(Originally Published on The Huffington Post on 5/7/2012)

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a hero lately, spawned mostly by my recent involvement in a project called Queer Heroes NW, created in partnership with Q Center (Portland’s LGBTQ Community Center) and GLAPN (the Gay & Lesbian Archives of the Pacific Northwest). The idea behind the endeavor was to focus in on individuals who have helped shape the local LGBT movement here in Oregon and southwest Washington, honor them for making our community safer over the years, and teach a new generation about how we got here from there.

Often, when I think of the history of the gay rights movement, only of a few select big-name activists come to mind. It’s easy to forget about all the people who didn’t make the papers or have a movie made about their impact, and in so doing, we skip over the people who have put their neck on the line for our local communities, with little or no recognition in return. Part of the goal in creating Queer Heroes NW was to secure these brave souls a permanent spot in our queer history, and also to thank them for the work they have done to make us free and keep us free.

Over the years I have had many people touch my life in heroic ways. I was always picked on for being perceived as “girly” or “gay” growing up, and by the time I reached high school, the bullying was unbearable (like it is for many gay kids). I had one teacher who stepped into the role of queer hero #1 on the first day of my freshman year. His classroom instantly became a safe haven for me, and I knew that I could always count on him to stand up for me, shut down the meanness, and help cultivate allies with the other kids in my class through his teachings of acceptance around diversity. He was not gay himself, and I’m sure this was not a popular role for him to take on with other teachers or the administration, but he never backed down. Every day from the time I arrived in his classroom to the time I left, he was in my court. There were times when he would watch to make sure I was safe during lunch, and there was a whole year when he walked behind me as I went from his classroom to the next one. We made a deal that he would walk far enough back that none of the other kids would know, but close enough that people would be on their best behavior, thus creating a hedge of protection of sorts around me. This was a brave move on the part of this kind man. The safety and support he provided me was enough to keep me in school and earn him the title of “queer hero” then, and still to this day.

Years later, as I was struggling to make it in the music industry, another kind man named Perry Turcotte reached out to me and offered to place my music videos in a new show he was producing for MTV, called NewNowNext, which would air on a brand-new network experiment aimed toward the LGBT community, called Logo. I of course jumped at the chance. From there, he basically took me under his MTV-artist-development wing, flying me out to New York City to be interviewed, airing my videos in heavy rotation on the channel, and eventually having me host the show and appear in commercial spots for the network. Read the rest of this entry »

(Originally Published on The Huffington Post on 4/18/2012)

I went to see filmmaker Lee Hirsch‘s new documentary, Bully, this past weekend, and even now, days later, I still find myself deeply affected. When I say that, I’m speaking not so much about the film (although it was beautifully made and completely moving) but to the extreme heartache I have felt since watching it. I started sobbing about 30 seconds into the movie and didn’t really stop until the following morning. I cried for the parents who have lost their children to bullying, I cried for the bullied subjects in the film, and I cried for myself, having gone through an amplified version of all of this years ago.

Yesterday, after reading reports of yet another 14-year-old queer kid being bullied to death in America, this time in Iowa, the feeling turned once again from sadness to anger. My own growing-up-gay-in-the-Midwest story reads like some sort of fucked-up textbook for how LGBT kids come into the world, how we maneuver through, and often how we go out. The torture I suffered at the hands of my peers as a closeted child and then as an out teenager is one that is shared by many in the community. In reality I was quite lucky to have survived back then, although I almost didn’t survive the years that followed.

I took in violence as a young man like a sponge takes up water. It came in many forms, but I always did the same thing with it: I absorbed it and made it part of me, every mean thing anyone ever called me believed, every punch thrown my way shaped into my being. I spent years reacting to other people’s hate in a variety of colorful ways, living out the disappointment of everyone who had ever known me in real time. I was driven by uncontrollable rage, crippling fear, and a sense of mourning for the person everyone else thought I should be but whom I knew I would never become. Over time I grew used to the abuse, said goodbye to my sweetness, and let the violence take me over.

