BODY TALK 2025

I’ve noticed a number of articles popping up, weighing in on the body sizes of the stars of Wicked: For Good. According to a CNN article, “’Wicked: For Good’ revives an uncomfortable debate about bodies and images,” it’s been considered taboo over the past decade to comment on or critique celebrities’ bodies which, frankly, is news to me. In our Insta world, stars often post thirst trap photos of their bodies, the intention being to get “likes” and build a following. To me, a “like” is itself a comment on someone’s body or how they generally look in a pic. For better or for worse, celebrities who are frequently in the public eye are often subject to scrutiny about what they wear and how they look.

 

In the case of Wicked, the concern is people are commenting that its stars look too thin and the counter-response is that a person’s thinness is none of their business. This is not new. As someone diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, I have been acutely aware of when a fashion model or a D-list celebrity is considered too thin. I struggle with this notion that people should not comment on what is perceived to be extreme thinness. I would agree that some bodies are just naturally thin. But usually the comments arise when the person’s body has gone through some sort of transformation, from larger to thinner or from thin to even thinner. 

 

I don’t read the comments but I’m sure there are many that are needlessly—and intentionally—harsh. Still, I feel certain that, when it comes to thinness, many comments are expressed out of concern. I don’t feel a strong sense that these comments should be discouraged. Speaking up when concerned—even if the concern is ultimately misplaced—may be better than saying nothing at all. 

 

Too often weight loss generates all sorts of compliments which may, in turn, encourage the person to work at shedding more pounds. Positive feedback fosters further “positive” action. But I think it’s fair for someone in earnest to vocalize a sense of caution at some point. “Hey. Are you okay? Are you checking in with a professional about your weight loss?”

 

“Invasive!” many will scream. “That’s crossing a line.” Yes. Likely. It’s tricky with people we know on a personal level while so much easier on social media. The personal level is, of course, where an expression of concern can have more of an effect… both positive and negative.

 

For myself, the eating disorder part of me loves when I start losing more weight. Looking in the mirror, I see pesky body parts become trimmer, maybe even acceptable. I carry a suspicion that, hmm, maybe my face is getting too thin but I tell myself it’s worth it to have a six-pack and tamed love handles. Weight never comes off evenly throughout the body. So often, it seems the body part I’m most bothered by is the last to show any change from heightened food restriction and increased exercise. 

 

Once, in college, a group of friends had an intervention with me. I had stumbled on a way of eating that resulted in pounds dropping off with ease to the point where I was fifty pounds lighter than I am today. I was gleeful. This was a game and I was winning. 

 

It was during the ’80s when baggy clothes were in fashion so I figured no one could see my body changes. It was all for me, not anybody else. I suppose, however, my fashionably baggy clothes reached a point of becoming unfashionably baggy. “You’ve gotten too thin,” they said. “Your face is gaunt.” The way they said it sounded harsh. They were viewing my face negatively. It was a problem.

 

It was also a jolt. To myself, everything was great. How could weight loss not be a positive thing? Society celebrated dieting success. And I was succeeding exceptionally. I did not see a doctor. I did not receive an eating disorder diagnosis. That wouldn’t come for another thirty-six years. But their talk scared me—enough for me to abandon my weight loss routine and gradually gain back some weight. 

 

Commenting made a difference.

 

I know that others will double down and assert that the commenter is out of line. The reaction will be some form of How dare you?! If there truly is an eating disorder at play—diagnosed or undiagnosed—that part of the person will fight. It will dismiss and deny. The incident may even cost a friendship. Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that. But difficult conversations are just that. Sometimes it’s better to have them no matter what the stakes are.

 

I often think of Karen Carpenter who died from an eating disorder in 1983 at the age of 32. Any Google Image search of her shows a person who is objectively on the thin side. In some photos, she looks hauntingly thin. Did people close to her wait too long to speak up? Did they not speak up at all? To this day, her death is the most tragic celebrity death I can think of. 

 

Once again, when I was thirty, some other friends called me on my weight loss. At the time, I was struggling financially and I brushed off their concerns until one of them showed up at my door with a loaf of bread from a bakery. I was deeply embarrassed. I could buy my own basic foods. Was I that thin? 

