A Farewell Letter to my (First) Hometown

Faggot.  Homo.  Queer.  Cocksucker.  These are but a few of the names you called me during my formative years, back before even I knew for sure that I was gay.  Hateful words; words that caused me to live in constant fear.  Not fear of physical assault.  No, I was big; I probably could have taken most of you in a fair fight, had I been forced to.

But fear all the same.

Fear that you were right.  Rogers, Texas is a small town, and the surrounding towns and cities aren't much bigger. I didn't know any gay people.  I already felt, already feared, that I was different.  I feared being alone.  And then, on top of that, you made me fear being exposed before I was ready to admit it to myself, before I was ready to confess it to my family. 

At first, college wasn’t much better.  I still wasn’t prepared to be honest with myself.  Your hateful adolescent vitriol had done its job, and done it well. 

It wasn't until I accepted an internship in Orlando and escaped the boundaries of small town, conservative Texas that I was able to spread my wings and finally accept myself for who I was, who I always had been, who I am today.  I opened the closet doors and refused to ever close them again.  Orlando taught me to be proud of myself.  It taught me that I could be myself and still be happy.  I could love, and be loved in return.  Orlando became home.  It has been ever since, and always will be.

Before making the final transition from Texas to Florida, I confessed my newly accepted sexuality to the handful of you that I felt close to, and each of you responded politely enough. 

Well, that’s not true.  One of you ran home and immediately told your mother, who suddenly became very interested in my own mother and conversations about me and my wellbeing, despite my having begged you not to tell anyone because my parents hadn’t yet been told.  That’s okay, though.  I lied to you; I had already told my parents.  They were ready when your mother came knocking, as your family always did, with Jesus on her lips but the devil in her heart.  Much to her frustration, my parents deftly avoided her questions, forever denying her the satisfaction that such a conversation would surely have provided.

Still, that was certainly a more honest response than I received from the others with whom I had shared my coming out story.  Despite being my closest confidantes in high school, you quickly fell into the category of the majority of our peers who simply found out after the advent of social media.  After the obligatory “It’s okay, we’ve always known, we love you anyway” spiel, you all promptly lost interest in anything pertaining to my personal life.  I have tried to faithfully perform the perfunctory social media responsibilities over years: wishing you a happy birthday, telling you that your children are cute, wishing you an enjoyable vacation, sending well wishes when a family member is ill.  In response, I get nothing from you.  I suspect that many of you unfollowed me after I posted one too many pro-LGBT memes, as one former friend has already confessed.      

That’s fine.  Believe me, I get it.  I’ve unfollowed and unfriended many of you as well.  We just do not see eye to eye on many things.  Or anything.  For the longest time, I’ve tried to convince myself that this is okay, that people don’t always have to see eye to eye to be friends, or at the very least respectful to one another. 

But not anymore.  Not after this weekend.    

Between the hours of 2am and 5am on Sunday, June 12, 2016, the most horrific mass shooting in American history occurred at Pulse, an LGBTQ nightclub in Orlando, Florida.  By the time the standoff ended, a series of events had transpired that would leave 50 dead and at least 53 injured. 

People are still debating whether it was a hate crime or an act of domestic terrorism.  I am here to tell you that it was both.  Omar Mateen may have pledged his allegiance to ISIS during a 911 call from inside the club, but it was a gay club, and it could not possibly have been chosen at random because there are no other clubs in the immediate vicinity.  Had he wanted a random club, he would have gone elsewhere.  No, he wanted to target the LGBTQ community and its allies.  And he chose this club to do it.  A nightclub that is a mere five minute drive from my home.  While work pulled me away from Orlando some six years ago, I still cherish that city  and return there at every opportunity.  I have memories from time spent at this club and, more importantly, still have friends that frequent the establishment. 

