Mer Boy

There isn't much I can think of in life that compares to the experience of being an effeminate male, in poise, disposition, and outward expression; Even in the 21st century. And while there have been many notable strides made in recent years to better our livelihoods in general, we seem to have only begun, are light years away from where we could be, have merely touched the tip of the iceberg.

But you gotta start somewhere, right?

Me? I am biologically male, meaning I was born male at birth. My gender (which would presumably be masculine, according to societal standards), however, is malleable and unfixed, in that from one day to the next, just based on the way I'm feeling, determines how it is I carry and convey myself. The term, for those of you who are not familiar, is gender fluid (OR gender variant, gender queer, whichever you prefer). So while I am biologically male, I identify mostly as feminine (though I also harbor many traditionally attributed masculine traits). And for me, perhaps ironically, this has been the most constant trait of my body, mind, and soul.

The thing about gender fluidity is that it, at least for myself, can encompass more than gender identity, which I'm sure sounds pretty perplexing if you're on the outside looking in. There are some instances where it's felt on more of a physical level (because gender is essentially what is in your head, whereas sex is what is between your legs). On more complex days, sometimes I don't even feel entirely male (remember: male describes biological sex, masculine describes gender identity). Sometimes I assume a more female identity. Other days I'm an admixture of both. And there are times I feel I'm neither. But for the most part, I'm a feminine man. And there are many variables that contribute to that feeling: certain environments, specific types of people and my interactions with them, so on and so forth, can really illicit my instinctual reactions to position myself as I see fit. And it really never fails. At least, not since I was about 24.

I love to joke that one of the best things about being me is that there are absolutely NO LIMITS to my fashion choices. My closet consists of wardrobe I've picked from all over LA and online belonging to their respective "designated" men/women sections. In fact, if you took a peak into my closet, you'd probably conjecture that a heterosexual couple shares the space, seeing as to how I have dresses and leggings, makeup and high heels, tennis shoes and T-shirts, men's button-ups and dress pants. And comically enough, I actually own more high heel shoes than I do anything else. haha It’s a challenge, learning how to always be yourself, I’ll agree. But conversely, it is also so rewarding and a whole lotta fun, if only you’d allow yourself that kind of freedom in which you deserve.

Which leads me to my last point. For anyone out there reading this who’s like me, have faith and trust me when I say: it is ALWAYS worth it. Always. I understand the fear and reluctance, growing up and being raised, more or less, in a society and home that would rather you were someone else. But as cliché as it may sound, at the end of it all, all you really have is you. All you have is you, and time stops for absolutely NO. ONE. Please remember that. If it’s any time to start living, it’s now. Because you don’t wanna wake up one day 50 years from now and finally "get it", hopelessly wishing that you could have done it over and done it better and done it differently. It’s hard, but it wasn’t meant to be any other way. Why fight it when you’re so beautiful?

Inward & outwardly,



Reki*

Angels Cry (A Mother's Love)

Very few experiences in my life have been as painful as my mother’s death, over five years ago. In fact, to this day, I’d argue it has cemented itself as perhaps THE most anguishing of them all. And though she may be gone, I very much remain the same mama’s boy I was when she was alive. Not to say that we didn’t have our disagreements (many of which were major), or that we didn’t have any serious rough patches, because those were plenty, it’s just that I remember reaching a point in my adolescence (particularly when I almost committed suicide and she was away in Michigan with my Grandmother helping care for my Aunt who was first diagnosed with cancer) when I realized how irreplaceable she is, and just how much I really need her. That pivotal point back in 2009 was to refine my abysmal perspective for good. And I couldn’t be happier looking back knowing that it had to happen.

You see, my mother was not without her flaws, faults, and imperfections. But please understand when I say: she was a fucking saint. Yes. I said it. And I meant it. Not only that, but she had what appeared to me as impenetrable strength, coupled with a heart that truly knew no bounds. Her love and devotion were works of art, and her loyalty and dedication were mere marvels. Her smile and laughter provided so much hope in even my most despondent moments. Her hugs and kisses were literal medicine. 

