After four months of rushing from one event to another, I have found myself struggling to maintain the role that Leather has in my life. Leather is the crucible where my sexual identity continues to be formed. Together with my Zen practice, it is the foundation of my spirituality, the means whereby I approach the act of living moment to moment.
Between weekend events and other activities related to fulfilling my role as International LeatherSIR, my partner reminds me gently not to forget who I am as a Leatherman. "Don't forget why you do this," he says when I become too manic. "Don't forget your joy."
It is very easy to forget myself in the bustle of trying to live up to the standard of my title. Without this compass, the sincerity of my efforts begins to erode. This is the danger of all leaders and public figures, whether in the Leather Community or life in general.
This morning I sit next to my partner in Kauai. We are just feet away from the morning surf. I feel the healing ocean breeze and breathe deeply. And I feel concerns fall away with each wave. As we say in Zen, I feel a return to stillness.
I recommend pausing every now and then to all who work within our Community. Stop. Breathe. Returning to stillness allows us to remember who we are and why we give our time, our talents, and our energy. We allow ourselves to understand the brotherhood that is the foundation of Leather. Or, in the terms of the Islands, we begin to understand the spirit of "Aloha."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Procrustean Bed
According to Greek Myth, Procrustes guarded the sacred access to Eleusis from Athens. Within his stronghold he kept an iron bed upon which he forced those making the pilgrimage to spend the night. And if his guest did not fit the bed, Procrustes, being a smith by trade, would make him fit, working away on the guest's body with his hammer. In contemporary use, Procrustes bed serves as a metaphor for an arbitrary standard used to force conformity. That is, a standard that has been imposed on others in order to control access to knowledge and experience.
During my extensive travels, I have encountered many variations on Leather and protocols. In my hometown of Boston, the role of a boy has a more rigid standard than in Seattle. And in European countries, the relationship between a Sir and a boy are often closer to the the Master and slave paradigm. Protcols, the manifestation of the bond between a Sir and His boy, reflect such regional differences.
While writing books and giving workshops on the subject certainly has its place, we must remember that the traditions of Leather have always varied from place to place. To flatter the protocols of one club or region excludes the traditions of another, the imposition of history and tradition through a biased lens. Those of us who do not fit the heterosexual, white male American stereotype recognize a similar tactic in the interpretation of history. Still, some in our community believe that the existence of books on protocols and "Old Guard" culture can substitute for a firm foundation in Leather based on practice. And that these should be accepted as a measure of the authenticity of a Leatherman. A fundamental truth.
Fundmentalism forms the basis of a great deal of political and religious debate today not only in the United States, but also throughout much of the world. People tout the written word as canonic law and claim that variance from that law forms the basis for exclusion. I see such tactics used in the Leather Community, with books like "The Leatherman's Handbook" and "Mr. Benson" treated with the same reverence as the King James Version of the "Bible."
I do not mean to suggest that such texts do not have a place within our Community. On the contrary, they serve to record the authors' observations. The also act as guides in understanding our tradition, a finger pointing at the moon, as we say in Zen. We must remember, however, never to mistake the finger for the moon. No matter how authoratative these texts appear to be, we must understand them within the context of time, place, and privilege. A professional, white male would write a very different record of Folsom in the seventies than a young, blue-collar Transman struggling with gender identity. We must be wary in understanding any one point of view as the official record of an era. More important, we must avoid the acceptance of these texts as a Levitical code for contemporary praxis.
Claimed ancestory often acts as a corollary of the fundamentalist stance. In Leather and kink, claims as to authenticity abound. Men trace the beginnings of their Leather back as far as they can to substantiate their roles as sirs. I find this interesting. Twenty-five years ago when I began dabbling in kink not one of my tops made such claims. And when I joined the self-defined Community a few years later, not one recognized sir produced his pedigree. "And Joe begat Stephen. And Stephen flogged Michael. And Michael fist-fucked Christopher again and again."
Returning to the exercise of protocols, in my own Leather Family I have four boys. Each is very different from the other. To expect the same protocols ignores the identity of each. The alpha is a traditional Leatherboy. The second, a sub with a penchant for boots and bootplay. The third is a young, dapper sir who harbors a fetish for suits, and who insists on wearing argyle socks with his boots. And the newest is an experienced player who is openly Trans. Like the blind men and the elephant, I am different to each according to his experience and need. I am a Daddy. I am a Dom. I am an older Sir apprenticing a younger one. And I provide the companionship and security of an Older Gay Man. Although I have a few protocols that are universally recognized by all four, each boy has his own that have grown organically from his interaction with me.