And since the country awoke Sunday morning to this horrible news, there has been a noticeable yet admittedly consistent lack of concern for my life, as you neglect to ask how I am taking the news.  Precious few of you have asked if I am feeling okay, or otherwise checked in to see how I am processing this information.  Let me alleviate your concerns right now.  I’m not processing it very well at all, but I am incredibly grateful in that, thus far, it does not appear that any of my friends were killed or injured.  Thank you SO much for asking. 

(To be fair, a select few of you did provide standard Facebook contact to include a “Like” or a comment. A rare one or two others communicate with me regularly outside of this issue.  You know who you are, I love you, and this does not apply to you.)

Even so, I can forgive this.  As they say, out of sight, out of mind.  Other than the emotional scarring, I wasn’t even “directly affected,” right? (Wrong, but I digress.)

What I cannot forgive is the hate that some of you have been pouring out online.  Meme after meme defending your Second Amendment rights (not once has anyone ever threated to take away your guns), or gloating that the killer was a Democrat (political affiliation has never been a speaking point for you before in times of terrorist activity), or denying that it was a hate crime, (because, in your eyes, it can ONLY be a terrorist attack if it was perpetrated by a Muslim), or applauding Donald Trump for his anti-Muslim diatribe (or anything he ever says, frankly).  And even that, as disgusting as it is, could be overlooked.  Except for one small thing.

None of you posting these memes have stopped for one moment to post a message of condolence for those impacted.  Not one of you has offered a prayer (and oh, boy, do you love to offer calls for prayer instead of calls for gun reform in times of trouble) to those that are suffering.  Why?  I’ll tell you why.  Because, this time, the victims were gay. 

And I can’t take it anymore.  I simply cannot.   

I can accept you ignoring me.  I can accept you ignoring the issue entirely.  I can accept that in your personal life you do not at all care about the LGBTQ community or even the one member of it that you spent up to 13 years of your life studying and playing with. 

What I cannot accept is that you are so filled with hatred and toxicity that instead of ignoring the situation with what little grace and dignity nature gave you, you must instead use the moment to push some misguided agenda that the liberals are trying to take your guns.  I can assure you that, today, nobody is paying you any attention.  Nobody cares about you.  I certainly don’t.

I’m done. 

I refuse to feel a tinge of guilt whenever I visit my parents and cloister myself at home simply because a part of me remembers that old high school fear.  I will no longer feel that I should give you a second chance, that perhaps you are better adults than you were children.

Because you are not.

At least children can claim the ignorance of youth as an excuse.

You are just ignorant, mean-spirited adults.  And there is no place for you in the future.   

Or in my life.

The Road to San Diego Comic Con 2014

After three long years, I finally returned to San Diego for the annual geek pilgrimage known as Comic Con International, aka San Diego Comic Con.

My journey began on July 18, when I left Tel Aviv Ben Gurion International Airport at 5:15pm on a  British Airways flight headed for London.  I landed around 8:30PM London time, or 10:30PM Jerusalem time.  The seats were comfy, the food was adequate, and the flight offered a wide variety of complimentary programming.  Being a huge fan of "The Walking Dead," and having only seen the first episode of season 4 at that point, I was pleased to note that the entire season was among the offerings.  As my much longer connecting flight would also be through BA, I rolled the dice and hoped that this meant I could knock out the remaining 15 episodes of the season before landing in Texas the following afternoon.  By the end of that first leg, I had completed the fifth episode.  Ten more to go...this was going to be doable, but tight.

Our friend Anwarul, whom we had met in Orlando during home leave in September, greeted me at London Heathrow Airport. I had a fifteen hour layover on the horizon and the thought was that, as Anwaral's home in Henley-on-Thames was kind of far from the airport,  we would have a proper fish and chips dinner, do a little nighttime sight-seeing, and dance/drink the night away so that I could collapse into a peaceful slumber on the second leg of this journey and he could fall asleep on the tube and probably miss his stop and end up at Downton Abbey.  Or something.  I don't now where the tube lines end.  (Fortunately, as this plan was formed prior to my knowledge of the in-flight programming) I discovered mere days before my journey that Gavin, a friend from our years living in Orlando, happened to be in London that same week for a Monty Python concert.  The plan changed from dancing all night to bumming a free place to crash until morning so that I could get a decent night's sleep as any self respecting 34 year old should do.

