adore kids. I get along with them well. Kids usually love me. I make them feel safe and they know they can tell me anything without being judged. I spoil them but I also demand they be decent people. I do not withold my affections because of a single mistake but neither do I excuse bad behaviour, in them or myself. I apologize to kids if I make a mistake because let’s face it, kids need to know an adult is human enough to say I’m sorry.

But there is something inside of me…something left by someone else… that makes me wary of actually raising a child of my own.

This is that something.

For some of us, childhood is something to survive. Some of us that do survive it want to celebrate those that make it a wonderful time to experience. So when you ask me, why I don’t have children, it’s because I can’t give a child the happiness it would deserve but damn it, I will certainly cheer you on as you raise yours right.

A lot of my education happened outside of the classroom. This is probably true of most people who attend a public school in a depressed district. Resources for teachers are poor and oftentimes, you spent more time going over stuff that you learned last year. It’s a lot of catch-up and do you remember? So, how do you learn about the world outside of your little space?

I read.

Problem with learning that way? You don’t hear the words you read. You know what they mean and can recognize them but really, once you have it in your head how something is pronounced, it’s gonna stick.

These mis-speaks lead me to my pet peeve… people who “correct” other people when they speak; either in pronunciation or if their brains farted and their mouth grabbed the first word that popped up… say mallow instead of yellow. If you know what the other person meant*, then there’s no need to correct them. Height of rudeness in my book. So mis-speak all you want around me, have no fear of sounding ignorant because I know what you mean unless I ask.

It’s a sign that you learned about the world and language like I did and Dude, if I had a gang sign I could flash you, I would. ’Cause it’s like we’re Gansta Readas.

Word.

Regardless on how it’s pronounced.

* Okay, there are times when you might really not know what word they’re using, so apologize and ask for clarification if needed. If not, fake it. Pretend you’re having dinner with someone you don’t care for but gotta share a plate with.  No, Bi… we really didn’t know what colahndehr was. :::stuffs you with ddukbokki::::

Sinner’s Gin.

Miki.

But without the neck tattoos. (those are paint in this shot)

Our generation does not ask for Victory in our wars.

We ask for the safe return of those who go to fight them.

This is my friend Bianca whom if you ever have the pleasure of meeting, you’ll no longer wonder if there are unicorns in the world…for really, she is one.

I wanted to post this here because I am proud of her for entering this competition and honestly, she rocked this song.

What this video doesn’t show is the MC asking the woman in the front row if she was crying. Because Bianca’s song made her cry. I adore Bi. She is one of the lights in my life. If you find a light like her, hold onto that light because they make your life worth living.

If you are one of these lights, chances are you don’t know it but you should be treasured. Those of us who have one, thank you greatly for your presence.

Yes, I taped this on a potatoe. You can’t see her very well in this.  My apologies. I even have multiple cameras! But no, all I brought with me was my phone. I am a failure as an Asian. T____T But you can still hear her. :::cheers:::

Suddenly Lyrics (English)
I couldn’t come up with any words.
I really did not know I’d see you again.
Somewhere buried deep inside my heart.
I have longed and ached for you.

When I turn around I see the smiling face.
The face that is always there, behind me.
This dizzy feeling keeps me up at night.
Traces of you keep me crying again.

Tell me now, how was I wrong?
Tell me now, was I lacking?

I really desired you like crazy.
I always prayed that I could see you again.
I feel as though I will die like this.
Can’t you be the one coming to me now.
Please.

I told myself I’d be fine alone.
That I could do well without you.
I tell myself this as I try to force myself to sleep.
But all I can think of are the way you speak and look.

Tell me now, how was I wrong?
Tell me now, was I lacking?

I really desired you like crazy.
I always prayed that I could see you again.
I feel as though I will die like this.
Can’t you be the one coming to me now?

I really desired you like crazy.
I always prayed that I could see you again.
I feel as though I will die like this.
Can’t you be the one coming to me now?
Please.
Please.
 

When I sat down to write a piece for the YAM Blogathon, I had to think of a topic. I hate thinking of topcis, by the way. So, I went with a common question posed to M/M authors is: WHY?

