Anger isn't the way
I was angry for a long time.
I was scared for even longer.
I pushed people away. While I was hurting, I hurt others.
I wrote about my fears here. I lashed out, as honestly as I could.
I'm not sorry for anything I wrote. I'm not sorry for how I felt.
I'm processing.
In presenting more myself and feeling more myself, I found people didn't care.
They didn't care from a place of hate. They didn't care from a place of ignorance.
People didn't care because I never told them how I felt. I never let myself open up to be vulnerable.
I mean, there are a lot of people that think I'm going to hell for one reason or another. And there are a lot of people that think I'm the most spiritually grounded person they've ever met.
I'm a spectrum.
We all deserve the right to be ourselves. That's why I'm supporting the walk out today.
If you're mad about something, don't stay mad.
You'll hurt yourself, then others.
Just be honest with who you really are.
Blessed be.
Let's make no mistake about this: The American Dream starts with the neighborhoods. If we wish to rebuild our cities, we must first rebuild our neighborhoods. And to do that, we must understand that the quality of life is more important than the standard of living. To sit on the front steps—whether it's a veranda in a small town or a concrete stoop in a big city—and to talk to our neighborhoods is infinitely more important than to huddle on the living-room lounger and watch a make-believe world in not-quite living color.
And I hardly need to tell you that in the 19- or 24-inch [10-foot] view of the world, cleanliness has long since eclipsed godliness. Soon we'll all smell, look, and actually be laboratory clean, as sterile on the inside as on the out. The perfect consumer, surrounded by the latest appliances. The perfect audience, with a ringside seat to almost any event in the world, without smell, without taste, without feel—alone and unhappy in the vast wasteland of our living rooms. I think that what we actually need, of course, is a little more dirt on the seat of our pants as we sit on the front stoop and talk to our neighbors once again, enjoying the type of summer day where the smell of garlic travels slightly faster than the speed of sound.
— Harvey Milk