Anwarul and I still opted for a little nighttime sightseeing and a fish and chips dinner.  But first we stopped at Paddington Station so I could pose with...Paddington Bear!

The places Anwarul had wanted to go were either closed or super crowded, so we went to...McDonald's.  BUT!  It was a McDonald's with a view.  I had the Filet-o-Fish and fries, because I thought it would be funny.  It was.  But not tasty.  Here I am in front of the London Eye.  I had wanted to ride it since my study abroad trip in 2001, but I didn't have time then and I didn't have time now. No worries; TJ and I would be returning for two weeks in September.  I'd probably ride it then.  (Spoiler:  I didn't.)  You'll notice how dapper Anwarul looks.  I told him that, when picked at the airport, I always expect my greeters to arrive in suit and black hat.  And that's just what he did!  He says it happened to be what he had worn to work that day, but I choose to believe it was all for me.

Anwarul was kind enough to accompany me all the way to Gavin's hotel to ensure that I wouldn't get lost during the many station changes.  Before parting ways, he even mapped out my route back to the airport.  I then proceeded to enjoy a cocktail and a chat with Gavin before retiring at a decent hour, while Anwarul missed the last train and ended up on a terribly long bus ride before arriving home at quite an indecent hour.  Sorry, pal!

The next morning I awoke refreshed and scurried off to the airport.  This leg of my journey would clock in somewhere between 10 and 11 hours and take me to visit my parents in Texas.  I hopped into my seat and immediately began watching the next episode of "The Walking Dead."  I wasn't sure if I'd be able to finish the series, when suddenly a..."miracle"...happened.  The captain made a series of announcements over the course of the NEXT TWO HOURS regarding flight delays.  I won't bore you with the details, but it involved two wheelchair-bound passengers, a broken ramp, a jammed door, a lost spot in the take-off queue, and a long line for departure.  

After calling TJ to ask if he would first notify my mother of the delay and then call my friend Patrick, who was going to drive 170 miles from Houston just to have a quick dinner with me because he was supposed to visit us in Jerusalem but then cancelled his trip due to the summer war, and tell him that now *I* had to cancel because of the flight delay, I sat back in my seat and watched 10 episodes of "The Walking Dead" and two episodes of "Pawn Stars," followed by several uninspired rounds of Pac-Man on the seat-back's touch screen.  In hindsight, I should have napped.  The jet lag would stay with me for two weeks.  

By the time I landed at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, it was around 6:30PM...or 2:30AM the following day by Jerusalem time.  I couldn't find my parents.  I didn't have cellular reception.  I feared that they had gone to the wrong airport.  After walking up and down the International Arrivals corridor a couple of times, I walked the length of the Arrivals pick-up sidewalk.  I finally located them at the domestic Arrivals gate, where they were growing equally concerned by the fact that no flights from London were showing up on the board.      

I spent Saturday evening through Wednesday morning with my parents.  For the most part, it was a relaxing visit filled with good foods and good company.  We ate.  We drank.  We reminisced.  My aunt came to visit.  My mom's dogs barked...a lot.  We went to Best Buy and looked at the technology that has been passing me by whilst living overseas, and passing my parents by whilst they don't regularly go to Best Buy.  Apparently, televisions are curved now.  Why?  I don't know.  I still haven't been able to explain it to TJ.  My dad showed me the newest classic Chevy that he was restoring.  Mom took pride in showing me her rock garden.  I visited my old college town.  I crawled through the barn and looked at my old toys.  I laid them all out and smiled.  As many as there were, I knew that many more had been sold off at one garage sale or another (with my permission, of course) over the years.

