My Superhero Husband Fights Homophobia in Coney Island

Last weekend, David and I decided to check out the annual Coney Island Mermaid Parade.  We hadn't been before and both had heard great things.

When we got up that Saturday morning, it was pouring rain.  David and I had not had a Saturday morning where we were able to sleep in and not go running to some appointment in months.  We listened to the rain and talked about our plans for the weekend and the coming weeks (also jam packed with parties, events, work, etc.).

As the downpour continued, we checked our weather app on our phones a few times.  It looked like the rain would stop just in time for the parade.  I was hesitant and thought maybe we should just stay home, but David insisted.

We grabbed some sandwiches and hopped on the F Train.  In less than 30 minutes, we got off the train into a sea of costumed people all standing in the station waiting for the rain to pass.  David grabbed our camera and started shooting right away.  We both have cameras and started our own photo company as a side gig.  David has been modeling and it helps for us to be able to light and take our own shots for his portfolio.  We have moved beyond beginner and are starting to get some paid gigs.

After getting photos of most of the people in the subway station, we decided to brave the rain and find a place to watch the parade.  As we jogged through the rain, we noticed a spot that had some openings.  David and I approached the group.  We saw a pack of photographers.  David asked me if he could go into the barricades and shoot with them.  I pointed out that they all had press passes and said he could try his luck.

David proudly marched in through the barricades with his camera around his neck.  I didn't find out until three hours later that one person kept telling the police officers David needed to leave because he didn't have a press pass.  All of the other photographers seemed to welcome him as a member of the unique pack of artists.  The other thing that happened surprised me.

It is important to understand that the Coney Island Mermaid Parade is a parade that celebrates art, uniqueness, culture, fluid sexuality, and people from all walks of life.  The people in the parade are of all genders, sexuality, colors, shapes, and sizes.  Over and over again, people in fabulous costumes would stop to get their photo taken by the group of photographers, and these photographers would utter quietly to each other that the person was a "homo" or "fag" and decide not to shoot them.  This was especially prevalent among the men that these photographers perceived as gay. If the subject was a woman, especially one who was scantily clad (there were quite a few of them who wore very little), it was fine.  They were happy to shoot some tits and ass.  David was surprised and a bit hurt by this.  When he told me, I was too.

So, what does my superhero husband do?  He goes above and beyond to photograph every person there.  David decides to spend extra time on the few men who these ignorant photographers thought were gay or gay looking.  David has no idea, just like me, whether someone is gay or not.  We frankly don't care.  We celebrate all people and their fabulousness.  Bring on the costumes, cover us in glitter, sashay all you want and we will say....yaaassss mama, you go girl, bring it dude, and whatever else we can to embrace you for who you are.

The only group we knew were gay included our friends.  We were ecstatic to see them there.  We are proud supporters of Gays Against Guns (GAG on that, will you).  I'm proud of David.  Although confronting the photographers would have resulted in his removal from the photographer section of the parade, at least he was able to show some love to people that the homophobic old fart photographers (who all happened to be male) were to insecure to photograph.

We can all do something to show our love for people different than us.  Even Jesus said:

"Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."

If you want to look at all of the photos that David took of the Mermaid Parade, check out our the Shoen-Ukre photo share website: http://shoenukre.smugmug.com/MermaidParade2017

So which one of you is the husband and which one is the wife?

Last night, my husband David and I had the privilege to speak to a class on sex, ethnicity, race, and gender at the School of Public Health for the State University of New York at Downstate (SUNY Downstate).  We were invited by the professor of the class who is on the board of the organization where I work.

David and I were there to talk about our story and how we fell in love. The students were there to learn about gay relationships in a setting where they could ask questions without fear.  One of the questions we were asked, which we have been asked a lot by small kids, was:

I understand that you are married, so which one of you is the husband and which one of you is the wife? 

Now it's easy for a gay person to get offended by this question.  David later admitted that he was offended saying, "why would someone even ask that, don't they understand?"

As I looked at the class, I related that the same question had been asked by my four year old nephew who had been the ring bearer in our wedding.

My older brother and his wife were so shocked that he asked it and then tried to apologize and cover it up.  I raised my hand to stop them as I hugged my nephew Christopher and explained:

"Uncle Eric and Uncle David are both husbands.  We don't have to have a wife or a mommy in our relationship to be happy."  

