| reece(: |
13-04-2017 11:21 AM |
Welp at Zeke's account
Quote:
Playing with rookies was one thing, but playing alongside my Survivor heroes in a season called Survivor: Game Changers was quite another. It was like waking up in Westeros, Lord Zeke of the Mustache Lands, fighting to claim the Iron Throne. But instead of flying dragons with Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, I trailed Ozzy, Master of Spear Fishing, out to the reef, dove down and watched him catch fish. Tai, the Chicken Whisperer, and I killed three chickens together. Debbie, the Woman with an Infinite Number of Jobs, told me about all of her jobs.
I’d been charmed by my cast mates’ quirks and touched by their stories. There’s no one whose journey resonated with me more than former local network news anchor Jeff Varner. Walking into the season, his story was that he’d played twice and never made the jury, the Survivor equivalent of making the playoffs. This was Varner’s third shot and likely his last. If he didn’t make the jury, he’d forever be remembered as the only three-time player to never do so.
To his credit, Varner received some bad breaks during his first two seasons, and in Game Changers, bad luck befell him once again. The numbers were not in his favor, but they were in mine, and I was excited to be on a tribe with him. I wanted the jury for him. I wanted to be the guy who made it happen.
Varner and I connected quickly. Events in his life back home drew him to seek an understanding of gay people’s place in Christianity. I studied religion in college, focusing specifically on LGBTQ people and the Bible. Though I’m not particularly religious, I feel passionately that people of faith should not be denied religious ritual or spiritual community because of their sexual orientation or gender identity, and shared what I’d learned with Varner over long conversations on the beach.
I saw a pain, a brokenness in his eyes that felt all too familiar — a longing for the spotlight, but a desire to remain unseen. Though Varner has been openly gay for many years, he chose not to discuss his sexual orientation during his first two stints on the show. Beyond his charm and charisma, I thought I recognized a deep-seated insecurity and self-loathing, a glimpse at who I could become were I not careful.
All Varner had to do was make it until tomorrow and he’d get his jury seat. But he wasn’t going to. Our tribe proved unable to unscramble a word, metamorphosis, losing the Immunity Challenge and sending us to Tribal Council. Everyone’s best move was unquestionably to get rid of Varner.
My heart broke for him. I mulled over all the scenarios to save him, but each required me to significantly jeopardize my position. As much as I felt for the man, I wasn’t giving up my dream for his.
You never want a player to know they’re going home, because they might get desperate and go nuclear, douse the fire or pour out the rice. But my heart overrode my head when I sat down with him that afternoon. I told him he was going home. I thought he deserved to know it would be his last day on the beach.
Tribal Council throws the question of life and death into stark relief. One member of the tribe must be sacrificed each visit. Players ask each other: which one of us do we kill tonight? Fire, the flame of your torch, represents your life. When Probst snuffs that flame, your life is over. You exit to the left, into the darkness, what I called The Abyss. The rest of the tribe exits to the right, back to camp with a renewed lease on life.
Clearly, the stakes are not actually life and death. We’re a group of adults playing a very expensive game of make believe. But, despite all its deprivations, your Survivor life can be superior to your regular life.
I remember walking into Tribal Council that night. I remember the smell of the kerosene in our torches. I remember the smug smirk on his face and the gleam in his eye when he turned to me and snarled, “Why haven’t you told anyone that you’re transgender?”
The lights magnified in brightness. The cameras, though 30 feet away, suddenly felt inches from my face. All sound faded. Something primal deep inside me screamed: run. I lost control of my body, my legs bounced up and down uncontrollably, willing me to flee, but the rest of me sat dead as stone. To my left was The Abyss. I could’ve made a clean break for it, but I knew there was no running from what had happened. Cameras would follow me, if not that night, then eventually. Running was not an option. So I sat blank, almost in a trance, unaware of what happened around me, trying to form a plan.
Survivor had spun out of control. That’s the risk you take when you dance in the ethical borderlands, where you’ll betray a friend, swear on your mother, and lie to a priest all before you eat whatever meager crumbs count as breakfast. In Survivor, much is permissible which is typically objectionable, but there are limits, as there should be on a family-friendly reality show on network television.