Let me sing you the song of my people.

The last time someone asked me why, it was my mechanic. Now, I love Frankie*. He is the main mechanic at the shop I take my Firebird to and we get along great. We laugh. We tease. We gang up on the others in the shop together. We’re the same age and have a lot of core values in common. And are diametrically opposite in others. But the best part of our relationship is that we can talk about those differences and he’s willing to actually listen to my WHY. And I am willing to listen to his.

So someone at the shop said; Rhys writes books and he asked what kind? Where can I get them?

I said, I write about a gay detective…and I respect you and like you but I know the content isn’t for you. He cocked his head, acknowledge that he wouldn’t read about a gay detective then asked, so why don’t you just write regular mysteries?

Regular mysteries. I answered: I do write regular mysteries. The detective just happens to be gay.

Frankie then nodded and said, yeah I can see that. I told him it was okay for him to not read what I write. It’s not for him. My books are not for everyone. Hell, my books aren’t for everyone even if they do read the genre. It’s a matter of personal taste.

I ended up talking about this conversation with a few other people (we were discussing genre likes/dislikes) and one woman piped up with that I should have convinced him to read them because he needs to be educated to be more tolerant about gays.

No, I disagreed. That is not my place. Nor would it be hers. Frankie is more than tolerant. He doesn’t give a shit if a guy is gay or not but neither would he seek out a book about a gay detective (who has sex in the books). Any more than he’d seek out a Regency romance. It holds no interest for him. He knows homosexuality makes him uncomfortable at this point in his life… because he doesn’t understand the why of it. As a heterosexual male, he doesn’t understand how a man would find another man attractive.

But I know, after having a conversation with him, he would be the first person to work to embrace his daughter or son’s homosexuality if it came to pass. Because his child comes first. He would have problems with it. He knows that. But his child comes first.

Tolerance is a two-way street. I have as much responsibility to respect and tolerate Frankie’s beliefs. Neither one of us were forcing our ideology on one another but rather we were discussing things openly and without rancor**.

Without Rancor. That is key.

As an author, I write M/M because I like the content and exploring the possibilities. I also write mysteries and old school urban fantasy because I like the style. It doesn’t mean I have an agenda to change the world to my way of thinking. It means I offer stories written for people who either want to explore the possibility of a gay detective or enjoy a story about one.

As a person, I want to learn about how someone arrived at their beliefs and the WHY of it. Just as Frankie wondered about the WHY of my writing. Both of us understand we’re different in these key ways and we’re okay with it. I’m not going to change how he feels about gay men and he’s not going to change the way I feel about writing mysteries with a gay protagonist.

See, we don’t need to. Because neither of us thinks the differences between us require intervention of any kind. We respect one another’s beliefs. We tolerate…no, I would say we embrace… that we are different.

And it’s okay that we are.

I will admit, I cannot wait for the day when my detective being gay doesn’t matter. But for right now, it’s not as important because I have the freedom to write him that way. It would be lovely if we were all mingled in the bookshelves in our genres and not separated out by sexuality.

I would like to say that about the world as well… that we are seen as individuals and not defined by who we love. But that day will come.

So I ask the people around me to be tolerant of my beliefs while at the same time, promise to respect and be tolerant of theirs. Discuss but do not seek to dominate. Embrace but do not seek to embroil.

We’ll get there. I know we will. I have faith we will. Because we try. Because we have to. Because we are every mother’s son and every father’s daughter, regardless of who we love.

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Hit up the YAM site this week to see others contributing to the Blogathon. And help us celebrate our differences.

* Name changed to protect the unwary.

** Malicious resentfulness or hostility; spite. Not the creature Luke Skywalker had to kill in the pit to amuse Jabba the Hutt before they rescued Han.

But it’s hard when Jax is staring at me from under my laptop desk.

 

Dog beds all over the house. He’s allowed up on the couch on the blanket but where does he sit? There. Staring up at me from under the table top. I can’t see him but I can feel him breathing on me. Old Man Dog sometimes is just too odd to figure out.

because i wander the internet while i think….

Often, this type of violence is what a gay teen endures.

Help make this an image and not reality.