I can’t quite iterate just how much she hurt me when she died; how taking ALL of that away from me and the family in a matter of months, leading up to the very seconds right before she inspired her last breath, shattered something within me that I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to piece back together. Even a whole five years later, I can’t believe just how I ever got this far knowing that I can’t call her anymore for council, life advice, or to simply hear her talk. And it is such an ongoing process, learning how to live with the fact and [it] NOT "getting easier with time," as too many say. Because that’s just it–It doesn’t really get easier. At all. You just have to learn to adjust.

I used to dream about her almost every night when she first died. Now, I’m lucky if I see her sporadically. I knew back then that there were places she had to go that we as a family would never be able to understand or answer until perhaps we ourselves pass away. And it transformed so much of my own life and understanding of it that from that point on I knew I would never be the same again. Some of the deepest and most profound truths found their ways into the cracks and voids of my being she left when that fateful day came.

And as with most everything else, I found that writing about her makes everything a bit more feasible to digest. Through my mother’s death, I was able to exorcise a lot of the emotions that really drowned out much of the light within me, because most of all, it killed much of that same hope her smile and laughter used to give me. Through writing, I was able to share with her and the powers that be my cognitive processes, siphoning every earthly feeling I could through the ends of my pen in an effort to heal so much of what has been broken. I didn’t even know I could harbor such copious amounts of hurt.

I’ve since become a much better writer because of her. It has inspired some of my darkest work: things I would never give myself the opportunity to even come close to acknowledging impertinent to her demise, revolutionized ways of thinking and seeing the world, but ultimately, a more grounded and truer, more appreciated way of loving those around me. Because who knows what the future holds? I never would have imagined as a child that I would have lost my mother at such a young age. But life comes at you fast. And as it goes, she taught me and my family that even in death, the ties that bind can never be broken, even in spite of the fact. That even though her death came so early, there’s STILL so much life left to live, whether here on this earth as we currently are or somewhere else out into a realm we’ve only yet to truly ever know, where she is. And until that day comes, I suppose I can rest easy knowing that. 

Until that day comes, I can live the rest of my life understanding and honoring it, above all else.

Reki*

Still

The gift of music is quite literally the meaning of my entire existence, in all its various definitions (and trust me, there are probably too many. haha). I’ve said it so many times before (on this here blog) that it is the purest part of my convoluted identity.  It is the piece of me that I always come back to when I begin to feel a little bit lost in the world.

I believe that everyone on the planet has at least one talent imparted upon them from the creator(s) of our universe. And whether we’re passionate about these talents or not is a different story, as I believe that these innate skills (when coupled with said passion) are the things we are placed on this planet to do. Our talents give us purpose. These very things appear to be not only virtuous and benevolent, but are more notably the things we leave the womb not only knowing how to do without prior knowledge or training, but do exceptionally well, above all else.

From what I can recall from my own life, I was singing and dancing before I was speaking and walking, if I may embellish a bit. I’m not entirely sure how it is I “learned” about these talents, more so, it seemed that the family around me reacted rather positively to the kinds of sounds and movements I was naturally producing. Mariah Carey’s “Always Be My Baby” from her 1995 album Daydream was arguably the very first song I knew and sang by heart. I remember my father constantly encouraging me to do so, as he used to love when I would sing along. And as he and my mother could see, the joy I felt mimicking what is now one of my all-time favorite artists to this day, was unprecedented in comparison to anything else my little mind was soaking up.

In terms of dance, Janet Jackson was always someone that I really admired. Her precision and legwork was and still is so entrancing. I can’t even count on hands and feet how many times I would dance in front of the body-length mirror in the bathroom to the likes of “Rhythm Nation” and “Miss You Much”. It was something that always felt like gave me wings. And again, my parents were always (and still are) so supportive. I think they recognized much earlier than I did that through song and dance, I understood what it means to be happy and to feel whole.