 

One friend talked to me about seeing a doctor. I’d recently moved back to Canada and didn’t have a medical practitioner. Back in the days of Yellow Pages, I didn’t have a clue how to go about picking a doctor. My friend gave me a couple of recommendations. All this concern jolted me again. I went to a doctor. Through tears, I asked him if I had an eating disorder. (Did men even get eating disorders?) He went with the empathy card instead of playing the curiosity card. He quickly said, “You don’t have an eating disorder. You’re just extremely fit.” In my gut, this didn’t sit right. It offered no relief. Normally, I’d have been giddy from the “extremely fit” remark. I knew deep down I had a problem. I knew my routines were exhausting me. I needed a professional to tell me to stop. Whether I stopped or not was another matter, but it would have helped to have even the possibility of an eating disorder acknowledged. That still wouldn’t come for another twenty-three years.[1]

 

All this is to say that I don’t think commenting on social media about a celebrity losing perhaps too much weight is going to make a difference, even when well-intentioned. Many celebs are extremely image-conscious. Their profession makes this so. It is possible that a strong wave of remarks about possibly being “too thin” might make them consider talking to a doctor, a psychiatrist or a dietitian. I suspect the public comments might instead provide an impetus for friends, family or even an agent to have a frank, caring conversation. “Well…now that it’s out there…” Again, getting a professional opinion to make sure they haven’t gone too far can be a good thing, assuming the professional proves to be more knowledgeable and curious than mine was all those years ago.

 

Eating disorders thrive on secrecy. Mine certainly does. When it is finally “out there” with others noticing and wondering, there is at least the possibility for consultation and, with professional support, slow change. Honestly, when it comes to conversation about someone you know possibly being too thin, I think it’s better to err on the side of concern. Have a talk, one where you say what you think should be said, but listen even more, assuming the topic isn’t outright shut down as it may well be. Eating disorders are fierce. They are destructive but, while a person clings to one, the disorder is also doing something perceived as positive. One person expressing concern may not be enough to affect change. 

 

Tricky stuff. I know it all too well.

   

 

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[1] Interestingly, my prior blog post titled BODY TALK and written in 2014 speaks as though I have an eating disorder even though it would still not be diagnosed for three more years. The body and brain knew. Professionals just weren’t picking up on it.

THE NUMBERS GAME

Time to pause for a little celebration. When I started this blog in 2008, it was called Rural Gay. I was feeling isolated as a middle-aged gay man on BC’s Sunshine Coast and the blog was often the only place to explore that part of my identity. In 2015, I moved back to Vancouver and, thus, the blog required a name change, however awkward: Rural Gay Gone Urban. The name never sat well with me and I eventually retitled it to what it is today, Aging Gayly.

 

Throughout this time, I have posted more than 850 posts. I didn’t know I had that much content floating about in my brain! Somehow, I continue to find topics. The aim is to post once a week, but I give myself the week off on occasion when I search my brain and it replies with, “Nope… nothing.” Okay then.

 

This past Saturday, the blog hit a milestone, surpassing 1,000,000 views. Hard to fathom. I am grateful to all who have stopped by, intentionally, curiously or even mistakenly over the years. I will continue to write. I hope you will continue to visit. 

 

  

WHAT DO GAY WRITERS BRING TO GAY ROMANCE?

For the most part, MM romance (male to male, aka, gay romance) is written by women. Some authors skirt their identity by writing under pseudonyms with ambiguously gendered first names (e.g., Chris, Jordan, Pat) or by settling for initials (e.g., H.R. Puffnstuff). For me, the predominance of these pseudonyms speaks to the fact that maybe straight women aren’t the most logical people to be writing about gay romances. 

 

In our present world where who writes about certain identities is rabidly policed, it’s somewhat surprising that little fuss is raised over women writing MM romances. To be honest, I don’t think this issue is on gay men’s radar. Yes, there is a call for gay actors to play gay roles, but there is less focus on who is writing those roles. I still think we’re in the Thirst Era where gay men crave seeing any depiction of gays on the big or small screen. (It’s why I recently sat through the entire series, Boots, on Netflix.) 

 

I’m not going to say women can’t write gay characters. Frankly, the policing has edged toward censorship or self-censorship at the very least. I want diversity in my manuscripts because the actual diversity of our world matters more than ever. Yes, that means I want to write about some characters who do not match my gender and identity. (I will likely have to pay for sensitivity readers to ensure I’m properly portraying Black and trans characters and, even then, I will be putting myself out there for sharp criticism should my manuscripts ever be published. (Fingers crossed!))

