A GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY: LOVING “MARY”

Fifty years ago, when I was a kid, there were no gay role models. No out gay actors, singers or athletes; no gay candidates for president; no gay family members or neighbors. And so I went with Mary Tyler Moore.

On Saturday, September 19, 1970, the world met Mary Richards, hoping to make a go of things in the big city: Minneapolis. As the main character of CBS’s “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” Richards represented a different kind of woman to American viewers: she was still single at thirty. (Network execs balked when creators James L. Brooks and Allan Burns pitched her character as a divorcee.)

Apart from Phyllis’ daughter, Bess, the sitcom was kid-free and I felt very mature, staring into a window of adulthood. Mary Richards was sweet, smart, stylish and solidly single. She had her share of bad dates and seemed to shrug them off. Not her thing. Certainly not the ultimate thing.

It never dawned on me to look to the guys. I liked news writer Murray Slaughter well enough, always with a quip at the ready. I simultaneously cringed and laughed at vain, dimwitted anchorman Ted Baxter. Through Mary’s eyes, I even learned to see through her boss Lou Grant’s gruffness and consider him a softy.

Still, my eyes were drawn to the women. Long before “The Golden Girls,” “Sex and the City,” and umpteen incarnations of “Real Housewives,” my nascent gay leanings clicked with the strong, quirky female characters surrounding Mary: dowdy, self-deprecating Rhoda Morgenstern; flighty, self-absorbed Phyllis Lindstrom; sly, sexual Sue Ann Nivens; and pie-eyed, wholesome Georgette Franklin. These women were independent by choice or by default. (Technically, Phyllis was married to a never-seen Lars, Rhoda married—and divorced—Joe but that was on another show and, while Georgette eventually married Ted, she had a way of keeping him in check.)

In every scene, I first checked out what Mary was wearing. I marveled at her ribbed turtlenecks. wide-legged pants, diagonally draped belts, plaid skirts and that iconic blue beret she triumphantly tossed in the air as she crossed a busy downtown street in the opening credits. She had a flair and carried herself with confidence. Who wouldn’t want to be like Mary?

Even the wood-block “M” nailed to the wall of her apartment seemed like a savvy accessory. M for Mary, M for Mine. Her place and hers alone.

There weren’t any regular LGBT characters, but I witnessed my first outing of a gay man on the episode, “My Brother’s Keeper,” which originally aired on January 13, 1973. When Phyllis’ brother, Ben, visits, she is intent on matching him up with Mary, but he hits it off with Rhoda instead. Phyllis is despondent—even ruining a party Mary hosts—until Rhoda says, “He’s not my type.” Phyllis, ever volatile, turns incredulous, saying, “He’s witty, he’s attractive, he’s successful, he’s single—”

“He’s gay,” Rhoda blurts, matter-of-factly, to which Phyllis replies, “Oh, Rhoda, I’m so relieved!” Phyllis’ reaction says more about what she thinks of Rhoda than where she stands on homosexuality, but the episode closes with a quiet scene, Mary and Rhoda cleaning up as Phyllis sits beside Ben while he plays the piano. Being gay is tacitly accepted as utterly normal. Groundbreaking for a top ten show in 1973.

When I moved to Los Angeles in my mid-twenties to start a new career and finally come out as gay, I played Mary’s theme song in my head. trying to tune out the tentativeness of the first season version: “How will you make it on your own? This world is awfully big and, girl, this time you’re all alone.” In subsequent seasons, Mary had every reason to feel assured as the lyrics changed to, “Who can turn the world on with her smile? Who can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?”

I got really good at smiling. So what if I followed it up by staring at my shoelaces.

I was dating and my luck with men wasn’t any better than Mary’s. If she had her share of bad dates, why wouldn’t I? I struggled to shrug them off like Mary, but then dates didn’t come as easily to me in the first place.

In 1991, I participated in my first protest as marchers decried California Governor Pete Wilson’s veto of legislation that would have prohibited employment discrimination of gays and lesbians. As we chanted along Santa Monica Boulevard, I observed a woman get out of car on a side street. She cheered us on before crouching down to explain the moment to her young child. I beamed and felt further empowered as I realized the woman was Valerie Harper, aka Mary’s BFF, Rhoda. Sometimes the people you idolize are, in fact, good people.

Alas, after five years, L.A. didn’t feel like the place where I’d make it, after all. I packed my car, intent on heading north. Before leaving, my friend Richard popped by to give me a beret. He’d heard me gush about Mary in gay bars as I sipped club soda, trying to stay positive as men looked right through me. In Vancouver, I’d reset. I’d find a busy intersection and throw my cap in the air—a sign of exhilaration, a nod to pending triumph.

But I held off. I wanted to exude Mary’s confidence.

It took a couple of years before I felt ready. Success was sketchy at best, but the symbolic act would be an act of faith. I searched my closet, but the beret was nowhere to be found. I never throw anything away; it would turn up. But it never did.

