Guest Blogger DC Juris by Laura Baumbach

Hello there! ::smiles and waves:: I’m DC Juris, and I’m honored and excited to be guesting today! I’m a transgender man who writes GLBTQ and heterosexual romance. I’m from Florida, but currently reside in a little town in Upstate NY with my husband, four dogs, and two cats.

In October, I attended the inaugural GayRomLit Retreat in New Orleans, Louisiana, although…I almost didn’t. You see, I’m one of those people who sign up for things that “seem good at the time,” and then back out later because of fear.

For those of you reading who might know me, that makes sense. But if you don’t know me, suffice it to say I come from a traumatic, abusive childhood. Convinced I was an angel sent from God and that someone would steal me away from her, my mother was, as you can imagine, very strict and very stifling. I rarely left my home on my own, and when I did, I was much older—in high school. Consequently, I developed little in the way of social skills.

But I’ve always been one of those people who wanted to join in. I wanted to go to the parties. I wanted to attend the events. As I got older and moved out on my own, I’d sign up for things, but chicken out at the last minute. How would I interact with people, after all, if I didn’t know how to? None of them would like me, anyway—I was sure of that.

Getting back to GRL, though. I signed up in January of this year, and back then, October seemed a long, long way away. A distant idea. But the closer it came…the more I realized I was running out of time to back out. And then something occurred to me: I’d spent money on this trip already. I’d already paid for my plane tickets and a bunch of stuff for my swag to go in the registration bags. I’m a scaredy cat, but a practical one. I couldn’t waste all that money. I had to go.

Doom and gloom followed me for the two weeks before the retreat. My plane would crash. The hotel wouldn’t have my reservation (I confirmed they did a grand total of four times before arrival). Something would go wrong at home while I was gone—Hubby or one of the animals would die, the house would burn down. I’d be attacked and killed on the streets of New Orleans. I’d heard about that place, after all. Dirty, seedy. Dangerous.

I didn’t sleep well the night before travel, so the day of travel was Hell. I started crying in the security line at our tiny airport, Elmira Corning Regional. My heart pounded louder and louder as I made my way through. Something was going to go wrong with my bags. I just knew it. On the other side of security, I grabbed my stuff, shoved my shoes back on, and bit my bottom lip as I tried not to bawl my eyes out more and more. I finally got on the plane. I expected to be seated by some obnoxious someone who wanted to know way too much about me. Instead, an Asian man sat down and proceeded to not speak to me the entire time.

My connecting flight was out of Detroit Metro Airport. This place is massive. Massive. I arrived and quickly looked for my gate. I needed to be at A11. Where was I? Something like A135,670. Probably more like A56, but it seemed like a million miles between my gate and me. I bought some candy, a soda, and a pen with the shape of Michigan on the end, and humped it down to A11. And waited. And waited. Ugh. More time on my hands to think was not what I needed. Finally got on my flight, and managed to catch about ten minutes of sleep. A little over two hours later, I arrived in New Orleans.

Late.

I’d missed registration. I’m a planner and a plotter, and I had that damned trip mapped out to the second. The only thing I didn’t account for was the airport shuttle taking forever. I live in a small town. I don’t use cabs, shuttles, or even the bus. It never occurred to me that the shortest distance between two points would take three times as long because we weren’t just going between two points—the shuttle drops off people to all the hotels.

I got to the Bourbon Orleans Hotel and I must’ve looked like a deer in headlights. With registration over, a ton of authors and readers had flooded the lobby, and I knew none of them on sight. Too many people. Too much noise. I fled and ran for registration, then the elevator, and locked myself in my room. I didn’t want to be there. I missed my husband and my dogs and I wanted to go home. Immediately.

Of course, I couldn’t. I ordered room service; skipped out on what was probably a fun event one of the local bars, and sat up watching repeats of Criminal Minds, Psyche, and Ice Road Truckers on ION Television for hours and hours. I called my husband, lamented about how horrible things were, and all he’d say was that things would be better in the morning. What an ass! Couldn’t he understand I was in trauma??? All he did was ask me if I’d met anyone yet. I mumbled no, then yes…maybe. In the blur of the lobby, I had met someone…someone had recognized me and spoken to me, though I hadn’t a clue who they were at that moment in time (although I faked it well!) and then two more people had tried to figure out if I could still register. All the while with me muttering about it not mattering and just going to my room, and beating a path to the check-in desk.