 

I will say that, when it comes to MM romance, it is refreshing to read a novel when the writer does, in fact, identify as a gay man. I like knowing the writer has gone through a coming out process, pined for the wrong gay men and navigated the gay dating world, apps and all. The hope is that lived experiences make the writing and the characters more relatable.

 

M.A. Wardell’s Teacher of the Year is the second MM romance I’ve read this year by a gay male writer, the other being I’ll Have What He’s Having by Adib Khorram. Both books stand out from other MM romances I’ve read in that they are “spicy” reads. In the romance genre, authors decide how they want to portray sex between the core couple with the range going from “sweet” (hand holding; kissing; any other sexual interplay happening “off the page”) to “spicy” wherein sex happens on the page, private parts and orgasms in full play. (Erotica is a separate genre in which sex is bigger than story.) 

 

I’ll have to read more MM romance by gay men—again, it’s not so common—to see if gay writers have a higher propensity to put the sex on the page. My hypothesis is that they do. Men, in general terms, have been raised (even encouraged?) to go into the details more publicly. (I still cringe over Trump’s “locker room” conversation with Billy Bush.) Sure, women do talk openly about sex but it’s still more of a guy thing, for better or for worse.

 

And here is where I come off as prudish. I could have done with less spice in both Teacher of the Year and I’ll Have What He’s Having. As noted in a prior post, Khorram, takes up twelve pages to describe one sex scene. In Teacher, Wardell is less detailed but he still goes on—the first sex scene is seven pages. Wardell’s spicy scenes are even carefully plotted in terms of playing the bases. First, the main character (MC) gives oral. In the next sex scene, the MC receives oral. This is followed by separate scenes of the MC bottoming and then topping. (I seem to recall the same outline for Khorram’s sex scenes.) In real life, I don’t think acts are always so rigidly separated. It makes the scenes predictable based on an escalating see-saw pattern.

 

My real problem is that I don’t find sex scenes all that interesting. Two or three pages is enough for me to get the gist of what happened. It’s true that sex often takes a relationship to a new level. Any sex in a book (or a movie) is not supposed to be gratuitous—the characters grow separately and as a couple. In my mind, much of the growth comes in the characters talking and/or thinking about the sex after the fact. What just happened? Romance writers tend to mix the thinking in with the sex. This slows down the telling which can make even a spicy scene drag—one that’s, say, seven or twelve pages. I find myself skimming and skipping much of the choreography. It’s supposed to titillate but instead I’m not gaining anything from reading about positioning of hands, tongues and bodies. Call me weird, but I just want to know that sex happened—Yay! They’re more connected!—and get on with the story. 

 

Surely there’s more to gay men writing gay romance than adding details about the sex. Let there be more gay men writing MM romance but let the gay perspective be more evident in terms of how the characters relate and get to know one another out of bed (and, in Teacher of the Year, out of a classroom closet). 

 

  

AM I THE MARRYING KIND?

A link this week instead of an entirely new post…

 

The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) runs a First Person column on its news site, a chance for Canadians to offer personal perspectives on a news-related issue. An editor sent a call-out for pitches regarding an issue an individual has done a 180 on. I’m proud to say that my pitch regarding marrying as a gay man was accepted and published last week.

 

Here's the link to the article, “Marriage was never an option for me, but now, in my 60s, I find myself looking at rings”:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/first-person-marriage-180-9.6971448

  

EAVESDROPPING ON HOPE

I went swimming at a public pool beside a local high school on Friday. My normal swim day is Wednesdays so I was taken aback when, in the middle of my workout, my lane was closed down. This left only one lane for swimming laps—the slow, medium and fast swimmers merging into one. Let’s just say I was not happy. When I asked the lifeguard if this was going to be a regular thing, the poor guy shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” He’s the guy that just shows up to do his shift.

As it turned out, the slower swimmers got out of the pool, leaving the lane to just me and one other swimmer. Our speeds were comparable. I focussed on just swimming laps, getting my workout in. But around me, there was a lot of cheering and shouting. Each time I would turn to the side to get a breath while swimming freestyle, I could see a large group of people who looked student-aged standing fully clothed along the side of the pool. They seemed to be the ones causing the commotion.

It was only after I finished my last lap that I came up for air and saw what the ruckus was all about. This looked like a group of grade eight students, roughly 13 or 14 years old. They were cheering on their classmates who had constructed small, one-person boats out of cardboard. The objective was for the boat makers to paddle their craft from one end of the pool to the other while trying to keep their cardboard structures afloat. The scene was comical and chaotic at the same time.