As I relayed this story, I realized that there are probably many reasons why someone would ask this question (or think it but not dare ask it).  One of the biggest reasons is that we as gay people are fighting to not be assigned a gender and a role all of the time in our relationships.  

Society has said that a marriage must have a man and a woman, a husband and a wife, or one who is nurturing and one who is not.  In my own family, my dad works a job outside of the house and brings home the money while my mom does all of the cooking, cleaning, organizing, laundry, raised the kids, sewing, gardening, ironing, shopping, and other household chores.  

In glbtq organizations, we frequently ask people which pronoun they wish to use and how they want to identify.  

Unlike earlier times in my life, I was reminded that not everyone wants to fit on the traditional gender/role spectrum.  

I chose to respond in a way to hopefully help this student understand:

"David and I both identify as men.  We are both attracted to other men.  We are both husbands in our relationship.  Every relationship is different. In some, there may be a relationship where one of the couple identifies as the wife and the other as the husband.  Other relationships have a partners who identify as dominant and submissive, masculine and feminine, top and bottom, or male and female."  

"As gay people, we want to be seen as two people who love each other and are in a committed relationship.  We want you to stop assigning a role to us and let us love each other in a committed way regardless of the role we play in our relationship." 

"David and I consider ourselves masculine, but we sometimes can be feminine too.  We both cook, we both clean, we both care for each other, do the laundry iron, and even both are sexually versatile. That's us, but you can't apply who we are to all gay relationships."

That was just one of the interesting questions that we were asked, but it was the one that affected us the most.  It was clear that people in the class came from all walks of life and had many different levels of experience with gay people.  We were honored to be able to expose them to our life and to try to provide them with experiences that will make these students better health care professionals when they graduate so that they can work alongside us to make our community safer and healthier for all individuals regardless of race, gender, ethnicity, or sexual orientation.  

A reset. Organizing and de-cluttering

Saving things for future use is in my blood.  I grew up on a small dairy farm in northern New York.  The barn and house were both built over one hundred years ago.  They both always had something that needed fixing.  My parents are/were very careful with money.  We tried to reuse things and save spare parts and extra cloth, rope, pipe, grease, etc for when it might come in handy.  Because of this, my amazing mother is a master at making an abundance of random things fit in small spaces, logically, in ways that you can find them, but also look attractive to the outside world.

I'd like to think I'm really good at this too.  I'm no where near the master sensei level that Momma Shoen is, but I try really hard.

Having grown up this way, and having this skill, also means that when my house/home/apartment/car is a cluttered mess of things, I go a little bit crazy.  I love my husband, who appreciates this art/skill, but has yet to master it.

I say this because during the past two months, our apartment has gotten out of hand.  Although David, my husband, has kept the floors swept, the rugs vacuumed, the shower, sinks and toilet scrubbed, and the kitchen in order, there are little things everywhere.  Surfaces were covered in books, papers, boxes, things we needed to put away, etc.

Yesterday, I had one glorious day to myself.  I needed to feel like my house was in shape again so I could focus on the rest of my life and getting that in order too.

I started by getting the laundry and dry cleaning dropped off to be done at the Chinese laundry on our block.  I then put up two separate shelves that we had been holding onto.  Then I took the things off of the floor and end tables and put them on the shelves.  I emptied three baskets and re-organized things in a way that made sense.

Next I tackled our bedroom.  Both of us have two bureaus.  The tops of the bureaus are gathering spots for mail we need to respond to, papers we need to file, our watches, wallets, sunglasses, receipts, cameras, headphones, chapsticks, photos, hair products, etc.  Twice this week, one of us had knocked a pile of things on the floor as we tried to get ready for work or find something.

To tackle this task, I put an old blanket on my bed and took everything off all four bureaus.  I then moved them, swept around them, wiped them down with a clorox wipe, and then began the organizing.  

At the end of the day, I had organized not only our living room, but also our bureaus in our bedroom, and the storage section of our car.  This made me feel so good.  Waking up today, I look at every part of apartment and smile.  There is still more than can be done (there always is), but just getting the things that were bothering me the most organized helps me focus on what else I can do.

My short directions for getting organized:

1.) Determine what you need and what you don't need (donate or throw out what out what you don't need).