The next morning, I’d planned to go to the zoo. Not being a social person, I’d made my own itinerary and included only a couple of the retreat events. That way, I could chicken out and stay in my hotel if I wanted, and no one would be disappointed. Truthfully, that was my idea. Who’d care if I just sat in my hotel and watched TV for three days? What I didn’t count on, was my husband 1,300 plus miles away, anxiously awaiting pictures of my adventures. And I don’t mean porn. LOL He wanted pictorial proof I’d gone out and done things. So…

I got up, got ready, went downstairs, and headed to the pool for late registration. I found a seat at a table apart from everyone else and sat down. A crowd of people took the table next to mine, and one of them asked if they could steal two of my chairs. I meekly warbled sure. At that point, I knew that human interaction was inevitable. Someone was bound to walk up to me and want to talk to me, on their terms, and I couldn’t let that happen. I had to strike first. I’d introduce myself to the next person I saw! Erm…but not that bunch of people to my right. There were too many of them. And not that that woman to my left—she’d been scowling since she’d arrived. A lady sat down by herself at a table across the pool from me, and I gathered my courage. I went over, stuck my hand out, and proudly proclaimed, “Hi. DC Juris. How ya’ doin’?”

Wonder of all wonders she was actually lovely (she’s a reader and her name is Laura) and invited me to sit down. We chatted, and then another person came over—Author Marie Sexton. Also lovely! We parted ways after a few minutes. I got registered, then hopped in a cab, and zoomed off to the Audubon Zoo. My intention was the zoo, then the riverboat book signing. At the zoo, I found myself actually having fun (in spite of the fact Hell had opening up and spewed forth a horde of small humans intent on stealing my sanity). I enjoyed being able to go at my own pace. I managed to tour the entire zoo in record time, something like three hours, I think, then hailed a cab and was off to the riverboat, The Creole Queen.

The riverboat. Holy. God. I got dropped off at the wrong boat and had to walk what I’d estimate was the distance between Texas and West Virginia. Although I did hook up with some people who had the same registration pouch as me, one of them was Laura from the morning, and another turned out to be the person who had spoken to me in the lobby the night before—Ellis Carrington! Well, hell! I knew her! Ellis is awesome—I knew that from Facebook.

Once on the riverboat, I booked it to the back for a soda, and then turned around twice and ran into Michele Montgomery and Jeff Erno. More people I knew! What luck! Michele dragged me around the room, introducing me to people I’d never heard of and generally making fan-girl mayhem, complete with squealing noises, where appropriate. (Michele is SUCH a fangirl!! LOL) I broke off at one point and went out onto the deck to take pictures of other ships. I should back up and say something important here: I don’t heart boats. In fact, I hate them. Hate. With the passion of a thousand hearts. Boats sink and people drown. Plain and simple. But I didn’t want to do any of the other retreat activities, so I was left with the riverboat. I had to do something, after all!

And I’m so glad I did. I met Kiernan Kelly, Lydia Nyx, Johnny Miles, Bryl Tyne, and Jambrea Jo Jones. Among a ton of others! I mingled some more, and then met back up with Laura and we went to dinner. We ended up bumping into Michele and Jeff again, and Allison Cassatta, who, if you ever get the chance to meet, you should. You should break down doors to meet this woman. She is fabulous, hilarious, and made of awesome.

I spent another night tucked away in my hotel room, but this time, not as miserably. I felt guilty for enjoying my day without my husband there, though. Not that I enjoyed it because he wasn’t there, but in spite of that fact. I’d been raised by my mother that everything should be done for and center around the man in your life. Of course, I don’t believe that, but a part of me just knew it wasn’t right for me to enjoy my time if I couldn’t spend it with him.

The morning of day two brought me even more self-confidence. I decided—you know what, to hell with feeling bad! Hubby couldn’t be here—so what? So, I had to be miserable? Screw that! I got dressed and headed off for the Audubon Aquarium of the Americas. What fun! I got to pet a stingray, which I’ve never done. They’re quite slimy and rubbery, if you’re wondering. Then I went out into Parakeet Pointe, which is a room filled with free-flying parakeets. This is another phobia thing for me. Growing up, my grandmother had a huge aviary, with all kinds of birds. Cool, right?