Even as an adult I am still dealing with this very old idea about myself and a world that says that I am nothing; that I somehow deserve to taste blood in my mouth, because I am not actually a person; that I need to hide in order to stay alive. To this day, when I encounter homophobia, my first reaction is often to fight; sometimes the motivation is to protect myself or the man I love, but sometimes it’s because I just want to see that look of surprise on the face of some mouthy jock who didn’t expect this particular weak, pussy-faggot to be scrappy and fight back. I’ve spent countless hours in therapy working on this very thing, but having spent my formative years defending myself both physically and emotionally, it’s sometimes hard to turn that survival reflex off.

Just this past weekend, as we walked by a group of meathead bro-dudes with tribal tattoos and spray tans, one of them mocked what I had said to my boyfriend as we passed, only he did it in full-blown sissy voice. I stopped. My initial instinct was to Read the rest of this entry »

I took a job this week as a columnist for Just Out Magazine! Look for my monthly column when they relaunch in June. Fun, right?

From Just Out: (4/10/2012)

“Just Out is pleased to announce that openly gay writer, musician, and LGBT activist Logan Lynn has joined our ever-growing team of columnists! Logan’s articles range from celebrity interviews to mindful living to local, national, and international queer issues. In addition to writing for Just Out, The Huffington Post, Q Blog, and various mainstream and queer media outlets, Lynn has released five studio albums, six EPs and two singles since 1999 (with a new single on the way in June). He has worked closely with The Dandy Warhols and Styrofoam throughout his career and his music videos have appeared on MTV, Logo, Spike TV and VH1. He has also hosted shows and appeared in commercial spots for Logo and MTV on several occasions since 2007. Logan devotes much of his energy these days to working closely with Q Center, Oregon’s LGBTQ community center. He currently lives in Portland, and enjoys spending time with his partner Aleksandr, his teacup Pomeranian Dutch, and his beloved television.”

ha ha ha

I love that last line.

(Originally Published on The Huffington Post on 4/6/2012)

I don’t do well with death. My coping skills are still lacking around anything related to loss in general, actually — but death, I just… can’t. It’s been this way since I was a boy. The idea that everyone I have ever loved will someday be taken from me (or I from them) terrifies me and is a concept I have largely refused to look at for as long as I can remember. Death, in my personal psychology, as in life, is the final frontier.

This week when I got the call from my broken-hearted mother that her sweet sister, who had fallen ill with a mysterious condition a few months ago, was being moved from hospital to hospice, I was overcome with sorrow. My usually manageable, small, wooden feelings about death and loss were suddenly made large, alive and uncontrollable. What I am most afraid of was here, once again, greeting me head-on in the living room. I turned back into the terrified child version of myself that lives inside me while my mother and I cried on the phone together. During the really hard parts I tried not to hear what she was saying, and instead focused on the sound of my own sobbing. It didn’t work. I took in every painful word.

My brain absorbs news like this in slow motion. It hits me in tearful waves, fades to the background, then jumps out again at the strangest times. I feel a deep connection to this planet by way of my family and the love we all share for each other, and I am sad that some of that love might be moving to another part of the universe. I’m selfish in this way. I want to keep all of you close forever. Anything else just seems too cruel to imagine and, well…This has been my reality for three days now.

A few years ago I was given a book called To Bless the Space Between Us, by John O’Donohue. I have pulled it out a few times over the years when I can’t find ways of relating to the world, and it has helped me form thoughts around some of the stuff I’m just no good at thinking about. This week was one of those times. In a passage about death from the book, O’Donohue writes:

“From the moment you were born,
Your death has walked beside you.
Though it seldom shows its face,
You still feel its empty touch,
When fear invades your life,
Or what you love is lost
Or inner damage is incurred.

That you would gather yourself
And decide carefully
How you now can live
The life you would love
To look back on
From your deathbed.” Read the rest of this entry »