As much as I had wanted to, as much as I had planned to, I didn't tell any of my old friends that I was home.  I was nervous and sad and too anxious to do anything but spend time with my parents.  

While I was safe at home with mom and dad, TJ was once again assisting American citizens that were departing Gaza.  Rockets were exploding overhead, shattered glass and concrete rubble were everywhere.  Cell reception and battery power were not our friends that day, and I had minimal contact with him.  It wasn't until he made it home that I was able to relax.  The experience shook him to the core.  The following weekend, while I was in San Diego, he skipped town and visited Prague.  He just needed a break.

That was fine by me.  There had been talk over the last couple of weeks about sending family members back to the US if the conflict worsened.  I was worried that the order would be given while I was stateside, restricting my return while requiring TJ to remain behind to continue his work.  The thought of this made me sick.  I didn't want to be separated.  I hadn't left because of fear.  I just wanted to go geek out for a few days with my friends.  I wasn't able to truly enjoy my trip until TJ landed in Prague and I knew that, if any such order was given, we'd at least be locked out of Jerusalem together.  

Throughout all of this, my mother experienced her first (and hopefully last) cancer scare.  Tests had been run prior to my arrival, but the results would not be ready until after I had beens scheduled to return to Jerusalem.  I suspect she planned it this way deliberately so as not to dampen the mood of my visit, as I went running to her side the last time there was a medical concern.  She was in good spirits, and seemed to be in a positive frame of mind, but it was still cause for alarm.  Should I stay and await the results?  Should I go to San Diego and then come back if the worst was confirmed, or would she be better served if I went back to Jerusalem, and return home for treatments?  In the end, she was optimistic that things would be fine, so I continued with my planned trip, knowing that I could always return if necessary.  

Jet lag combined with the external stress contributed to wonky sleep patterns.  I found myself unable to fall asleep earlier than 2AM, but wide awake by 6:30AM.  Eating patterns mirrored the time zone I was inhabiting, so that was a plus. 

Early....so, so early...on Wednesday, July 23, my parents drove me back to Austin, where I flew to San Diego International Airport via a connecting flight at Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport.  

The entire flight was filled with convention goers.  You could just...tell.

An obese, introverted geek sat to my left, an average, friendly, extroverted geek to my right.  When the flight attendant walked the aisles and asked that we buckle our seat belts, I could not find mine.  I turned to the large fellow beside me and had the following conversation.

"I think you are sitting on my seat belt."

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, could you check?  I kind of need it."

"It's not important."

"No, really, it is.  She just said so.  Get. Up. Now."

"Oh. Here it is."

"Yeah."

I then turned to my right and did something I have never done before:  I conversed with a stranger on an airplane.  We talked for the duration of the flight about all sorts of nerdy, geeky, dweeby things.  I don't believe careers or family or other hobbies ever came up, because we were going to comic con and who had time to talk about real life, am I right?

My flight landed at 10:00AM...or 8:00PM Jerusalem time.  In the course of five days, time around had shifted by two, eight, and, finally, ten hours.  My internal clock had not yet adjusted.  It would never accomplish this task.

But Comic Con had officially begun.  

The Worst Thing About Getting Older...

...is that your parents do, too.

The end of January leading up through the end of February was just about the busiest, most worry filled month I believe I've ever had. Well, actually, I guess it all started in December. Or maybe it was years ago.

You see, my mother had been complaining of hip, leg, and lower back pain, pains she had attributed to a fall while walking on crutches during a recovery from a heel spur surgery that occurred so long ago that TJ and I were living in Florida at the time. Over the last couple of years, her primary care physician and chiropractor have bickered back and forth over the cause of the pain, with the PCP's vanity and/or ego preventing him from authorizing an MRI.

