I try not to play politics. I like to believe that I can talk to folks on both sides of the aisle. However, I seem to be falling back into my younger, angrier, more partisan ways.

Or perhaps it’s just too damn easy to make fun of David Vitter.

In his latest newsletter, Senator Vitter has posted the photo above, with the caption, “Here I am pictured with representatives of the Louisiana Green Building Council when they came by my DC office to talk about the efforts and goals of their organization.” Of course, in the newsletter, there’s no story about the meeting or what came of it, just the photo — complete with Vitter looking as if he’s counting the seconds until he can slam the door in these treehuggers’ faces.

Below the image and caption, there are stories about Vitter’s attempts to prevent federal dollars from going to ACORN and the importance of drilling for oil on the Outer Continental Shelf (which even the conservative Washington Post considers a bad idea). On Vitter’s thoroughly delightful website (which, yet again, fails to match up with the teaser links in the newsletter, which, yet again, leads me to believe that the site is designed by Vitter himself), much of the other news has to do with remembering Hurricane Rita, Vitter’s disappointment that no one — not even his cronies — liked his “anti-czar” amendment, and his efforts to prevent housing support from reaching, you know, people in public housing. Stay classy, Dave.

Also, Dave hates the gays. Not a good thing in my Little Pink Book.

Not so long ago, I’d just let all this pass. But now, I feel like I did in my 20s: angry and impatient. If I have to hear Vitter or Glenn Beck or even our governor (whose top labor official is telling everyone within earshot that Louisianans are too damned smart) spout nonsense about all the “freedoms” we’re losing under Obama, I may go ballistic. Seriously, people: enough with making socialism a scapegoat. I refuse to demonize Sweden.

I’m just sort of rambling here, aren’t I? I should probably quit while I’m behind.

In other news: I played tennis for the first time in two years last Sunday. My backhand, she still sucks.

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[ASPEXcorp via DRB]

It’s funny how the pieces come together. The little stuff you’ve forgotten, or the big stuff you’ve never really thought about. I’m not sure which this is.

Until my sophomore year in college, I spent a lot of time onstage, and much of that time was spent singing. I performed in community theater musicals and in the church choir and even managed to squeeze my way into my high school’s semi-elite show choir. I’m pretty sure that last one happened because I’m a decent dancer and I was moderately strong, and the director was always in need of male dancers who could throw girls around. Every time I see photos from that era, I’m reminded of the lyrics to that Smiths song, “Shakespeare’s Sister”: “I can smile about it now, but at the time it was terrible”. Except in my case, it’s the reverse: back then, it was kind of awesome. Now, I grimace.

Anyway.

In those days, I was given solos fairly regularly, mostly because there was an unwritten rule that every child in any choir had to have a solo now and then. The other kids loved singing alone, but it made me nauseated: I didn’t have a soloist’s voice, and I hated performing by myself because — believe it or not — I never enjoyed being the center of attention. I still don’t. Apart from my obvious lack of talent, that’s why I stopped singing long ago. Acting, too.

But despite my fears and my shortage of star quality, I did all that musical stuff, and I was the only one in my family to do so. My adoptive family never showed a lick of interest in anything musical (and it’s just as well they didn’t, because none of them can sing a note).

When I met my biological family — at least my mom’s side — the theatre stuff was an obvious match, but there’s a musical side to that family, too, that I don’t think I ever fully processed.* I was reminded of that today when my sister posted a scan of my biological grandfather’s business card. He was a New Orleans jazz musician named Stuart Bergen, though it looks as if he preferred to be called “Red Hott”. The card features a little devil — presumably my grandfather — floating over a lake of fire and wailing on a trumpet. It encourages the recipient to “BE DIFFERENT” at her/his next event and book my grandfather’s band.

Now, even if I wanted to have a musical career, I know I don’t have enough talent for it — not nearly as much as my grandfather or my sister or my other bio-relatives. But I have a little, which is far more than anyone in my adoptive family can say. And in a correspondingly little way, my grandfather’s business card is one more instance of my biological family putting me in context, making me less of a black sheep, explaining things from my adolescence that, looking back, seem kind of weird and out of place.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: I continue to be amazed by it all.

* For non-performing arts folks, the worlds of theatre and music may seem similar, but they are light years apart. You’ll have to trust me.

When I received an invite to interview Jack Mackenroth during his trip to New Orleans for the NO/AIDS Task Force‘s 20th anniversary walk, I was more than a little confused. I mean, (a) that’s not the sort of thing I normally do, and (b) if Jack’s PR company wanted media outlets to cover his “Living Positive by Design” HIV education campaign, I would seem like awfully small potatoes — especially compared to the traffic that Andy, Joe, and other LGBT bloggers could bring him. But whatever. I have a habit of saying “yes” a lot, and it seems to work out pretty well, so why mess with a good thing?