Five years ago, I readied for my ultimate pilgrimage: a four-day road trip to spend a week in Minneapolis. I dug out a Gap baseball cap from the bottom of a drawer, the letter “G” front and center. G for Gregory, G for Gay (and, yes, for a certain store brand, I suppose).

I fell in love with Minneapolis, particularly its lakes and art museums. I took selfies outside the grand home that served as the exterior shots for Mary’s first apartment. The house had a For Sale sign and, for five minutes, I deluded myself into thinking Mary’s place could be mine...if I happened upon two million dollars.

Based on location shots in the show’s opening and closing, I connected with other Mary spots: Kowalski’s Market where Mary flinches at the price of meat; Basil’s Restaurant where she dines with someone; I even searched for the bridge area where Mary crouches down to feed the ducks. It’s a good thing that my one stint as a stalker involved a fictional person.

On my last day, I headed downtown. Destination: 7^th and Nicolett, the intersection where Mary throws her hat. I was excited and nervous. I fretted about asking someone to photograph my moment. I figured I’d work my way into it, first taking some pics of the Mary statue the city had erected on the corner. I stood there and, spun around, wondering how I couldn’t spot the statue. A city official on a Segway sensed my confusion. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m looking for Mary. The statue, I mean.”

When he said, “It’s gone,” I almost collapsed. The statue had been removed a week earlier while the area was undergoing a makeover. The worker stayed with me for a few minutes, unsure what to make of my distress. Mary Richards meant nothing to him.

I looked down at the ball cap, tightly crumpled in my hand. I couldn’t conjure up a Mary-worthy smile. Minneapolis was Mary’s town, not mine. 

Schlepping back to my Airbnb, I slipped into Sebastian Joe’s for a double-scoop of chocolate mint and raspberry chocolate chip. Mary would have resisted. Sometimes I’m more of a Rhoda.

Listening to “Love Is All Around,” the show’s theme song, still offers an instant pick-me-up. When I’ve got time, I watch an episode. It doesn’t have to be the one about Chuckles the Clown’s funeral or the premiere, featuring Mary’s hilarious interview with Mr. Grant. Any episode will do. The show has transcended beyond the easy laughs from Sue Ann’s barbs and Ted’s news blunders. I’m just thankful to spend more time with my imaginary friends. In the finale, Lou Grant chokes up and says, “I treasure you people.” I couldn't agree more.

I take heart knowing that even Mary stumbled and faced roadblocks. After seven seasons, Mary (along with Lou and Murray...but not Ted) got fired from the WJN newsroom. Although the theme song declared she was “gonna make it after all,” it would just take a little longer.

And here I am, 55 and single, living in a hastily rented apartment after the coronavirus sidelined another bold restart. It’s only a coincidence that the building is on Richards Street, but I take it as auspicious. I’m still waiting for my hat toss moment.

CHASING MARY: Hats Off

I felt so comfortable in Mary’s ’hood. Still, I had another location to explore. The most iconic scene accompanying the “Love Is All Around” theme is the end of the opening credits. Mary spins amongst pedestrians on a busy street and tosses her hat in the air. Naturally, I had to re-enact that. It would be my way to show I was going to make it, too. Just like Mary. (Never mind that she got fired in the series finale.)

If I’d only had a vague inkling of one day following Mary Richards to Minneapolis as I watched original episodes on Saturday nights in the ’70s, the notion stuck with me. After I moved to Los Angeles, I confided in my dear friend Robert (whom I’d meet on Saturday nights in West Hollywood only after I’d watched the latest episode of “The Golden Girls”) that my one true love was Mary Richards. He neither frowned nor flinched. He nodded and then smiled. “Yep. That’s so you.” And after five years of struggling to make it in L.A., I piled all I could in my Honda Accord and drove north to Vancouver. On the day I left, Robert stopped by and dropped off a gift, a black beret. His only words: “You’re gonna make it after all.” My mission was obvious. Once I got to Vancouver, I was to find a busy intersection and throw my cap in the air, a sign of exhilaration, comfort and triumph.

But I didn’t do that. Not right away. I wanted to be true to Mary. I wanted to segue from that shaky Season One lyric, “You might just make it” to the more assured line in subsequent seasons, “You’re gonna make it.” It took a couple of years, but I finally felt ready to toss my hat. I searched through the closet of my fourth apartment since the move back to Canada, but the beret was nowhere to be found. No worries, I thought. I never throw anything away. It would turn up. But it never did.

In the weeks leading up to my road trip to Minneapolis, I began hat shopping. I decided to splurge and pick something that would be my own fashion statement. The problem was that I have never liked hats. They are perfectly fine on other people, but I don’t look good in them. Hair has always been my best asset and covering that up only made all my facial flaws more glaring. Besides, hats make my scalp itchy. And I was reluctant to try one on after spending the entire school year futilely combating a lice epidemic at my school.