Meanwhile, fresh off of our cruise in November, TJ and I turned our attentions to the inevitable R&R that the State Department provides for its FSOs living in Mexico. Faced with the choice of taking another fun vacation or sucking it up and visiting family, we decided to kill two birds with one stone and invite my parents on a cruise. We were surprised when my parents, never ones for adventure, agreed to accompany us on a Western Caribbean voyage on the Carnival Triumph this April.

The only roadblock was my mother's crippling pain, which had reached the point that a trip to the mailbox and back was almost out of the question. My Aunt Sister (Sylvia, although I couldn't pronounce that as a toddler) was quick to inform her dear sister that if she couldn't enjoy a leisurely stroll through the produce aisle, she definitely couldn't board a cruise ship. Whether this was said out of familial concern or vacation jealousy, we'll never know, but it did give mom the courage to finally seek out a second opinion. She saw her new doctor on December 27th. An MRI was scheduled for the 29th.

On December 30th she received a call saying that she needed to come back in for a CT scan on January 2nd. This scan would ultimately confirm that my mom was suffering from a blocked aortic valve. She was told that a lifetime of smoking had finally caught up with her, and that the occlusion was the cause of her years of pain. After several appointments to determine whether or not she would need to have stents installed or undergo a more serious bypass, it was ultimately decided that the stents should suffice.

My parents were encouraged. Both quit smoking on the spot and even bought a treadmill, confident that my mom would be ready to exercise in no time.

I'll spare you the suspense of it all and assure you that the stents worked, neither parent has smoked since, and mom has started using her treadmill.

But I didn't know this at the time. What I did know was that this was the first medical emergency my family had faced since I graduated from Texas A&M in the spring of 2003 and fled the state. I also new that the last time I had seen my parents was November 2010, surpassing the once-a-year average we had attempted to maintain over the years. Sure, I would see them in April. And, sure, mom insisted that I shouldn't waste the money on such an expensive trip home. But would any of us be able to forgive me if something went wrong during the procedure and I wasn't there? Not likely.

I departed Guadalajara shortly after noon on February 7th and returned shortly after 8pm on February 14th, effectively missing TJ's birthday and Valentine's Day. But we had discussed it, and both knew it was the right thing to do. We're young (early 30's) and healthy (if not slightly-to-completely out of shape) and have plenty of birthdays and holidays left in us.

That first night, I watched my mom as she faked courage and optimism for the outcome of the following day's procedure, nervously arranging candy in a bowl as though it were a bouquet of flowers. I listened through paper-thin walls as she cried herself to sleep.

The following morning, the morning of the procedure, I sat in the back seat with my Aunt Sister while dad drove us to Austin and mom resumed her brave face from the evening before. We all went a little slack-jawed as the doctor, previously confident in an 80% chance of success, changed his tune to "I'll sure do my best." I sat in horror for the first hour of the procedure, having realized that after coming all this way, I had actually forgotten to kiss my mom and tell her that I love her right before the big event. Such a jerk.

Three hours in, and I knew she was going to be ok. I could just feel it. One hour later, and this was confirmed by the doctor. Four hours later, we were finally allowed to begin the hour-long drive home.

Throughout the remainder of the week, my mother spent her days recuperating on the couch. I would go on to have an enjoyable lunch with some high school friends and a wonderful day with an old friend from college (we'll get to that next time), but for the most part, I just lounged around the house.

I wasted time on my laptop and fiddled with my NOOK Tablet while my parents wasted time on their own laptops and channel surfed. I got to see American Idol for the first time in 2-3 years. I realized I'm not missing much. I got to see The Voice for the first time ever. I made TJ watch it on-line as soon as I got back to Guadalajara.

I took photos of the old house. I talked to my dad about all the cars he has built and/or raced over the years. I went to the Temple Mall, and left without entering a single store (Damn, I grew up in a small town). I spent one unexpected afternoon watching snow, having no chance of accumulating, drift hopelessly to the ground. I can't recall seeing snowfall in Texas since I was four years old.