2.) Make sure you have appropriate space for all you have (if you don't then you have to get rid of other stuff).  I find that having a basket, box, or container to put like items in helps them stay together.  I use twist ties, rubber bands, boxes with the lids cut off, mugs, hooks, etc. 

3.) Set out everything that you anticipate going into one certain area (a shelf, a bureau, a box, etc).  

4.) Put like things with like things.  Consolidate when possible (half used lotions can be poured together, etc.)

5.) Clean the space before you put things back.  You don't know when it will be empty again

6.) Decide what things are most important and should be most visible.  It helps to know which things you use most often.  

7.) Start with the big stuff and then put small stuff in.  

8.) Don't be afraid to be creative.  It's ok to stack things on top of each other and to store things under beds, tables, etc. Use hooks, magnets, string to tie things, and thumbtacks to place things on walls of cabinets or hang them from the top inside instead of just stacking things from the bottom and relying on that limited space.  

8.) Don't try to tackle all spaces at once.  It gets overwhelming. 

Worth every penny - A trip north

My parents have been extremely supportive of me for most of my life.  They don't always agree with my decisions, but they have proved over and over again that they love me.  The last time I saw them in person was at Thanksgiving until just two weeks ago.  Now that I'm in Brooklyn, it takes almost a full day to drive and see them.  There are no airports near by.  I decided, in spite of worrying about money right now, that I was going to see them on Memorial Day weekend.  Fortunately, my husband David agreed to join me.

It was worth every moment of the 6 hour trip up and the 9 hour trip back to see them.  I know they won't be around forever.  None of us will be here forever.  On our way up, David and I stopped halfway to surprise my older brother and his kids with a visit.  We are blessed that the kids love David and he is good with them.  He plays with them so I can catch up with my older brother.

David and I stayed at a cute little hotel in Potsdam, New York.  We met mom and dad at their favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner and were able to talk.  I wasn't ready to go to bed, so David and I followed them to the farm to chat some more.  Mom, David, and I talked until I couldn't keep my eyes open any more.  I then said I needed to go before we fell asleep.  As I left, I was reminded about how different the sounds of home are from the sounds of Brooklyn. There isn't much to see, but you can hear the wonderful noise.  

The next morning, David and I got up early and drove back out to the farm to cook breakfast and eat with mom.  She, of course, had been up for hours and already baked muffins.  It was so relaxing and rejuvenating to just sit on the bench in our country kitchen and chat while watching the birds at dad's bird feeder.  I needed that recharge after some stressful months at work.  Sometimes only a mom's love can do that.  

In the early afternoon, I finally brought David to meet my grandmother.  Although I came out to her in our Christmas card, she had yet to meet David.  She was even more welcoming than I anticipated. It was a pleasant surprise.  David was very quiet, as he normally is meeting someone for the first time.  Still, I'm happy to have crossed that bridge and don't have to hide him or me from her anymore. 

That night, we had dinner with Dad and Mom again and then breakfast the next morning with just mom.  David and I loaded up a cooler of home grown beef, co-op butter, home-made applesauce, home grown berries, and everything else my mom foisted on us.  It made for a lovely week of fun cooking when we got home.  

As I drove back to Brooklyn, David and I listed to the cast recording of Come From Away.  I realized that I have much in common with the Newfoundlander's (I am an islander) in the show.  We both come from places that are a bit rough around the edges and not as modern as other parts of the world. We love, we give, we work together, and we survive there.  I hope that Newfoundlanders feel the same way I do when they go home to Gander or the surrounding towns. 

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for helping me recharge and bring a bit of home back with me to Brooklyn. 

Cry if I Want To

"It's ok to cry."

I sometimes have to say these words to myself out loud.

David, my amazing husband, just got home from the gym.  He walked through the door of our Brooklyn apartment singing along to his music.  David went to the gym this afternoon (yeah...I will get back to the gym soon, I know).  I was crying on the sofa.

"Don't cry, honey"

"I'm good, I swear."

"What's wrong?"

"It's just this television series I'm watching."

"Why do you watch things that make you cry?"

"David, sometimes I just need a good cry.  How will I ever truly experience the good and awesome things if I don't let myself experience the sad ones."


MOM - don't read the rest of this if you are reading my blog.

SPOILER ALERT FOR THE TELEVISION SHOW, "THIS IS US." 