As I grew into a young boy, to pre-teen, to adolescent, and now, to (young) adult, my aspirations have always been very lofty and somewhat otherworldly, aiming for stages all over the city of LA, lending my voice and dance wherever I could. Stardom is ultimately what I am STILL after and no rain or fire is gonna stop me, as I’ve been going over six years strong now, and continue to climb totem poles in my industry. Classmates in high school used to openly laugh at and mock me when I would tell them what I planned to do with my life following graduation. The gag in all this is that those same people NEVER left that one-horse town. Many are now divorced, single parents, hating their jobs, etc., etc. etc., meanwhile, I’m a published author, I’ve recorded and released countless singles, a mixtape, am headed back into the studio, have performed at some of the largest events LA and San Diego have to offer, am an advocate and activist for change and participant in my respective communities, and so on and so forth.

However, I don’t aspire to fame and repute out of mere gluttony and desire for vacuous admiration and inane vanity. I’ve always believed in the good of the human heart. And I still believe that when you pair art with healing, you get divinity in motion. I still believe in my own, even after all I’ve already been through.

And much of what I’ve already accomplished isn’t to gloat, but really, to prove a point. My love for all things artistic and my endless endeavors have and continue to carry me into some pretty incredible places I used to only dream of (and in a sense, still do). And what’s perhaps even more humbling for me is that, at one point, this was all really just a dream. That’s all it was. I do what I do because I love it, but also, to set an example to everyone watching that it doesn’t matter what you love, so long as you love at all. It doesn’t matter what people think or say, so long as YOU know who you are and what you’re capable of, even what your perceived limitations are (don’t read too much into that). It’ll never matter what the critics say, because as the saying goes, statues are never erected in their honor anyway.

So go and create a legacy. Go forth and utilize your talents to leave some kind of mark. Be someone’s hero. Hell—be your own. It’s what we deserve after all, isn’t it?

Reki*

Heart of Glass (Nine Lives)

Few things in life are as painful as heartbreak, to any capacity, in my opinion. And while I don’t consider myself to be a dreary person, I’ve always harbored somewhat of an interest in it, as emotions tend to dictate much of what I do in my day-to-day life; and they certainly are the driving force behind my creativity.

This isn’t, of course, to say that I’ve never experienced fulfillment when it comes to matters of the heart. It just seems to me that ruminating over something as convoluted as heartbreak not only comes so naturally to someone as effusive as myself (perhaps because I’ve felt it more and for longer amounts of time than I have conversely), but it also appears to be a subject most people don’t care much to speak about, and for many valid reasons. With that being said, even as emotionally developed and intelligent as I am, I’ve found that listening to others, primarily other artists, speak of their first-hand accounts, helps me to further uncover what much of my own really means. By hearing others' stories, I apply some of their lessons to myself, and the bigger picture comes into sharper focus. Needless to say, I’ve learned that this is also such a universal and effective way to relate to each other.

I like to think of myself as a cat. I’ve got nine lives. And each time something broke my heart and pulled the rug out from under me, I lost a life. (I’m currently down five of them. haha) I will say, however, that it wasn’t until I was 19 and on my 7^th life that I knew what romantic heartbreak really was.

I had just graduated high school. I knew that there was a much better life for me outside the parameters of my hometown there in Missouri. So I left for California. I opted to move into my Uncle’s home in Delano, alongside my grandparents and two young cousins. It was time for me to hit the reset button on my life. And back then, myspace was still a social media Goliath (though it was beginning to wane in popularity). I remember creating a brand new account. And once I did, I began searching for all of my same friends, so as to keep in contact with them as I settled into everything. For reasons I still cannot completely explain, I recall searching for this one particular person who virtually befriended me when I was still in my home state and in high school (going through the worst of life I’d known at that point), who lived in Oxnard, which I later found was actually about 3 or so hours away from my new home, headed north. Alas, I found him and re-added.

Maybe it was somewhat of a comfort in foreign territory being able to point out a “familiar” face, so to speak. I remember that he used to comment on my page and photos frequently. I figured there would be no harm in actually interacting with this individual. After all, even if I made new friends far away, at least it was a start. At least we were in the same state. haha

What commenced as an innocent exchange over the internet slowly morphed into a pursuit, with him comfortably and confidently expressing such, so much so, that we had eventually traded numbers/BBM (BlackBerry Messenger) pins (BlackBerry still had some clout back then too) and spoke on the phone almost every day and for hours at a time. What was perhaps the most confusing out of all of this for me was that I remember thinking of him as someone I didn’t think physically attractive right out the gate (I was pretty shallow, if we're being upfront). It took a lot of conversation, finesse, and humorous charm on his part to crack open what I had tried so hard to keep away from him that whole time: myself and the truth about who I was and what I had just experienced in high school and prior to moving away (2^nd time in my life I “died”, as lightly mentioned earlier).

