Some would probably call it a low point in one’s childhood, the day the block of welfare cheese arrives in its stark white box. True, times were very hard, and it was certainly represented a blow for a mother who worked multiple jobs to pay for her only son’s specialized schooling and who herself was brought up with all the trimmings of upper class society. But for me, a ten year-old awkward child who didn’t quite understand the symbolism, it was a blessing.

While for my mother this handout was probably something of a last straw, it presented an opportunity for unusual and imaginative culinary misadventures. It was a challenge for my little hands to cut and its hue was so artificially orange that there is no natural analog for that color. Truly, making a meal of welfare cheese is a singular experience, a communion of resourcefulness and a twinge of despair, which the eyes of even the youngest children can glean from their surroundings even if the language isn’t there to classify it.

Yet, I remember very clearly laughing with my mother about the ridiculousness of it all. Hanging by a financial thread, the government in all its charity gives us a dense monolith of adulterated cheddar; there’s a strange comedy in that. We persevered, and during that interim I appreciated the little bit of food we had.

As is natural when poverty strikes, we made sure nothing went to waste. And yet, that youthful naïve quasi-asceticism of mine had a flip side to it, as all stories do. On the weekends with my father, the centerpiece was always fresh, the silver always polished, and the roast, tender if intimidating in its girth, lay steaming in its opulence for no good reason other than it was Sunday dinner. Elbows off the table, fork held just right, the contrast between my two lives left me confused in my loyalties and questioning which of my parents made me feel more secure.

Child psychologists often note that food is one of the greatest factors in creating or avoiding childhood neuroses, and this duality of scarcity and extravagance, of appreciation versus quantity left a mark that is still reconciling itself. It’s only logical for me that money, in all of its permutations and schizoid transactions, remains an indelible bug-bear in a life made of priceless beauty.

Throughout all the wavering fortunes of my days, what remains in my soul’s reservoir of thankfulness are not the costs of my desires but the outcome of my choices; and what I carry with me is gratefully free of charge. My soul wears sunsets more luxuriant and audacious in their wonder than any jewel or fabric. Some of the waters of my blood are dissolved crystals of snow, caught on my tongue one beautifully cold winter’s morning. The art my heart refers back to when trying to comprehend a moment of love remains to flutter in the trees or scurry along moonlit branches, full of secrets... such wonders could not hang on a wall or be bought at discount.

This isn’t meant to be pretty metaphorical lip-service to a particular lifestyle; rather, these images represent a value I’ve come to treasure, which has saved me from completely losing myself in a society written by checks and charges. Many times, I’ve got the equivalent of that block of cheese in the ‘fridge of my spirit, but there’d be a rainbow overhead or a strain of music wandering the street that sets my senses alight and reminds me that I will (like all humans) often bypass what’s truly precious over the drama of spinning my psychic wheels about things that are meaningless in the context of an infinite universe, like matching dishware and bed-sheets with high thread count.

It may be foolish and unprofitable to think this way, yet I believe that there’s an edict awaiting us for edifying a spiritual identity through the raw and gritty means we choose to live by. As gay men, we often begin the process of self-realization on our own. While we seek within our spirits what shall define us as individuals, shocking and glittery assumptions pushed by the media about our identity await mental purchase, pearls of half-price. In conversation with queer and straight friends alike, frequent euphemisms note the tendency for young gay men to buy into the consumer culture without question. Their self concept is thought to be found via the seduction of marketing, and their affect can be as shallow as network programming. While I insist that all individual natures are eternal and no matter how trapped we may become in quick-fix salvation, I do see the point that queer culture frequently flirts with homogenization via the power of money and the power of product.

I would rather see this as a temporary growing pain of our maturing selves and “Young Gay America” than a paradigm which could undermine our future spiritual and cultural growth, and I vary between skepticism and hopefulness about the outcome of our social emergence. Many of us weren’t born into environments supportive of our sexualities, and achieving financial success became a venerable tool to demonstrate pride and worth. In this sense there is a justification of sorts for the motivation to rake in as much as you can, and even flaunt a little. In these times, however, the deep soulful gratification of living in harmony with the Earth is a jeopardized modality, and the next generations of all children might not have the chance to fully enjoy a kinship with the world which cradles a conflicted humanity. The choices we make in this era are important, even blessed events, and our inherent interconnections can either be made evident or further obscured by how each of us participates in this global dance of give and take, in which there are no overtly right or wrong steps.

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