 

Let’s just say there’s a reason freighters aren’t made from cardboard.

I got out of the pool and showered, then proceeded to get dressed in the changing room. While this was going on, two of the students who had taken unfortunate plunges in the pool, entered the locker room to change out of their wet clothes.

One of the boys said to the other that he’d forgotten to pack a towel. “What were you thinking?” said the other boy.

“I asked my dad to pack a bag for me,” came the reply.

The other boy lightly mocked his classmate. “What… You get mommy to pack for you?”

The boy without a towel took the question literally. His answer: “My mom is in India. “

“What?! How is that?”

At this point, I was tempted to butt in, even though I knew it was not my place. I wanted to give the towel-less kid (Boy 1) some support. I wanted to explain that, based on my years as a school principal working in diverse neighbourhoods, there had been a lot of families from India. It was common for one or more members to go back to India for one to two months at a time. This was practical. Why travel so far only to turn around again after a short visit?

Boy 1 handled things on his own. “My family’s complicated. “

“How so?”

“It’s a long story,” said the boy, perhaps wanting to dodge the explanation.

“I’ve got the time,” said his curious classmate. (This amused me.)

“It’s about surrogacy.”

“What’s that?” Boy 2 asked.

“It’s when you take an egg—”

“Oh! You mean a surrogate.”

 

“Yeah,” Boy 1 said. “My dads are gay.” This time there was no hesitation. 

As my back was to the two boys, I assume the boy without the towel simply nodded his head. Boy 1’s explanation was taken matter-of-factly. There was no ridicule or teasing about the fact his dads were gay. No need to ask questions. It just was what it was.

 

Instead, the conversation passed without a segue to a more involved negotiation about how to scrounge up enough money for the two of them to buy pizza for lunch.

I am heartened by this conversation. Despite regressive actions from conservative adults who happen to be in positions for making and changing laws, this younger, non-voting age group seems to take in stride differences related to LGBTQ identities. They are growing up with freer forms of expressing themselves and seeing their peers do the same. While some lawmakers are desperately trying to keep a lid on All Things Gay, messages, conversations and supports are out there, both online and in person. 

 

Fourteen years ago, I was pleased but skeptical when the book, It Gets Better, was published, with words of encouragement from notable people. I thought it was a noble project, but I wondered how it would be received by some 13-year-old who was actively being bullied or living in a household where anti-gay remarks were regularly made by parents. How does Hold on until you’re 20 help a young teen cope? When you’re 13, 20 feels like a lifetime away.

 

But now I can view the book over a longer trajectory. Since 2011, despite setbacks, things truly have gotten better. It’s not a time for complacency—there is more to be done and supposedly enshrined rights may still be volatile—but there is evidence that things are getting better for younger people, for both those who identify as LGBTQIA+ and those who don’t. One of my favourite sayings, You Be You, appears to have more traction with this age group. There will always be ways to put peers down but perhaps queerness is less likely to be the cause for ridicule. 

 

Seems I got more than just a workout from my trip to the pool.

“BOOTS” ON NETFLIX (A Review…of Sorts)

Okay, I’m a slow streamer. I don’t binge. It often takes two nights to watch a show, with a few “down” nights in between when I’m reading or doing something else instead. 

 

But I finished watching Boots on Netflix last night. 

 

I’m still not sure what to make of it. Like many original shows on Netflix, I shrugged through episodes. Things were just okay much of the time. It felt like how I watched Survivor back in the day. I always wanted to skip over the challenges and get to the whispered camp negotiations and the episode-ending tribal council. The challenges were just contrived nonsense with Jeff Probst yelling the occasionally cautionary remark. 

 

Same for Boots. I’ve already seen An Officer and a Gentleman. I know that military training involves a lot of camp activities on steroids (e.g., sink or swim; obstacle course; target shooting) and, instead of Jeff Probst, you’ve got drill sergeants who are built like tanks yelling at you. Belittling you. Saying things that should put them in HR if this were the corporate world. The berating gets old. It becomes an annoying buzz, like that of a mosquito swirling around your head in the dark at three in the morning. You listen; it’s grating; you want to smack the source of the noise to stop it.

 

Yeah, so I’m not the target viewer for Boots. A boot camp feels like too much testosterone, too much bravado, too much negativity. I’d have checked out even before having to put on the leather boots. But this, I was told online, was a gay show.