What unites my Leather Family is not shared protocols or mode of dress. As Sir, I refuse to impose a set of Procrustean protocols on all four boys. Instead, we are united by the shared role that Leather/kink has relative to our identity.
In Christian lore we are reminded to "Judge not, that ye be not judged." In a similar fashion, we must remind ourselves to avoid the two-edged sword of Leather Fundamentalism. Just as Procrustes was ultimately subjected to the cold standard of his own iron bed, those who try to impose rules on others in the Leather Community may find themselves excluded by the strictness of their own measure.
During my extensive travels, I have encountered many variations on Leather and protocols. In my hometown of Boston, the role of a boy has a more rigid standard than in Seattle. And in European countries, the relationship between a Sir and a boy are often closer to the the Master and slave paradigm. Protcols, the manifestation of the bond between a Sir and His boy, reflect such regional differences.
While writing books and giving workshops on the subject certainly has its place, we must remember that the traditions of Leather have always varied from place to place. To flatter the protocols of one club or region excludes the traditions of another, the imposition of history and tradition through a biased lens. Those of us who do not fit the heterosexual, white male American stereotype recognize a similar tactic in the interpretation of history. Still, some in our community believe that the existence of books on protocols and "Old Guard" culture can substitute for a firm foundation in Leather based on practice. And that these should be accepted as a measure of the authenticity of a Leatherman. A fundamental truth.
Fundmentalism forms the basis of a great deal of political and religious debate today not only in the United States, but also throughout much of the world. People tout the written word as canonic law and claim that variance from that law forms the basis for exclusion. I see such tactics used in the Leather Community, with books like "The Leatherman's Handbook" and "Mr. Benson" treated with the same reverence as the King James Version of the "Bible."
I do not mean to suggest that such texts do not have a place within our Community. On the contrary, they serve to record the authors' observations. The also act as guides in understanding our tradition, a finger pointing at the moon, as we say in Zen. We must remember, however, never to mistake the finger for the moon. No matter how authoratative these texts appear to be, we must understand them within the context of time, place, and privilege. A professional, white male would write a very different record of Folsom in the seventies than a young, blue-collar Transman struggling with gender identity. We must be wary in understanding any one point of view as the official record of an era. More important, we must avoid the acceptance of these texts as a Levitical code for contemporary praxis.
Claimed ancestory often acts as a corollary of the fundamentalist stance. In Leather and kink, claims as to authenticity abound. Men trace the beginnings of their Leather back as far as they can to substantiate their roles as sirs. I find this interesting. Twenty-five years ago when I began dabbling in kink not one of my tops made such claims. And when I joined the self-defined Community a few years later, not one recognized sir produced his pedigree. "And Joe begat Stephen. And Stephen flogged Michael. And Michael fist-fucked Christopher again and again."
Returning to the exercise of protocols, in my own Leather Family I have four boys. Each is very different from the other. To expect the same protocols ignores the identity of each. The alpha is a traditional Leatherboy. The second, a sub with a penchant for boots and bootplay. The third is a young, dapper sir who harbors a fetish for suits, and who insists on wearing argyle socks with his boots. And the newest is an experienced player who is openly Trans. Like the blind men and the elephant, I am different to each according to his experience and need. I am a Daddy. I am a Dom. I am an older Sir apprenticing a younger one. And I provide the companionship and security of an Older Gay Man. Although I have a few protocols that are universally recognized by all four, each boy has his own that have grown organically from his interaction with me.
What unites my Leather Family is not shared protocols or mode of dress. As Sir, I refuse to impose a set of Procrustean protocols on all four boys. Instead, we are united by the shared role that Leather/kink has relative to our identity.
In Christian lore we are reminded to "Judge not, that ye be not judged." In a similar fashion, we must remind ourselves to avoid the two-edged sword of Leather Fundamentalism. Just as Procrustes was ultimately subjected to the cold standard of his own iron bed, those who try to impose rules on others in the Leather Community may find themselves excluded by the strictness of their own measure.
Also see Race Bannon's article "Leather Fundamentalism" at http://bannon.com/blog/
.Thursday, November 11, 2010
Epilogue to Asolando: Madison, Wisconsin
"Mom will be ok now. She has agreed to the feeding tube," my sister assured me. Feeling a great weight off my shoulders, I boarded the plane for Chicago, the first leg of my trip to the Northern Plains LeatherSIR/Leatherboy contest.
My daughter had called two days before, informing me that my mother had been admitted to the hospital with complications from a sinus infection. And, even though she did not look well, she should be fine. That was Wednesday. On Thursday, my mother was up, shuffling about, sitting in a chair. I called and talked briefly to her, her responses a quiet whisper.