It was very powerful, allowing myself to open up the way I did, and he made me feel so comfortable doing it. Somehow, in all of this, all the right things were said on both parts, and we grew so overwhelmingly attached to each other over such a short amount of time. The intensity only grew as the days passed. And without getting lost in all the minuscule details, had planned to meet each other here in Los Angeles, as we both knew it was where we wanted to live. (That’s about the only thing that has seemed to work out in all of this, even nine or so years later. haha)

Well, in the days leading up to coming out here to meet, Valentine’s Day came. He had surprised me with a mailed package full of gifts – I mean, some of the coolest things anyone could ever put together, and a poetic card. And even to this day, remains to be the only Valentine I ever had, the only time in my life anyone has ever done something like that for me. And because of the trauma I had lived through before all this, was so unexpected and even unbelievable that someone could care for me as much as he did. 

Because I didn’t even care for myself.

I was in utter awe to think that this was all happening. And so, as young kids tend to do, I fell so hard for him that day. I had reached a new level of infatuation. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I fell in love; but I most certainly was headed there. However, that was cut short, as a day after, an argument (over what, I don’t even remember) ensued and feelings were hurt, and ultimately, for him, extinguished.

I remember when he dumped me. He did it over text. And he did it when I was at work. I cried so hard in the restroom that day on my break, thinking about how close I came to my first relationship, feeling as strongly as I did for him, and knowing that it was all over from there. He just didn’t want me anymore. His mind was made up (such a Cancer). I suppose you could say that shock was greater. After all, how could this happen? Am I not what he wanted? Was it all just a game? Why me?

What happened from that point on, I believe, drove me a bit insane. Even as I moved back to Springfield the first time around , found myself in a perpetual state of anguish, reliving old conversations, replaying heartfelt memories, crying myself to sleep. There was nothing you could say to me. I was so emotionally wracked that I held onto him for years on end, believing that anyone else would pale in comparison (turned out to be pretty true) and vowed to stay away from romance altogether (kinda ended up actually doing that). 

It was pretty ugly for me. And very dark. But I knew as an artist that the only way out of this was to create about it. I wrote SO MANY poems and songs about him and what happened, how I felt. And while it took what felt like an eternity to completely exorcise him, it eventually happened. 

It changed me. It transformed me. I was never to be the same again. And while the pain subsided, I took rather sordid and perhaps cynical lessons from the outcome and how he treated me afterwards, with me moving forward. Heartbreak for me has always served somewhat as a reminder that not everything in life goes according to plan. What’s more, romance almost NEVER goes the way you want it, with who you want it to be, because to find someone that falls for you the same way, at the right place, at the right time, begins to feel more improbable as the years amass. It only gets harder and harder with social media, dating apps, instant gratification, etc. 

So here I am with only four lives left. I’ve grown reticent in many aspects regarding romantic interaction. And I’m not as impetuous with myself as I was when he and I got involved. If anything, I’m much more protected about things, simply because the thought of experiencing that again would probably take what’s left of those lives.

If anything, I’ll continue creating. I bet by now, you’re wondering who this mystery man is. Well, you can actually find out in my debut anthology A Boy Like Me, linked HERE: https://www.authorhouse.com/Bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?BookId=SKU-001153723

I have a whole chapter dedicated to him. Funny how things turn full circle, isn’t it? I went from being so forlorn and refraining from acknowledging it, to publishing the very thing that at the time, hurt me the most.

They say curiosity killed the cat. But my dear, satisfaction ALWAYS brings her back. And I am here.

Nine Lives, a Heart of Glass

Reki*

Sharing Is Caring: My Sexual Identity & What Coming Out Was Like For Me

When I was a child, I remember there always being certain inherent truths I recognized at some of the earliest points in my life. I was very precocious; there were many things I simply knew from birth (some of which I understood, others I didn't but still acknowledged), in that no one had to tell me, no one had to explain, and I never second guessed (for the most part).

