Maya McComas

Personal Narrative

I have learned over the years that I have a secret desire, a desire to preserve every moment in my life as accurately as possible. When I say “accurate” I don’t actually mean remembering the events and how they happened, I mean more of an accurate memory of how I felt. How does one do this, you might ask? Well there are three ways.

The first is to keep a journal. Yes there was a time in my life I abused the freedom of having a journal and wrote nothing but love notes to the popular boys in shcool, but now I think I’ve got it right. Write down every time you feel alive. But Maya, I’m always alive. Yes, that you are, but when do you actually consciously think to yourself “Damn! I’m flipping ALIVE!” It’s probably not as often as you might think. I have reserved the journal as a sort of coin collection of these moments, and it was the best damn idea I’ve ever had. The first time my lips ever graced those of a boy I wrote it down.

Jan. 19^th, 2006

OMG. It finally happened . . . I kissed a boy. But . . . It sucked! Why does everyone like this? He hit his braces on my teeth . . . ugh it was actually kind of gross. Maybe I did it wrong . . .?

            This wasn’t a firework inducing moment in my life, no, but it was a moment. Times when you feel alive aren’t always going to be chocolate icing on the cake good. Sometimes they are waving at someone who doesn’t wave back kind of awkward. But the fact is that it makes you feel something, and that something is strong enough to remind you that your heart is indeed, still beating. I am beyond excited to go back through all of the journals I’ve kept in my life when I’m 80 and re-experience all the ups in downs of my journey through life.

            Now the second way is far more common, taking pictures. I can’t remember a time I went somewhere and didn’t take any pictures. I’ve gone so far as taking “selfies” in the Dentist’s office right before I got my wisdom teeth out (and this was only three weeks ago). I actually might have an addiction to clicking the little black button on the camera, it just feels so . . . right. They say that if you take a picture of something you remember it less but I choose to ignore that. How can you remember less when you have an actual image frozen in time that you can look back at forever? The displaying of these pictures is perhaps the best part. If you were to walk into my room, you would have an overload of hundreds of faces staring down at you from the walls. If you asked me what the color of my walls are, I couldn’t tell you. It’s been that long. When you are surrounded by that many memories you never have a chance to feel alone. They allow you to go back to a specific place and time and visually relive the experience.

            The third way is to film things. When I say “things” I really mean everything. You never know what’s going to make an interesting shot or what’s going to trigger a memory somewhere down the road. A really great place to start practicing you filming skills is a night of drinking with your friends. That’s cruel, Maya, what’s wrong with you? I know, I know, but hear me out on this one. While your filming, most people want to be on camera while intoxicated (because for some reason most people turn into a much nicer version of themselves) and no one is camera shy. This is great news to any videographer, because there is nothing worse then a conversation on film like this:

            Videographer starts filming Person 1.

            Person smiles for 10 seconds like they are posing for a picture.

            Videographer: “Oh its not a picture, it’s filming.”

            Person: “Oh, uh, ok. Um hi Mom!”

            Videographer: “Just act natural, like I’m not here.”

            Person: “My butt itches.”

Avoiding these awkward moments on camera will allow for the most candid of memories. You could also just strap a Go-Pro camera to your forehead but I suggest going for the less obvious route.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGPsr26kR9A

Home, Morgan Kitzmiller

https://vimeo.com/90618642
Home
I find refuge in the silence that falls between the gusts of wind and the rustling of the grass. In the way you can hear your heartbeat and the sound of your breath, without interruption. In the way the stars shine ruthlessly after golden hour fades away. I find refuge in the mountains. They say home is where your heart is, and this, up here, is home.

            I remember pressing my face up against the glass window as we wound through roads lined with walls of trees that touched the sky. I would watch as my breath coated the window’s surface and trace my fingers in patterns and designs, peeking through the lines at the world outside. I came to be enthralled with the world around me- captured by the moon hanging in the night sky, absorbed in the deep blue that paints the air we breathe, and amazed by the vastness of the universe. Over the years, I came to love it. 