It’s one thing to lie about someone sneaking off at night to search for hidden advantages. It is quite another to incense bigotry toward a marginalized minority.
Responsibility fell upon my shoulders to right the ship that had blown perilously far off course. I could let this be one of the worst moments of my life or one of the greatest. If I set the tone, everyone would follow. The power was in my hands.
I told myself, “Dude, you resolved to never stop playing. Buck up and make this OK.”
I am forever grateful that Probst gave me time to collect myself. Were I in the hands of a lesser leader, I’m sure questions would’ve been peppered my way before I was ready to receive them. I could not have responded in the manner in which I did had he not held the wheel while I got my bearings.
I tuned back in to the conversation and found chaos — tears, yelling, anger, but mostly confusion. I needed to calm everyone down. My chance to re-enter appeared — an opportunity to provide clarification. I spoke as calmly as I possibly could. Each word came slowly. Typically, my brain races far ahead of my ability to form words, but then it trudged, carefully selecting its path. My right leg settled down, but my left still jittered.
I took solace in my tribemates. They defended me passionately. Even Probst, the most neutral of arbiters, had my back. My left leg settled, and with it the group. Tears dried, voices lowered, and the attention turned to me to make sense of what happened. I didn’t know what to say.
Months before I plotted how I’d respond in case of such a disaster scenario, but those words were written a lifetime ago and nowhere in mind. I groped for direction, talking to kill time. Then, a single word appeared, the word I couldn’t find earlier in the day, the word that encapsulated my 50-plus days on the island: metamorphosis. Everything clicked. I sat up straight. My mind revved back up to full speed. As I spoke, l locked eyes with Probst, and he nodded along with me, as if to say, “Yes, yes, you’ve got it.” The ship was out of rough waters and back into placid seas.
I knew that Varner’s actions, though targeted at me, had nothing to do with me and everything to do with him. His terrible utterances were not an effect of my actions, but a reflection of his own personal maladies.
But in calling me deceptive, Varner invoked one of the most odious stereotypes of transgender people, a stereotype that is often used as an excuse for violence and even murder. In proclaiming “Zeke is not the guy you think he is” and that “there is deception on levels y’all don’t understand,” Varner is saying that I’m not really a man and that simply living as my authentic self is a nefarious trick. In reality, by being Zeke the dude, I am being my most honest self — as is every other transgender person going about their daily lives.
I don’t believe Varner hates trans people, just as I don’t believe conservative politicians who attack trans people actually care where we use the bathroom. For both, trans people make easy targets for those looking to invoke prejudice in order to win votes. Thankfully, my tribemates rebuffed his hateful tactics. After 18 days starving and competing with me, they knew exactly the man I am, and after that Tribal Council, we all knew exactly the man Varner is.
I looked to Varner, now the one hunched and quivering, and contemplated the backlash he would face. When he said what he said, he changed both of our lives forever. When he pulled me in for a hug, I felt compelled to reciprocate, both as a sign that I was willing to forgive him and that the shots he had fired missed.
But, if we’re being perfectly honest with one another, I’ve struggled with that forgiveness in the months following. I can’t foresee us sipping martinis together in Fire Island. While I can reconcile the personal slight of him outing me, I continue to be troubled by his willingness to deploy such a dangerous stereotype on a global platform.
But forgiveness does not require friendship. Forgiveness does not require forgetting or excusing his actions. Forgiveness requires hope. Hope that he understands the injury he caused and does not inflict it upon others. Hope that whatever torments his soul will plague him no more. I have hope for Jeff Varner. I just choose to hope from afar, thank you very much.
To adventure is to invite hazard into your life. The thrill of adventure comes from accepting this risk, and the reward from confronting whatever might be thrown at you. But you cannot control the hazards you face, be they repeated misfortune or the harmful actions of others. You can only control how you respond. It’s up to you to decide whether the hazard will define you or you will define the hazard.
At the conclusion of Tribal, Jeff Varner’s torch was snuffed. He walked into the darkness, and the rest of us headed back to camp.
There’s no special dispensation for a traumatic Tribal. No chocolate chip cookies. No phone call home. Just the dirt and the hunger and the honor of another day playing the world’s greatest game.
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