I had hoped to bring with me delicious, healthy, low-carb recipes so that my parents could begin a new lifestyle, but all I managed was preparing one delicious meal during the seven days I spent at home.

Oh, who am I kidding? All of the meals were delicious. They just weren't healthy. But I've decided to cut my parents some slack. They've had a rough few months. They have faced their own mortality, they have quit smoking, and they have spent hours (and thousands of dollars) in hospitals.

Let them eat as they like for now. I know they'll do their best.

All told, I'm not sure my presence had much of an impact. But my mom is. She called me her good luck charm, and proudly reports that she is walking a mile each day on her treadmill. And as for that one healthy meal I managed to cook for them? She's recreated that once or twice, too.

I can't say that I walked away unscathed, either. TJ and I are eating healthier. I've lost almost 10lbs, and am running almost 5K every day in the park by our house. Maybe I'll complete that New Year's resolution after all.

A Tale of Two Monuments...and a Dawning Realization

I spent the first 23 years of my life living in Texas. At some point during my childhood, my parents took me on a trip to Houston so that I could see both The San Jacinto Monument and Battleship Texas. I was probably 10 years old or younger, and the memory has certainly faded over time.

Having lived in Northern Virginia for the last several months, I have had the opportunity to see The Washington Monument dozens of times. As it was the fresher of the two monuments in my mind's eye, I had grown comfortable in thinking that Washington was superior to San Jacinto.

That illusion was shattered today.

Standing at 570-feet tall and topped with a 34-foot tall star that represents the Lone Star Republic, The San Jacinto Monument dwarfs its 555-foot 5 1/8-inch tall counterpart in the District of Columbia.

Both monuments are accompanied by a reflecting pool. Here in Houston, the pool is 1,800 feet long by 200 feet wide, with a depth of 4-6 feet. Back in DC, the pool is 2,029 feet long by 167 feet wide, with a depth of 1.5-2.5 feet.

The intricate details found within the exterior architecture speak for themselves.

How is it possible that my memory was filled with visions of a San Jacinto Monument that was identical to the Washington Monument, but smaller and less maintained?

When I graduated from Texas A&M University in 2003, I vacated the state as fast as humanly possible. Despite having lived there my entire life, I desperately wanted...no, needed to leave. I hadn't travelled much as a child and felt stifled as a result. Having spent two summers studying in Europe and working in Orlando, I realized that there was an entire world out there to explore. And I set out to do just that.

Since then, I have only returned to Texas twice. The first time was to spend New Year's Eve 2008 with our friend Patrick here in Houston before making a quick stop to see my parents in Temple. The second time was for my uncle's funeral exactly one year later.

My parents have typically enjoyed visiting me in Orlando, and I have worked this to my advantage. If they come visit me once a year, that means I can selfishly use my vacation time to explore other parts of the world. That gravy train has ended for a variety of reasons, chief among them being that my parents are afraid of flying. My new globetrotting life is not conducive to them taking a road trip in their mobile home. Which they sold anyway. So that's strike one and two, all rolled into one. Strike three being that my father has recently sold his business, which he had been running since I was in Kindergarten. What kind of son would I be if I continued to expect them to visit me, when it will be much more practical for me to start returning the favor?

I saw my parents yesterday, but only for a few short hours. They made the 3+ hour drive from Temple to Houston to spend the day with me. I treated them to lunch at Wings 'n More, which I remembered fondly from my days at Texas A&M. Watching me pay the bill hurt my father's pride. In fact, he asked if I was trying to hurt his feelings.

My parents, above all else, have always been great providers. We weren't wealthy, but we were comfortable. My father was a successful small business owner, and I was an only child. As a result, I lived a childhood, and young adulthood, without want. I had more toys than you could shake a stick at. I was among the first to own a Nintendo...and its subsequent iterations. When I played high school football, they took out large advertisements in the game programs. College? Paid for. Cars? Ditto.