 

I tried to focus on the personalities. In my mind, the show comes down to three characters: Cam Cope, played by Max Heizer, his best friend Ray McAffey (Liam Oh) and Sergeant Sullivan (Max Parker). The rest of the characters are caricatures—the guy who just might be crazy, the guy who desperately wants to call home, the guy who’s too aggressive, the guy who alienates his mates. With all the focus on drills, there isn’t the opportunity to get to know the supporting cast. 

 

I’ve said the drill scenes carried zero interest for me, haven’t I?

 

Cope is a likable, passive guy—perfect for the “yes, sir” mindset of the military, but too scrawny to look like he’s got a shot at becoming a Marine. He’s also gay, a fact known only to his best friend who fully accepts him. This is 1990, by the way, a time when George H.W. Bush was president, a time before Clinton’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell…a time of just Don’t. Being gay meant living in a fortified closet or a dishonorable discharge.

 

McAffey has daddy issues, his father having served in the military and raising his son with a stereotypical stoicism that might serve him well on the battlefield but doesn’t make a good parent. McAffey must excel. He must exceed. 

 

Sergeant Sullivan just has issues. Early on, he seems to zero in on Cope as someone unworthy of being a Marine. (“Why are you still here?”) SPOILER ALERT: He’s closeted and anytime his gayness is in danger of being detected, he becomes a masculine prick, taking things out on the recruits (or someone else). I found Max Parker a stunning screen presence—enough so that I scanned his Instagram and discovered he’s a gay Brit with a husband—but he’s got a challenging role, most of his scenes played out with his guard up, emotion limited to whatever we can see in his stunning eyes or in a slight cheek twitch. Every time there’s anything vulnerable about Sullivan to make the viewer like or relate to him, it’s followed by a scene to make you hate him. Is he a compelling character? Not really. I may have been too distracted by Parker’s good looks to appreciate any nuance in his portrayal of Sullivan.

 

Once you strip away all the drills of boot camp and the obligatory let’s-get-drunk and let’s-throw-food scenes, Boots boils down to: Why the hell would a scrawny gay guy want to be a Marine? Cope seems like a remarkably composed person. He’s been bullied but he seems like a survivor, albeit on the meek side. We’re told several times he’s “smart enough,” which my biased mind interprets as he can do so many other things. I was a meek, semi-closeted gay guy in 1990, too. Would enlisting and beating up another guy in a sanctioned fight have made me a better person, more of a man…someone who won’t be bullied anymore? Somehow I think I would have felt more ashamed. But then, I never aspired to be “more of a man.” Testosterone was never going to drive me. Sometimes coming out involves coming to terms with what you are and what you’re not. 

 

But Cope chose the Marines. Go figure. He’s a likable character. I cared what happened to him. That’s something. 

 

The most interesting character to me wasn’t a part of boot camp at all. The very talented Vera Farmiga is almost wasted as Cope’s single mom, Barbara. She herself is a caricature, a cluelessly bad mother in dowdy clothes, but Farmiga makes the most of the few scenes she’s in. I’d enjoy just watching a reel of her work in the show. I doubt I’ll tune in for what is set up for a second season, but I hope there will be more time to explore the mother-son relationship. If written right, that’s where the magic will be. 

 

Boots is based on the memoir, The Pink Marine, by Greg Cope White. I suspect I’d have enjoyed the book more but, no, I’m not going back and reading it now. I have a seemingly endless reading list and I’ve had my fill of military storytelling, thank you very much.  

"TWEAKMENTS" OR FREAKMENTS

I have bought a lot of books I’ve never read. Someday, I tell myself. If only I’d stop placing holds on books at the public library. I tend to have unread newspaper articles that linger as well, less now that I’ve stopped forking over $12 Canadian for the Sunday New York Times. It’s become a treat instead of a habit. My coffee table is much less cluttered.

 

Even so, I came across an article in my desk drawer yesterday. It’s from August 19, 2021. I’d never read it, but I hung onto it anyway—a tempting read; one that might lead to trouble. It’s called, “Lifted Necks, and Other Upgrades for Guys.” Basically, it’s about men having work done to “improve” their looks. I finally read it this morning.

 

Botox. Fillers for cheeks and jawline. Em-Sculpt (to tone abs). Laser treatments to remove sunspots. Buttock lifts. Breast reduction for men. A nose raise with fillers. Eyelid surgery. Liposuction. Neck tightening. 

 

It’s all there. 