I'm watching this television series on Hulu that our friend, Jan, has recommended.  It's called "This is Us."  It really has hit a lot of my emotions.

Today, though, it touched all of my buttons.  Over the past few episodes, we have fallen in love with the sweet old grandpa who ends up being gay.  On this episode, we follow him to the end.  As he is about to die, he tells his son, "I am scared."

These words opened my flood gates today.  You see, those were the last words my sweet, loving, awesome grandmother said before she died.  It was two years ago, and she was on the phone with her son the day after Christmas and had a stroke.  I miss her.  I miss her a lot.  I was missing her every day.  Now I only miss her when I'm reminded of her.  My mom collected a bunch of little things from grandma's house when she passed.  She had an angel collection and a bell collection.  I have one of each in my living room.  She had dozens of salt and pepper shakers, and I have a pair of those.  In fact, my twin brother bought me a pair of new ones that remind me of her too.  Every time David and I cook a meal, we have her spoon rest on the stove, so that her love is in our food too.  At every party, we put out a green carnival glass dish full of nuts or candy that was in her house.  I want her at all of my parties.

You see, my grandmother was great at parties.  No matter how much people didn't like each other, had bad blood, didn't trust each other, were poor, or rich, clean, or dirty, smelly or sweet smelling, grandma wanted them all to get along at her parties.....AND WE DID.  For grandma, we would put away old grudges.  In fact, if grandma came to my parent's place, we put away our fighting, too, just to spend time in her loving company.

That's who I want to be.  I struggle sometimes.  I fight with my brother, or snap at my mom.  I decide not to invite someone over because they were rude to me at my last dinner party.

Thanks, grandma for being at all of my parties and reminding me to be loving.  Yeah, I'm going to cry a little today as I miss you.  I'm sorry you were scared at the end.  I hope you are in a better place now.


As I finish this, my husband just came back in from outside again....
"I don't like this thing you are doing."
"I know, David, thanks for loving me even when I cry."

Cathartis - Come From Away

It was cathartic yesterday afternoon, to sit in a darkened theater with two dozen college friends and hundreds of strangers and cry.  We were there to fete an old friend.  Some of us went to Hartwick College with him, were fraternity brothers with him, performed with him over the years and had followed his career trajectory.  Others didn't know him or any of the performers on the stage, but instead came to see a show on Broadway.

What, I think, we all shared was a moment or a string of moments where we relived that painful day on September 11, 2001.  Come From Away is finishing previews on Broadway.

As I stepped into the theater, I was hoping for a good show.  I wasn't expecting much.  I read the reviews, looked at the news articles, and read the story that the show was based on.  I didn't think that the writers would be able to pull enough out of the story to put together a musical, let alone an entertaining one.  I was there to support my friend and see some other friends.

I'm pleased to say that the writers and performers proved me wrong.  I'm usually an emotional person.  I admit that freely.  I've seen quite a few broadway shows in the past two years.  I've enjoyed some of them (Kinky Boots and Lion King) while hating or sleeping through many others (Cats, On the Town, etc.).  This is the first time in my two years of living in Brooklyn where I've been glued to my seat.  I didn't want to miss a word or a note.  The tears started flowing as the second song began and kept on flowing through the end of the show almost 90 minutes later.  I even had to get up to use the bathroom (no intermission) and didn't want to miss anything.  I cried while I ran down the steps to the restroom and cried when i entered the theater again.

This isn't a sad show.  Don't get me wrong.  This show is beautiful.  The story line has been weaved into a magic tapestry of humanity and human goodness.  Our friend Tom summed it up best at the end of the show when he said, "We, each one of us, was remembering where we were, how we felt, and all of those crazy emotions on that day."  In this political climate with vitriol and hate, we are reminded that there are good people out there.  It's fitting that our neighbors to the north are highlighted so well in the musical.

Come from away is the story of 38 planes stranded in Gander, Newfoundland, Canada when the USA closed it's air space on September 11th and how the tiny villages welcomed the strangers from around the world with open arms and hearts.

The writers have peppered the show with kindness and humor.  They have also captured the emotions and feelings that so many of us went through when we found out that planes had been used as weapons in the Pentagon, NYC, and Pennsylvania.....feelings of confusion, fear, disgust, anger, anguish, and hurt.  The actors bring you almost to the point of sobbing before you hear some heartfelt jokes and uplifting music.