Still, I looked. I’d only have to wear the hat for thirty seconds before thrusting it skyward and hoping I wouldn’t make a “Rhoda” fumble. The frugal teachings of my father suddenly made an eighty-dollar expense for a half minute’s wear seem foolish. Instead I dug out a Gap baseball cap from the bottom of a drawer in my closet. Never worn. Denim blue with my first initial front and center. (A little like Mary’s “M” on her apartment wall.) I packed it in my suitcase; it would have to do.

With only two days left of my week-long stay in Minneapolis, I boarded a bus for downtown, cap in hand. I got on the bus, hat in hand. At 7^th and Hennepin, I disembarked and then walked the block to the corner where Macy’s is. Much at the intersection was yellow-taped off as construction workers went about doing something. What exactly, I don’t know. They were not my focus.  As I approached, my only thought was, Please don’t let the Mary statue be blocked off. Please don’t let construction come between Mary and me.

I stood at the Macy’s corner, 7^th and Nicollet, the corner I’d read online as being the site of the statue of Mary Richards and her hat. I spun around, perhaps like Mary did, only I was trying to spot the statue instead of doing some sort of exhilarating twirl. A Latino man in a neon yellow shirt standing on a Segway asked, “Can I help you find something?” He seemed to be an Information designate.

“I’m looking for the Mary Tyler Moore statue.”

“It’s gone,” he said. “It used to be right here.” He point at a framed square on the pavement. “They took it out last weekend.”

“Nooo!” There was no hiding my disappointment. I stood there clutching my lettered baseball cap, too stunned to move. How could the City of Minneapolis remove it? For how long? Permanently?!

There had been no tourists lurking outside Mary’s house—not on any of my visits there. And now the statue was gone. Had Minneapolitans finally turned their backs on America’s sweetheart, Mary Richards? Did “The Mary Tyler Moore” show mean nothing anymore? Is this why I could no longer find it in syndication? Who the hell decided that “Hogan’s Heroes” and “The Andy Griffith Show” were still relevant, but Mary wasn’t? The statue had to be here. I slowly 360ed once more. Alas, my search turned up nothing.

The man sensed by confusion. My head looked down again at the framed square on the pavement as if the statue would suddenly reappear. If I only I could have twitched my nose like Samantha on “Bewitched” or crossed my arms and blinked like Barbara Eden on “I Dream of Jeannie”. I was a pathetic curiosity. Mr. Bearer of Bad News did his best to show empathy. “A guy showed up as they were removing it. He came from Baltimore. They stopped so he could have his picture taken.”

“I came from Vancouver,” I said. And the man, for whom Mary Richards meant absolutely nothing, stayed by my side. He could see the devastation. He gave me a map of downtown with a number to call. “Maybe they can give you some information,” he said.

I couldn’t think clearly. Pedestrians passed, coming and going from all directions. I knew this man would take a picture of me throwing my cap in the air. All I had to do was ask. This was the same corner. The statue wasn’t part of the show. It didn’t matter. But somehow it did. It represented Mary Richards’ place in pop culture and her ongoing association with this city in Minnesota despite the fact the show was filmed in L.A.

I didn’t ask for a photo. I felt silly. Like Linus waiting for The Great Pumpkin, I was the only one who believed. I walked away, still stunned, not knowing what to do. I turned back and went into Macy’s. A shabby Macy’s it seemed, but perhaps the warm glow I’d gained visiting this city was gone, everything now tarnished. I wandered on the second floor where the menswear was and drifted across skybridge after skybridge into other buildings. There was nothing to do. I had hoped there would be a shopping experience calling to me, helping soothe my sense of loss.

F

or a while, I stood in the building across the street and looked up at Basil’s Restaurant, another site in the opening credits. I snapped a picture and told myself to go up. Get a coffee or something. But I’d lost interest. The City had lost interest in Mary Richards. Why should I care about Basil’s? Finally I found the elevator in the Marquette Hotel and pressed the third floor button for the restaurant. I stood where the host or maitre-d would assume his place but no one was there. I settled for a selfie and took the elevator down again.

I made it back to the corner of 7^th and Nicollet. The Information guy was gone. I felt stupid holding my cap. Was it always this crumpled? People continued to stream by. I tried to muster up the will to try the hat toss. Without the statue near me, there was nothing I could point to in order to explain the odd behavior of repeatedly tossing a baseball cap in trying to capture a bizarre selfie. I lost any courage to ask someone to take my picture. I thought of just throwing the cap without a photo. It suddenly seemed complicated. I’d lost the will. I walked back toward Hennepin, ready to catch the next bus.

I felt empty and I wondered, What would Mary do? A silly question. A fictional personality, one that meant nothing anymore to her adopted city. Instead, I went with the old standby of What would I, James, do?

I got off the bus a block early and ordered a double scoop of ice cream—chocolate mint and raspberry chocolate chip—at Sebastian Joe’s, a signature spot in the city since the mid-80s. It still had its status. For now, at least.