 

What surprised me most was the ages of the men interviewed in the article. I actually laughed when I read about a 27-year-old having “Botox as a preventive.” What?! What will this guy be doing when he hits my age, 61? 

 

Most of the article was not at all funny. I should readily dismiss the entire topic. I should take into account the professions of several of these guys—a personal trainer, a social media influencer, a public relations executive. Their appearance is part of their brand. I should also think about that woman who was nicknamed Catwoman for having too much work done. As well, I can conjure up several celebrities who look like they went too far. My L’Oréal eye cream may not be doing any good but at least it’s not doing damage.

 

Still, I actually read with interest. Like I said, tempting. I’ve had an eating disorder since I was 17. I have body dysmorphia which causes me to obsess over perceived imperfections. The first body part I ever wanted altered was my elbows. I was probably twelve. I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that elbows, when the arm is fully extended, are ugly on everyone. Seriously. They’re just a weird body part. What would one do if they received an elbow compliment? You’re mocking me, right?

 

One common behaviour of people with eating disorders is body checking. Not the hockey move but the repeated looking in mirrors and the reflections in windows. It’s about fear, not vanity. It arises from, How bad do I look? rather than, How good do I look?  For more than a decade—probably much more—I’ve also been body checking by looking at other men’s bellies. I basically notice every single one. I compare them to mine. It’s my own theory of relativity. In relation to other men, how bad is my stomach? Guys without any gut protruding over the waistline of their pants make me panic. They remind me I’m not good enough. Guys with “beer bellies” calm me. I know I’m somewhere in between and, if I could ever be objective, I might be able to admit my stomach doesn’t protrude. 

 

Or does it? Cue panic once again.

 

Most of the procedures mentioned in the article are not of interest to me. Even as messed up as I am about my looks, I won’t become a plastic surgeon’s cash cow. I’m not one for invasive procedures. Hell, I have a requisition for bloodwork that’s been sitting on my desk for a month now. It takes a perfect kind of day, including a ton of self-talk, to get me to go for a blood test. I have a severe needle phobia. It’s a thing: trypanophobia. It’s listed in my medical file. One of my medical providers even typed on the requisition form (not at my request): “Please ensure accuracy. Patient has a needle phobia and we do not want to risk repeated lab visits.” Amen. 

 

Botox involves needles. Egad. How would I handle that? Maybe the wrinkles on my forehead and the sags under my eyes aren’t so bad.

 

When people talk about plastic surgery, they talk about going “under the knife.” It probably comes as no surprise knives freak me out, too. Add on the fact that a needle probably has to be administered first for a local or general anesthetic. (I’m having a hard time typing these sentences. My wrists are hurting. I am not kidding. Yes, I am a sad case. I know this.)

 

I will not be making any appointments this week for what the article alternatingly referred to as “tweakments,” a “cosmetic refresh,” or “wellness routines.” Words like torture, horror and extreme trauma do not appear in the article. Talk about skewed reporting!

 

I will admit that a couple of procedures have some appeal: the butt lift and whatever is required to avoid what one man in the article called “extreme turkey neck.” Yes, I don’t want to be Turtleneck Guy. Not in the summer when it gets above 30°C. 

 

But not for now. Maybe when I have to go under for a root canal. Let there be a single anesthetic as the oral surgeon and plastic surgeon work in tandem. 

 

For some reason, I can’t throw away the article. It’s going back in the drawer. I’ve read it, but I may want to read it again as sagginess becomes more of my reality. Who knows what may happen?...Someday.

 

 

 

 

 

  

A DIFFERENT WORLD

Okay, I survived my visit to Texas. My family relations are intact. Still, there were parts of the trip that mystified me. Why, for instance, does a chopped-up highway, much of it under construction, have a speed limit of 75 miles per hour? Just keeping with the flow of traffic as I navigated a parade of semis felt like taking my life in my hands. If Texans can’t drive 55, how about 60…or even 65? (“There’ve been lots of bad accidents on that road,” my father said. No kidding!) 

 

Next time, I might take the connector flight from DFW to my parents’ local airport.

 

My parents live in a condo building with oversized units. Theirs is about three thousand square feet, including a walk-in closet to die for. Texas likes things supersized from vehicles to homes. (My nephew, an exception, lives in a “tiny home” near Austin.) I jogged all through their neighborhood which was full of monstrous homes that made me wonder, Who lives there and what in the world do they do with all that space? Do days pass when they never see another family member? Do they sometimes skip meals because the kitchen is too far? 