The people of Gander, and this truly inspiring show remind us of who we are and who we are called to be.  People from all races, cultures, genders, sexualities, and religions prayed together, ate together, and mourned together on that day around the world.  They supported each other with open arms, hearts, a warm place to sleep, and home-cooked food to eat.

I have been replaying scene after scene from the musical in my head over and over again since the matinee yesterday afternoon.  I'm inspired to try to be better, more loving, and more caring.  We all have the ability to be welcoming and loving.  Now let's show the world that's who we can be too.

Memories of a metal feed cart

Yesterday as I was walking through the hospital basement to the mail room to pick up a package, I noticed one the large carts that they use to transport things.  I was reminded of a childhood memory.

Growing up on a farm, you start doing chores as soon as you can safely help out.  When you are little, that typically means feeding the animals and staying away from their back end where you might get kicked.

As my twin brother and I got old enough to help out with heavier things, my father trusted us with more and more chores.

One of the things we had to do to feed the cows was to wheel around a large metal box cart of feed.  This particular feed was called silage and came from our silo.  Silage is fermented hay or corn.  The silage cart that my father owned at the time was very heavy and metal.  I looked online for images, but couldn't find any.  Picture a metal box on wheels that is approximately 4 feet tall, 5 feet long, and 3 feet wide.

My dad would fill this cart full of silage/feed to feed the cows.  Our job was to wheel it around and give a large forkful (pitchfork) full of feed to each cow.  We, of course, had to give our favorite cows a little extra.  The feed cart was so heavy that it took both of us to push it.  We would rock it to get it moving and then move it ahead a few feet before we took out some feed.  It was heavy when it was empty, but especially so when it was full.

To understand why this made me laugh, you have to understand the construction of small scale barns in the mid 1900s.  Today's barns are large open sheds where each cow gets their own feed area, but where farmers can use a large front end loader to scoop out the manure.  My parent's farm only had 30 or so cows.

Each cow had its own assigned spot in the barn.  Each cow was a registered pure bred cow.  They had name tags above their spots.  Sometimes a cow would go in the wrong spot, and you would have to move it back to it's rightful spot.  My dad would put cows who were trouble on the ends so they would only have a cow on one side to fight with.  Once in a while, a cow had to be moved to a new spot and you had to spend a few weeks guiding it there when you brought them in from pasture until the cow learned it (some cows never learned and you were forever trying to move them to the new spot).

The cows were lined up on both sides of the barn with a large alley in the middle.  At the top of their heads was a vacuum pipeline.  We would hook milking machines up to the pipeline to suck the milk from the cows and into a large tank in the milkhouse, a clean separate room in the barn where milk was stored and chilled until it could be picked up by the milk truck tanker.  Just behind the cows butts, was a gutter with a metal chain in it that had sticks on it.  When you cleaned the cows twice every day you would scrape their manure into this gutter.  At the end of the day, you would turn on the machine that made the chain move around the track in the gutter and pulled all the manure around the track and up into a manure spreader (we of course rarely used the word manure, preferring the more vulgar term that seemed much more fitting for something that smelled so bad - shit).

Half way down the barn there were two side passage ways to help you cross the barn.  The gutter had a large metal plate over it on each side.  This was so you could wheel wheelbarrows of food or carts across.  Well, as kids, we didn't have enough strength to wheel these slowly, so we had to get a running start.  Many times, we would end up knocking the entire feed cart into the gutter of shit because we were unable to steer it or because the angle knocked the gutter cover into the gutter catching the wheels of this heavy cart in shit too.

My father sometimes had a temper.  For some reason, I only remember him slightly mad at this and never super angry.  After all, we were doing our best to help feed the cows. It wasn't until much later in life that I could wheel that cart without help.  When we were kids, the cart was as tall as us.  We couldn't lift the cart out of the gutter or even lift the gutter cover (although some of it was that the gutter cover was covered in messy shit and we didn't want to touch it).  It was always a pain in the butt to get that cart across the gutters.

I'm grateful, though, that from an early age, my dad had us helping in the barn.  To this day, I don't like to sit still and always keep busy.  I'd like to think I work as hard as he does and did to make sure we had a good life, but I don't think that will ever be possible.  Dad worked and worked and worked to provide for us.  Most farmers did and do.  All I can do is try to live up to the example he sets.