Financially speaking, I couldn't ask for better parents. But I grew up in Texas. Texas folk like to stay put. And, unless you're lucky, they don't tend to understand homosexuality. This lead to two distinct problems. 1) We didn't travel much, which only served to fuel my desire to explore the world, and 2) They didn't take to my being gay very well.

I wasn't disowned. I wasn't cut off financially. I wasn't loved any less. They just didn't understand. They still don't. It's possible they never will. We argue about it from time to time, and usually it's me that begins to fan the flames.

But you know what? When TJ and I applied for our mortgage, they helped with the down payment. They day we moved in, they sent "Welcome Home" flowers. Later, on a visit to Orlando, they gave us matching rocking chairs so we could sit on the porch together. Any time they see TJ, they show him just as much respect as they would if he were my wife. Sometimes I think they even like him more than they like me. Not a horrible problem to have, I suppose.

I guess that's all I can ask for. They aren't perfect. Neither am I. We fight like cats and dogs, but at the end of the day, I know that they love me. And I hope that they know that I love them in return. In my late teens/early twenties I had the misfortune of mistaking a potential lack of understanding on their part as justification for premature rebellion on mine. I wasn't a troubled youth. I didn't act out. I was just an Honors Student....with a bad attitude. And it certainly affected our relationship.

It must be hard for them. Whatever my reasons for doing so, I have effectively moved farther and farther away from them over the past seven years. Even though Guadalajara will be closer than either Orlando or DC, ease of travel is diminished. On some level, they must feel abandoned. On some level, I feel that I have abandoned them.

But life is meant to be lived, and it's up to the individual to determine how best to live that life.

My hope is that they realize that they raised a man that is happy with his life. Someone that has found another person to love. Someone that is able to explore the world just as he always wanted to do. Someone that is beginning to understand the importance of going home once in a while. Someone who now realizes that, whether it be your relationship with your parents or a faded memory of a local monument, maybe the past isn't as bleak as you remember it.

So, no, dad, I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings. I was simply trying to show how grateful I am for everything.

Six Flags Over Texas, FIFTY-Six Flags Over Me

Six Flags Over Texas is an amusement park in Arlington, Texas. The name of the park refers to the six nations that have had a hand in governing Texas throughout its history: France, Spain, Mexico, The Republic of Texas, The Confederate States of America, and the United States of America.

The Republic of Texas was dissolved on December 29, 1845, making Texas the 28th state to join the Union (side note# 1: my dearest Florida was number 27, joining on March 3rd of the same year).

The last Confederate flag was lowered on November 6, 1865 (side note# 2: Florida and Texas had both been members...not their finest moment, to be sure).

France, Spain, Mexico, and the United States are all that remain of these six nations.

Today, sometime after 3pm, TJ and I will find out if we will be living in one of them...or in one of fifty-two other countries that were on the bid list.

In my childhood, I never thought much about where the park got its name. All I knew was that I enjoyed going there. I loved the shows; the rides; the music; the food; the characters.

In my post-collegiate years, I never thought much about the shared past between Texas and Florida. I just enjoyed living in Orlando. I loved the shows; the rides; the music; the food; the characters.

Today, the follies of my past weigh heavily on me. I've never been much for politics or history. A terrible faux pas, i know. One that I now realize I must remedy. The outcome of today's Flag Day Ceremony is very much unknown. What is almost guaranteed is that, of the 56 flags hanging over my head, the one that TJ holds today will not be that of the USA. Will I be happy? Will I be sad? Will I know enough about the country to even know which of those emotions I am supposed to feel?

TJ and I spent a good amount of time reviewing our options, paying special consideration to the pet import restrictions, the language requirements (TJ must learn a foreign language to gain tenure), inherent dangers of the post, and any sort of bonus pay involved (money = good). When the flag is handed to him today, we will know immediately where it fell on our list of preferences...but that doesn't mean that I even begin to have a grasp on the situation.

But you can bet that I'll be doing some heavy reading in the weeks to come.