Three hours later as I made my way to my connecting flight, I noticed three messages in queue. A sense of foreboding told me that things were not good. "She has refused the feeding tube and was not expected to last more than one week," my sister said.
I immediately called my mother's bedside. "Please put the phone up to her ear," I pleaded. And to my mother, I chanted over and over, "I love you. I love you. I love you." I could not stop. Then I turned my face toward the wall and cried.
I decided to continue on to Madison, Wisconsin.
Early the next morning I searched for flights. Nothing seemed to work. I sat quietly over my morning coffee. Nothing else to do but complete my commitment to the producer at Northern Plains, return to Seattle, and then fly out again to be at my mother's side.
Hours later I received the news that she was unresponsive. A half an hour after that, I glanced at the clock. "My mother just passed away," I said to Solomon, the boy accompanying me.
I am my mother's son. She was a woman of fortitude. A matriarch who taught me to be independent and strong like herself. Although I knew she disagreed with the life I led, she acknowledged my deep-seated belief in myself and my strong direction.
Saturday night I asked myself what my mother would have done in my shoes. I knew that she would have finished what she started. She was a woman of her word. With this in my heart, I dedicated my evening to her. I did an impact demo on my boy Solomon with boy Ian assisting, and then an intense whip demo on redwarrior. "If you aren't going to do it all the way, don't do it at all," my mother said again and again during my adolescent years.
As I write this, I am on a plane flying to my mother's funeral. I listen to her favorite music, Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto. I am empty and focus my energy on writing down my feelings. My partner sits next to me. He has made all the travel arrangements. Now securely by his side, I feel the intensity of my loss.
Intense play often requires us to go to a dark place and then be led back to the light by a trusted Sir. This type of play becomes a paradigm for facing death. During the nineties, I recall dungeon parties where we would acknowledge the loss of a close friend in play. Today, I draw on my Leather and my Zen to help me through each moment, trusting that this darkness will transform itself soon. I cannot escape the pain of this loss. And this is correct action.
A great deal of thanks to my Title Family boy Ian and redwarrior for their support in Wisconsin. To my boy Solomon for his deep sense of loyalty and compassion. And to my partner, Michael, for his constant strength.
My daughter had called two days before, informing me that my mother had been admitted to the hospital with complications from a sinus infection. And, even though she did not look well, she should be fine. That was Wednesday. On Thursday, my mother was up, shuffling about, sitting in a chair. I called and talked briefly to her, her responses a quiet whisper.
Three hours later as I made my way to my connecting flight, I noticed three messages in queue. A sense of foreboding told me that things were not good. "She has refused the feeding tube and was not expected to last more than one week," my sister said.
I immediately called my mother's bedside. "Please put the phone up to her ear," I pleaded. And to my mother, I chanted over and over, "I love you. I love you. I love you." I could not stop. Then I turned my face toward the wall and cried.
I decided to continue on to Madison, Wisconsin.
Early the next morning I searched for flights. Nothing seemed to work. I sat quietly over my morning coffee. Nothing else to do but complete my commitment to the producer at Northern Plains, return to Seattle, and then fly out again to be at my mother's side.
Hours later I received the news that she was unresponsive. A half an hour after that, I glanced at the clock. "My mother just passed away," I said to Solomon, the boy accompanying me.
I am my mother's son. She was a woman of fortitude. A matriarch who taught me to be independent and strong like herself. Although I knew she disagreed with the life I led, she acknowledged my deep-seated belief in myself and my strong direction.
Saturday night I asked myself what my mother would have done in my shoes. I knew that she would have finished what she started. She was a woman of her word. With this in my heart, I dedicated my evening to her. I did an impact demo on my boy Solomon with boy Ian assisting, and then an intense whip demo on redwarrior. "If you aren't going to do it all the way, don't do it at all," my mother said again and again during my adolescent years.
As I write this, I am on a plane flying to my mother's funeral. I listen to her favorite music, Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto. I am empty and focus my energy on writing down my feelings. My partner sits next to me. He has made all the travel arrangements. Now securely by his side, I feel the intensity of my loss.
Intense play often requires us to go to a dark place and then be led back to the light by a trusted Sir. This type of play becomes a paradigm for facing death. During the nineties, I recall dungeon parties where we would acknowledge the loss of a close friend in play. Today, I draw on my Leather and my Zen to help me through each moment, trusting that this darkness will transform itself soon. I cannot escape the pain of this loss. And this is correct action.
A great deal of thanks to my Title Family boy Ian and redwarrior for their support in Wisconsin. To my boy Solomon for his deep sense of loyalty and compassion. And to my partner, Michael, for his constant strength.
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