 

Fortunately, we did drive through some older neighborhoods where the homes had character. Some houses might even have been described as bungalows. Lovely. This also got us off The Loop which circles Tyler and is dotted with strip malls, gas stations, fast food outlets and car dealerships. Yeesh. Zero charm anywhere along the way.

 

One of my takeaways from my visit is the notion that Texans don’t like change. This includes denying a changing world (e.g., global warming) if those changes mean they have to do something differently, however innocuous. Going out for meals, I realized Texas—or the places we went, at least—wasn’t doing anything to consider its environmental footprint. People drank from paper coffee cups even as they stayed and finished their drinks in the restaurant. Everyone had plastic straws. They automatically came with every cold drink. Doggy bags were Styrofoam containers. Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Styrofoam. Later, as I asked at my parents’ home where to put some recycling, my mother explained (to her chagrin) the condominium complex voted down recycling. No one wanted to haul a big bin out for weekly pickup. I hadn’t realized opting out was an option. How is it people are still resisting recycling?

 

All of this was extremely frustrating. In British Columbia, we go strawless (or use admittedly icky paper straws). Food containers and to-go utensils are made from recyclable materials and are compostable. I know the focus needs to be on what we do as individuals, but it’s mighty maddening knowing that large swaths of the planet are doing nothing. There are easy fixes but Texas won’t go there. To change would constitute a nod to the possibility of climate change deep in oil country. Why have any regard for environmental impact?

 

And so I segue into the political/religious milieu of what I experienced in Texas. To be clear, I did not have conversations with strangers. I did not mention the orange dude’s name and, thankfully, my ears didn’t prick up with others talking about him. Whew. Things were more subtle. On Sunday, I drove along The Loop, stopping at a dozen gas stations and drugstores, on a quest for a copy of The New York Times. Nothing doing. I can only conclude that Tyler, Texas does not carry that paper. Why would it want something representing that dang “liberal media”? Why would it want another point of view? 

 

As I knew would be the case, my parents watched Fox News each night… “but only the broadcast with Bret Baier.” A balanced journalist, as my mother asserted. I tried watching. On a segment about the government shutdown, all their interviews and quotes were from Republicans except for one Democrat whose aired soundbite wasn’t even a full sentence. Sorry. Nothing balanced about that, no matter who the news anchor is. I did not point this out; instead, I went to the guest bedroom and did a Wall Street Journal crossword.

 

At the coffee shop where I wrote on a couple of mornings, there was a Bible quote from Luke covering a full wall. I don’t recall the quote as being particularly polarizing; I’m just not used to having anything biblical in my face as I have my oat milk latte. Stranger perhaps was when I returned my Hertz rental car at DFW. As I got out of the car and greeted the attendant with a friendly, “How are you?” she responded, “I’m great because the Lord Jesus Christ is still my Savior.” Um. What? Is that even allowed from an employee to a customer? Of course it is. It’s Texas!

 

Sheesh.

 

Perhaps the most bizarre moment came during the last twenty minutes of my stay at my parents’. While my father was in his office space, giving away personal information that might well have been part of a scam (“I hung up before I gave away too much.”), my mother entered the living room and began a monologue of news items of the day, each piece delivered with a distinctly skewed conservative bent. Don’t respond, I told myself. But how could I read my novel while she continued to rant? 

 

My mother knows very well how radically different our views are. As she rattled on, I wondered if I had done anything to bring this on. I couldn’t recall making a single political statement. I’d duly admired churches (“nice architecture”), strolled rose gardens and obligingly sampled egg salad for dinner. I can only assume that slipping out while Bret Baier finished his newscast the night prior had left my mother thinking I was missing out. 

 

I really wanted to keep my head down, to stare at the paragraphs of my open book. That would signal I was otherwise occupied. But then I also knew this would be interpreted as ignoring my mother. Guilt trip to follow. I made occasional eye contact, doing my best to keep my facial expression neutral. My mother surprised me with an out of left-field (er…right-field) Margaret Thatcher quote about socialism. Please, I thought, Let this command newscast come to an end. 

 

But not soon enough. I finally had to interrupt. “I’ve had a really nice visit. Can we please not end it on politics?” One more political comment and that was a wrap.