Among these was my sexuality. And as a disclaimer, when I speak of my experience, I speak solely for myself and no one else. Because I know there are countless people out there who will read my sentiments and discount them. People by and large have this pronounced tendency to find discomfort with the words "sexuality" and "childhood" in the same sentence (regarding LGBT+ people). But throughout my life, I've encountered so many like myself, who have always known of their same-sex attractions.

I can recount an innumerable amount of times as a little boy (we’re talking toddler age range) that I was unspeakably attracted to the male sex: I was attracted to some of my favorite comic book characters, like Gambit from Marvel. I was attracted to Disney Princes such as Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid (my favorite). My very first celebrity crush was John Travolta from Grease, which I remember watching for the first time when I was maybe six or seven years of age. And when I would fantasize about being in these story lines, I always envisioned myself as the female lead/counterpart. And I was so enamored by the romance of it all, above all else.

It was not until I reached kindergarten that I encountered the language that described what I was feeling, which I quickly noticed was always used by my classmates as more of an insult than as a genuine descriptor of one's sexuality. Inquisitive as children tend to be, me seemingly most of all, I followed my nose, asked some questions, and discovered what GAY means. And while it was recognized as the very thing that could quite literally kill me, there was still some semblance of bravery within me to also recognize how revolutionary it was to now KNOW. And while acceptance came MUCH later, this particular acquisition was such a radical concept and key puzzle piece to a much larger picture that abetted my coming out.

That happened at 15, in 2005, heading into freshman year of high school. I decried the life I allowed myself to live preceding its commencement by essentially hard resetting myself, meaning I physically changed my look and also because the same people that had bullied, taunted, and ridiculed me in middle school (mostly) and (sometimes) in elementary school would not be attending the same high school as me. I was actually a transfer student at Pershing (different story for a different day, as you've probably got questions), so I felt an intense sense of relief knowing that I would attend Parkview instead of Glendale. (I came out later and separately to my parents on two distinct occasions that were also separate themselves. But we'll save that for later.)

Even to this day, I'm cannot discern where the courage sprouted from, but all I do recall is meeting SO many new people and pushing myself towards the truth. I still cannot verbalize it. This alone is how and why I still choose to believe in the magic within me and within all of us--it is ALWAYS there, even when we don't see or feel it. And I intuited that if I were to spend the next four years somewhere, I might as well give myself what I deserve and actually ENJOY it. And while I was fearful in the beginning, the more I did it, the easier it became; And to my own shock, saw that the majority of my schoolmates really took no issue with it--even many of the guys I knew or became acquainted with (though not to say there was no homophobia, because there definitely was). In fact, the more I honed in on my confidence, the more people respected me. The bullying that ravaged so much of my life before then was no longer present. It was entirely gone. And anytime someone felt the inclination to say anything, I had backbone enough to actually SPEAK UP and stand up for myself. I quite literally was no longer afraid. It's still one of the most bizarre things to try and wrap my mind around--how I went from shy and unbelievably trepid, a punching bag of sorts, to somewhat of my own hero. When people asked, "are you gay?" upon meeting me and engaging in conversation, I would always respond with such affirmation and poise, "yeah." Sometimes I would even flash a bit of a coy smirk. For the first time in my life, I felt that one of the oldest and most definitive aspects of my lived experience was no longer a deterrent or handicap, but empowering and even a bit pioneering, if I'll reach. Because it does not go without saying, from freshman year all the way to graduation, I was basically the ONLY out kid in my graduating class. Many of my peers who were in the same grade and also LGBT+ did not come out until much later in our high school careers or even after it. My decision to live life as myself in terms of my sexuality only led to even greater personal breakthroughs, most notably those revolving around my meticulous queer identity. It was really only the beginning.

In my own self-reflections, I've amassed a bit of curiosity in these types of conversations regarding other LGBT+ people. I'd love to hear from y'all. Tell me: what was coming out like for YOU? Feel free to share, as it’s always invited. It helps us build a stronger community. And you can never go wrong with that, right? Everybody needs a friend. :)

Love & Light Because It's In All of Us,

Reki*