I tried to prepare a little before the interview, but even so, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect from the guy. I watched Jack on Project Runway, of course, but he left so early in the season that I didn’t get a feel for his personality. All I knew for sure was that he seemed a little over the top, a little dramatic — but then, that comes with the territory. The last thing you’d want on reality television is a zhlub of a contestant like me.

We met at a coffee shop on a busy corner in the Marigny. I thought the skies might be cloudy, but they weren’t — not at all. Still, Jack and the PR pros who accompanied him didn’t seem to mind the broiling sun. Jack plopped down with a bottle of water and proceeded to tell me about the “Living Positive by Design” campaign (which is sponsored by Merck), plus a little about his work in fashion. And of course, I had to ask about Dale. Who wouldn’t ask about Dale?

Anyway, enjoy the clip, for what it’s worth. And thanks to everyone — including Jack — who got their asses out of bed and went to the NO/AIDS walk this morning. Obviously, you rule.

So, yes: I survived the weekend with the family.

All in all, they’re a pretty innocuous bunch: quiet, soft-spoken, conservative. (Very conservative.) Thrifty, though most have good jobs and could afford to spend a little. (And live a little.) In other times, they might’ve been the sort to iron their jeans. Today, the boys stay in to watch NASCAR and football, while the girls go out shopping. They’re a lot like the family on that Reba McEntire show, but without all the shouting and Reba McEntire.

Despite that — despite their low energy, despite their fear of conflict, despite their worries about expressing an opinion that might differ from the other people at the dinner table (that’s “dinner” in Southern vernacular, meaning “lunch”) — I love them in my own way. I’m particularly fond of my father, who’s a completely different person now than the man I knew as a kid, which is a very good thing. My father used to be angry, bitter, exceptionally narrow-minded. I’m guessing that’s because he was married to my mother who was and is enough to drive Baptist deacons to drink. (Even my father, who is, as it turns out, a Baptist deacon.) Since their divorce, dad’s gotten better, and with his new wife — his third — he’s best of all. She’s smart, gainfully employed, a great cook, good company, and a great partner for dad during his golden years.

However, I think I’ve reached the end of my rope.

Somehow, this weekend was different. My family and I, we didn’t do anything out of the ordinary, but at supper on Saturday night, I had a lightbulb moment, and I saw my family the way that a stranger might see them. They were not terribly attractive.

Some backstory: all my life, I’ve been around people of color. For the first 12 years or so, most of those people were hired help, like my babysitter, or the farmhands with whom I fed the cows and hoed around trees in the pecan orchard. Even so, most of them treated me more humanely than my family — at least they really talked to me — and I respected them in return. In fact, I loved my babysitter, Marshalene Ducksworth (I kid you not), as much as my own mother.

When I got older and enrolled at the public junior high, my circle of peers became far more diverse. (The student body at my elementary school was as white as Sean Hannity’s teeth. Which is perhaps the most appropriate similie I’ve ever written.) At the same time, I started noticing that at dinner, much of my family’s conversation revolved around racial issues, and the “N word” was a frequent guest at the table.

Of course, I’ve never been especially shy about speaking my mind, and I took my family to the mat on those occasions. I pointed out to my father that he depended on people of color for his help, his clients, his livelihood. He resented being called out, but I think he knew I was right, even though he didn’t change his habits. The subject continued to come up, but being the forgiving type, I wrote off dad’s chatter as the product of nervousness — nervousness about a changing world that was vastly different from the Mississippi of the 1950s in which he was raised.

Twenty years later, dad may have become more sensitive to race issues, but the dinner-table talk remains. The “N word” isn’t tossed around much — or as much — but still, many conversations revolve around what’s “black”, what’s “going black”, and what’s “still good”. The curious and unsettling thing is, it’s not my father who’s doing the talking anymore; it’s my brothers and even younger people. It’s my friends who stayed behind in Mississippi. I used to want to write off such casual racism, I used to think everything would change in time, I had faith that future generations would see that this was wrong and they would fix it. That hasn’t happened.

For some reason — really, I don’t know why — all the talk this weekend struck a chord with me, leaving me frustrated, angry, and unsure of what to do. I don’t enjoy being caught up in that oppressive atmosphere, and I certainly don’t enjoy making Jonno endure it. But at the same time, I feel like I’ve done all I can to convince my family that their attitudes need adjusting. And I know I’ve done all I can to ignore it.

I’m sure I’ll still see my family, I’m sure I’ll still go home, just maybe not as much.