 

Later at DFW airport as I waited for my flight to depart, I scrolled Twitter as a break from writing on my laptop. My eyes caught the name Margaret Thatcher. I stopped scrolling. By god, it was a Fox News tweet—how is that in my feed?—with the exact quote my mother had spewed that morning. And yet she claims she’s not beholden to the network. It was a disappointing ending to the visit. I did my best to shake it off, trying not to think how much a single news source was shaping her views.

 

Oh, Texas. What have you done to my parents? After forty-seven years of them living there, they are most definitely full-fledged Texans. They have always been conservative. Just not so unabashedly so. Still, I feel a sense of triumph. They will not change; rather. Instead, it is up to me to change. I kept my mouth shut for once. I’d like to think they will have nicer memories of my visit. In the end, that’s what counts.

 

CROSSING THE BORDER

It’s still five days away but already my mind is in Texas. It’s not about longing. No, the Lone Star State looms. 

 

Texas is a Red State with a lot of personal history. I lived there for eleven years, from tenth grade through university and four years of teaching. But I left thirty-six years ago. I headed to L.A.—Malibu, specifically—and thought I’d never look back. 

 

Well, not exactly. That’s personal history rewriting itself. My years at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth had been particularly good times. I left Texas but many of those friends didn’t. At least, not at first. Back when George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton were presidents, I’d make an annual trip to see friends and family. Politics had no bearing on travel decisions within the U.S. 

 

My, how that’s changed…

 

As far as I can recall, I’ve only returned twice in the last fifteen years, once for my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, the other time for my niece’s wedding. (My niece now lives in Colorado.) 

 

Yes, my parents still live there. I sound like a heel since I haven’t visited. They’ve been living in a condominium for many years and I’ve never seen it. (My mother reminds me of this often.) But I do see my parents. I used to anyway. We would see each other every summer at the family cottage in Ontario. A few times I saw them at my sister’s place in Colorado. They’ve come to Vancouver as well, often connected with one of the many cruises my father loves to plan. 

 

For the past two summers, my parents have not gone to the cottage. They’ve said they won’t be going anymore. Navigating airports and flying have become too much for them. They’re not driving to Colorado either since the higher altitude negatively impacts both of them. And so, In 2024, I visited them in Gulf Shores, Alabama where they drive to spend a month each fall. It wasn’t so bad. I walked the beach, I biked a marshy area, I wrote by myself in a café. No politics. (Headphones can be glorious.) I don’t remember what the news of the day was but it was two weeks after twice-impeached Trump was elected president once again. (WTF?) My parents’ candidate had won so they probably felt like victors, too. Why rub their son’s face in it? (We’re not that kind of family.) I watched morning news with my parents. Safer viewing. More talk about the weather than anything else. I tracked down a New York Times while my parents read The Wall Street Journal. Politically, we coexisted without any two-track debates where our arguments never converge. This news-related ceasefire was a rarity for us.

 

But now it’s a much belated return to East Texas, the city of Tyler, two hours from Dallas, forty-five minutes from where I went to high school. 

 

East Texas.

 

This is a central hub for Red State thinking. This is the state that wants to put up the ten commandments in every classroom, for god’s sake. This is a state that smiles smugly as it proudly busses and flies immigrants to New York. It’s not an anti-gay, anti-trans leader like, say, Florida, but you can bet they’re on that bandwagon. I do everything I can to block from my mind whatever it is that Texas does politically. I don’t need the agitation or the aggravation. 

It would be easier to visit if my parents weren’t such news junkies. News is on morning and night. There are two newspapers delivered each day. My father comments on many of the news items, his opinions highly skewed. I hope to read, write or time my exercises with some of the newscasts. Anything to minimize the chances of an argument. As it is across the entire country, no one is going to change anyone’s mind in my parent’s household. All I have to do is shut up, even regarding topics about which I care deeply.

 

Repeat: No one is going to change anyone’s mind. 

 

Quite frankly, the news scares me. I don’t want to hear what’s being said on Fox News, nor do I want to hear what Texans are telling Texans. I don’t want to have a better understanding of what books are being banned, what anti-gay and/or anti-trans bills are before the state legislature or have recently been enacted. I don’t want to hear the political banter when I write at the café my mother tells me she thinks I’ll like. 

 

Must. Wear. Headphones.

 

In between newscasts and football games (which I also can’t bring myself to watch), let there be times to chat and connect. Let there be an occasion when I can hop in my rental car, drive to a state park and walk among the pine trees where the flora has no political opinions whatsoever. Let me get through this trip, family ties intact.