Wrong. Her aviary was dirty and smelly, the birds would fly at the cage walls and screech at me, and she made me feed them live mealworms. Plus, I always got sick from the feathers—my asthma would flare up and I’d be sick all week. Over the years, I grew to hate birds almost as much as boats! Nevertheless, I bought my feed stick and ventured out into the lion’s den. It actually wasn’t bad. Several birds landed on me and I managed not to piss my pants. One of them walked up my arm, behind my head and down my other arm. Another landed on my shoulder and chewed on my ear. In fact, I had such a good time that I went out, bought another feed stick, and went back in. Less birds this time, but one did try to eat the little silver balls off my watch. LOL

I followed that up with a trip to the Audubon Insectarium. Determined not to call a cab, and because the nice woman at the aquarium said it was “walking distance,” I struck out on foot. And immediately determined that all native New Orleans folks are seriously wrong about walking distance…and/or are sadistic and enjoy torturing tourists. I finally found the Insectarium. Yay! What a fun time that was. They have an indoor butterfly room where butterflies fly around loose. How lovely!

By the time I’d finished there, I was hungry but exhausted. I figured I’d go back to the hotel, get a shower, and order some room service. I called Hubby after my shower, and he was decidedly unimpressed that I’d have yet another dinner in my hotel room. ::sigh:: After much prodding, I begrudgingly agreed that, fine, I’d go out. Whatever.

I went out and wandered around trying to find somewhere to eat. Instead, I found Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo! YAY! I bought some stuff there, then attempted to go back to my hotel. I ended up, by accident, in Jackson Square. So, I went on a mule and buggy ride. Why not, right? Then I bought some street art from a lovely man who had never heard of gay romance, but thought it was a cool concept. Then I went and had dinner. Alone. All. By. Myself. I’ve never, ever done that. I’ve never walked into a restaurant, sat down at my own table, and eaten dinner. Ever. Egad, why would I? People would stare at me! Oddly, no one did. LOL I walked back to the hotel, stopped to take a video of a street band and a wedding party.

By the third day, I’d come into my own. Fears? Worries? Pfft. Not likely. I’d had dinner by myself, after all. I could do anything! I went to the Goodbye Brunch and met a ton of people. Amazingly enough, people had actually been looking for me all weekend. People had wanted to meet me. Readers who loved my work and other authors who did as well! I was completely flabbergasted at the number of people who saw me, pointed at my nametag, and howled, “Oh my god! DC Juris! Finally!!!” LOL I took pictures and posed for pictures.

I left there and headed for the local FedEx office, which is in the New Orleans Marriot. (Not the fancy Marriot, mind you. There are two.) The concierge had said it was walking distance. Now, I’d learned my lesson about that, but apparently not well enough. Dear Psycho Concierge: Ten plus blocks is not walking distance. No love, Me. Needless to say, I called a cab for the ride back to the hotel!! I checked out, then had a wonderful lunch with Laura, Michele, and Jeff. And then I went back to the hotel, chatted with Michele and Jeff in their room, then went down and waited for the shuttle.

Here’s a tip: If you’re ever in New Orleans, with a 5:00 PM flight time, do not have the shuttle pick you up at 2:30. This is NOT enough time. Trust me. I barely made it through security and to my gate in time. I managed to sleep a little more on that flight, then got to Detroit. Piece of cake, now, right? I knew the airport after all! Um…you know, they have a concourse A, B, and C? And you know, none of them are near each other?? It took nearly my entire layover to get to the gate I needed to be at. Not. Even. Kidding. Maybe I walk slow. I dunno.

I was excited and sad to go home. I really, really wanted to see my husband and my dogs and cats. I missed my familiar surroundings (though not the bed—OMG the beds in the Bourbon Orleans are AMAZING. Ask anyone who stayed there!). I missed my routine. Although I knew that, coming home, I wouldn’t be forced to test my limits nearly as often or as drastically. I didn’t spend a lot of time schmoozing with other authors while at the retreat, but I did learn an incredible amount about myself, and that’s worth more to me than any promotion.

My husband’s health isn’t good. He’s not dying, but the chances of him outliving me are pretty low. He’s much more settled now, knowing that, when the time comes, I’ll be able to do things on my own—I’ve proven that to him, and that’s pretty special to me. He said that’s the best thing I brought back for him. Well, that and the voodoo doll…and the marble skull…and the street art…. LOL

My links:

www.dcjuris.com
www.facebook.com/dcjuris
www.twitter.com/dcjuris

http://dcjuris.blogspot.com

Written by Laura Baumbach

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