My best friends became family to me, and time after time, we would find ourselves wandering to the mountains. We would soar through fields of white powder beneath a sky of trees, bike for 6 hours to gaze upon whimsical sunsets, or even climb to the top of the world to watch the golden clouds make their rounds. Nevertheless, we would find ourselves snuggled together when those endless nights would turn to dust, and the lights hanging in the sky would be dismissed. It was the views, the experiences, and the company that made me the happiest person in the world. When you're surrounded by this amazing world, the endless skies, beautiful people and a mind at peace, there's no reason not to be. 

Moments like these have built up over the years, caught in feelings, friendships, eternal memories and photographs- because watching the sun kiss the horizon each morning and night from a mountaintop seems more like a dream than reality. And when dreams come true, you know you’re in a good place.

I once heard a quote that goes like this: “Find someone that makes you realize three things: one, that home is not a place, but a feeling. Two, that time is not measured by a clock but by moments. And three, that heartbeats are not heard, but felt and shared.” This is what the mountains mean to me. The peaks that serve as an attainable paradise, nestled in a sea of trees, warmed by the glow of the sun. This is home.

Cicada

In high school a woman read my palm to foresee my future. My lifeline said I had a “good” childhood but young adulthood was marked with a sharp change. I didn’t want to take her reading seriously, but something about the predicted change scared me. She had been right, I had a beautiful childhood, happy, loved, privileged and essentially spoiled. But sometimes my mom would act a little funny, getting overtly sad about something insignificant or extremely angry over almost nothing. But she would get out of her funk quickly and would go back to being my mommy. Sweet and selfless, I wouldn’t trade her for the world.

https://vimeo.com/88972263 

https://vimeo.com/88996102

I think that something I struggle with in my life is identity. I also have a bad habit of saying "I think" too much, probably because I am always thinking. My incessant need to think makes me question many components of my life, and sometimes I find that many of these thoughts and questions can be detrimental to my well being. I always find myself thinking about my identity, how I construe my identity in this modern day society, and how society has an effect on my identity. I identify as a half Korean half white male, as a Psychology and Studio Art major at the University of Colorado Boulder, as a young man who is attracted to the same sex, as a younger brother, as a son, as a friend to many, and as a youth in a confused generation.

One definitive characteristic of my identity that I struggle with the most is that I am gay. What makes this so difficult for me is the fact that I am not out to my parents. I am out to all my friends and to whoever asks, since it is something that I am not ashamed of, and nor should any one else be. I recently came out to my sister and it was a very invigorating experience, especially because she was extremely supportive. I never expected she would be so supportive, because she seems very similar to my parents; that is, she is very conservative, religious, and old fashioned. I have grown up with my parents always condemning homosexuality, especially my mother with whom I am quite close. I love my mother so much, but I cannot fathom ever telling her the truth about who I am.

I struggle so much with this because I do not want to hurt her. I know that I shouldn't let this hold me back from being who I am, but I cannot help but hide this from her. I am so scared of what could happen if I did tell her, especially now since she supports me financially. I know that she would not approve of my choice because she has never shown any signs of respect or has cared for people who identify as homosexual. Maybe I could be the person to show her and enlighten her to the idea that not all gay men lead an unhealthy hedonistic lifestyle that is portrayed by the media, and that not all gay men are feminine, weak, or not beneficial to society. But I just cannot make myself do it.

My very religious mother grew up in Post-war Seoul, South Korea. She developed a very strong stubborn attitude and way of life rendering her very rigid in her way of thinking. It is very frustrating, but I love her so much that I am not angry with her for being so conservative. I also understand that she has not been exposed to homosexuals that much in her life. I realize that her knowledge of gay life comes from television and mainstream news. My parents do not perceive gay rights to be a priority. My sister worries about me because she thinks that I will never truly be happy if I do not reveal my sexual identity to my parents, but she understands my struggle. I wonder if she knows the fear and frustration I truly feel, since she has not had to worry about hiding any part of her identity from our parents.

The reason why I think that I am a youth in a confused generation is that I am constantly questioning what it means to be a gay male today in contemporary culture? What does it even mean to be a "man," and does it really matter? No, it does not matter when it comes down to personal success and growth, but it seems that there is so much pressure on males to fulfill a stereotype of manliness. I am not the type of person to go around hating macho males, and I am not the type of person to preach against patriarchal dominance of any kind. However, I find it annoying that people are so whipped into believing and fulfilling the macho stereotype.  My parents’ identification with the macho stereotype is the reason I hide my identity., They are very inclined to believe and support the idea that all men should be manly. I am a firm believer that we should all be able to be who we want to be, love who we want to love, and strive to achieve any goal or aspiration that we desire. But my beliefs contradict those of my parents many others in this culture. If our culture continues to constantly promote this macho identity, then there is more incentive for gay people to hide their true identities, or try harder to mold themselves to a socially constructed norm.

I have never shared my sexuality like this, since it is still somewhat of a taboo topic, which it need not be. I am mostly happy with my choices and life, and feel comfortable with people assuming I am gay. But sometimes I wish that I could be myself without having to worry about what my parents would think about my sexual identity. Or maybe I am just thinking too hard and too much about a topic that is changing for the better now, which means less stress for me. Struggling with exposing my sexual identity to my family and noticing how our culture constructs identity for males and females are concerns that have been on my mind for some time. I hope that others will be able to feel comfortable enough to express their sexual identity without shame, especially to their families.

A Family Outing

When I was 8 years old my family and I lived in Broomfield Colorado. We lived on the 13^th hole of a golf course.  It was a nice subdivision to live in. Occasionally during the evening residents in the subdivision would go out with their families after the golf course had closed and spend time either putting on the green, relax on the side of a bunker, or have family time. After all this golf course was the backyard.

                I remember one evening like it was yesterday.  We all went to our “backyard” as usual. My sisters and I took our putters to practice on the green with our mom and dad. We decided to have a putting competition.  The game was reaching the end when I saw an older man in a golf cart zooming towards us. I told my dad and he said not to worry about. But as the cart got closer and closer I could tell he was looking straight at us. When he pulled up to the green he jumped out of his cart. His eyes burned as his focus tightened on us. His mouth left open with a sense of disgust as he got closer. The words “What are you doing!” dripped maliciously down his chin. We were shocked and could not move. His face contorted into disbelief as if the fire behind his eyes had just combusted into a rage. He pointed away and screamed “You need to leave now!” This did not make sense to me, because I had just watched him drive past other families and not say a word to them.  My dad assured him that we live literally yards away, and that we were not hurting the course or doing anything out of the ordinary. The old man became more and more upset with us and threatened to call the authorities. My dad turned to us and told us to go ahead and go inside so that he and this elderly enraged hulk could talk.

                As we turned and headed into the house I could hear the loud outbursts from the man and the calm collected rebuttals of my father fade as we went inside. I ran through the house to the nearest window where I could witness the confrontation.  I noticed that the man had become more upset. His arms waived about like a wild animal as his words seemed to spew out of his mouth. My dad with his arms crossed listened with shear intensity as his eyes seemed to pierce through the man’s outburst. My father said a sentence that seemed to make the man go into a whirlwind. The strength and collectedness of my father was like a rock as the waves crashed against it. After many exchanges my father did not move or change his disposition. My father’s stare followed the man as he furiously waddled back to his cart and drove away. My father then started making his way to the house. As fast as I could I ran back through the house, out the garage, and onto the golf course to meet him. “Dad! What happened? What did you say? I just want to hit that guy!” I said as I approached him. The intensity in his eyes disappeared, and was then full of love all in an instant. He winked and said, “Don’t worry about it, son. Let’s go inside.”

                To this day I do not know what my father said to that man. But I will never forget the strength that he showed that day. He put himself aside so that he may protect his family. For a time I believed that violence should be my answer if I am ever put into a discriminatory situation. Now that I am older and when I look back at this story I now know that I was wrong.  My father showed me first hand that I do not have to physically fight those who wrong me. If I stand tall, hold my ground, and plant myself firmly in God’s love I can confront any adversity.

Confession

Love Will Make You Weak from Rya Dyes on Vimeo.

' Confession: Love will make you weak. Not the family kind. That support system that follows you around good or bad and force feeds you help whether you want it or not. The kind that makes you fall. The kind that makes you weak in the knees and silences you as the breath of life catches in your throat. The kind that makes your heart race, skip a beat, or stop. I am terrified of that kind of love. Now we can be anything. We can travel. We can invent. We can create any sort of life for ourselves. But what if we fall in love? So many dreams and identities are sacrificed to love. I am afraid that if I fall in love I will no longer be strong enough to follow my dreams. We are accosted by this love. We are told our whole lives that we want to fall under the spell of love. We believe it will be our saving grace. That if we just had someone who fell in love with us we would feel valuable or important. It could be our reason to live on this earth. Would we still feel this way if it wasn’t taught to us? If we were not raised on fairy tales, chick flicks and bad teen dramas on TV would we want such a damaging thing so badly? I did. Until I started looking at what love meant in the real world. Enter Case 1. My Cousin Julia. In October she married a great guy. Otis. But even though Otis is a great guy, Julia has lost herself. She used to be an artist. She read anything she could get her hands on and she wanted to work with disabled children even though she got her degree in computer engineering. But now she doesn’t read because Otis doesn’t. She hasn’t painted in years. She gets fatter by the day because Otis is fat and rules the kitchen. She sits at a dead end desk job where she is bored out of her skull but says she is content because it pays the bills. Case 2: My Parents. “Happily” married for over twenty years. My mom always wanted to travel. My dad has massive panic attacks when he doesn’t know where he is. Our last family road trip almost ended in divorce. My mom is a very loving person. She loves to hug and touch and be affectionate. She has to ask for hugs or kisses from my dad. They don’t come naturally. My mother does not handle confrontation well. My dad can yell and cuss and crush you in two words or less. My mom rarely travels, has closed off from physical affection and can fight with the best of them. She got hard. Case 3: My Best Friend. He loved her and she wanted a ring so they got married. He’s always been like my brother. When he came home for Christmas from the Air Force he broke down crying telling me that he loved his wife but that he gave up too much. There’s a boy in my life now. I’ve wanted him for a long time but could never have him. For the first time in three years I can. But I won’t let myself. So when he kisses me and my heart tries to flutter I panic. When he touches me and I want to melt into him I keep my feet planted on the ground. I want him. Badly. But my fear keeps him away. Now I have discovered loneliness and I suspect it might be much worse than love. Now I think it may not be falling in love that makes us weak; it is our fear of loneliness.

Manual

Manual from Alex Drost on Vimeo.

Manual: Personal Narrative Alexander Drost I like to think of myself as educated, But mostly I am not sure of anything. In fact, the more I learn, the more I realize how little I know. When people ask what I do, I say that I am an artist. Even though I feel like I am lying when I say it. I don't know what my plans are after graduation. I have never had a solo exhibit. I have never been paid to make art for somewhere, and I have never won any awards. I know I am not valuable, I know what my odds are. There are always so many questions. I don't know if I'll ever have kids. I don't know if love exists. I don't know if there is a reason why we are here. I don't know if humans deserve the world. I don't know if my voice is one to be heard. I don't know if anyone wants to hear it. I don't know if it's all worthwhile. I don't know which city or state or country or continent is best. And I don't know if I will ever see them. I don't know if my friends will stay in touch. I don't know why I just left. I don't know anything about time; I don't know how to feel about it. I don't know if life is only just to die. But no one wants to hear that, especially from me. I don't know how to get there, or how long it will take. It is just a part of that inevitability. I make art because I like to build with my hands and I like to think. I do not do it as an escape or an outlet. I like to criticize, to analyze, to break down what is not working and why. For some reason, I feel the need to contribute to that conversation. Maybe I am just curious. Maybe I don't know how to sympathize. I don't know how to give a speech. I don't know how to act. Where are the rules? What is allowed to be broken? I need a little help. Where is the manual?