LABEL QUEEN

I can’t keep up with today’s labels.

I’ll admit it. I used to be a label queen. Started during high school with Calvin Klein jeans and preppy IZOD alligator shirts in every imaginable pastel hue. A few Ralph Lauren Polo shirts too with that little guy riding a horse near my left nipple. They cost more, which normally draws me in (Sucker!), but they also suggested a person was too preppy. In all my adolescent confusion, I still knew I didn’t want to be called Biff behind my back. As the ‘80s came, I sought out Paul Smith, Marithé + François Girbaud, Guess and WilliWear to enhance my wardrobe along with a colourful collection of Swatch watches and boat shoes under the Zodiac brand. I couldn’t bear to walk through Target and quickly retreated if I happened to find myself in the Haggar or Dockers section of a department store. Some labels good, some labels—or the lack of all labels—bad.

Fashion evolves and I aged out of some brands. (Take a Guess...) I welcomed Hugo Boss, Claiborne, Ted Baker and, most recently, Eton to my closet. One of the big differences between then and now is I don’t have any real sense of whether a brand like Eton is truly fashionable. I like what I like and I’m still gullible enough to think a pricey tag means something. As tempting as it may be to go all Minnie Pearl and leave a price tag dangling on a did-I-just-a-drop-car-payment-on-that-shirt acquisition, I let my clothing choices present themselves. No alligators or mini Hilfiger logos anymore. No red carpet commentary as if someone wants to know. I no longer need to lead with the label.

To some extent, that goes with my sexual identity, too. I identify as gay and I assume people can ask (they never do) or figure it out (easy peasy, I’m betting). But I’m getting the sense that my chosen label has faded and, along with my age, made me passé. When I was coming out—and, ooh, doesn’t that clause make me sound even more passé— Lesbian (L) and Gay (G) were the options—one for girls, one for boys,…enough to muck up all that sugar and spice and snips and snails. Some advocated for the inclusion of Bisexual (B) while others derisively considered the big B as for semi-closet cases, persons in transition. (We’ve let that go, haven’t we?) And then came another group in transition, those identifying as Transgender (T). Add to that some slang, often slurs taken back and embraced by the LGBT “community”. Fags and faggots. Queers. Dykes. More recent slang, which I’ve blogged about being completely unnecessary: gay AF or gay as fuck and bromos. Just typing the last two gets me riled up again. For a young person to scream that he’s gay AF may feel like a proud or even challenging stance, but I find it insulting to the generations that did all the earlier work. I’d say the people at Stonewall and those who pushed for non-discrimination and AIDS progress in the ’80s would be more deserving of the “gay AF” title if the expression itself weren’t so silly. Gay is gay. Let’s step away from our mirrors and stop asking who is the gayest of them all.

But, more seriously, somewhere along the line, non-heterosexual people felt boxed in by a string of letters, even as it grew to LGBTQI. (Maybe the problem was that the alphabet cluster didn’t form a catchy acronym. Hey, Pat Sajak, I’d like to buy another vowel.) Gender and sexual identity have become more fluid and, yes, more complicated. Last night I went attended the first in a series of workshops for men about body image. The invite stated the following:

This group is open to self-identified men (trans men, cis men,

and other men), non-binary and gender-queer folks who also

identify as two-spirit, asexual, gay, bi, queer, and/or

as guys who are into guys.

It’s a different world. More to learn and more landmines, not just for people who see themselves as straight or heterosexual, but for folks like me who only had a small cluster of letters to choose from. None of the above terms are new to me, but I still have to do a quick Google on a few to figure out how each is distinct. And when I look at the invitation, I (timidly) wonder why intersex and pansexual didn’t make the cut. I know I’ve seen other terms as well, often in the comment sections online when one “gay” person is putting down another “gay” person. A label can be something one embraces to feel better about who he/she/they is/are but it can also be used as bait. Misuse it and they/he/she will pounce all over you.

For me, I’m sticking with gay. Not that I'm knocking any other term in any way. I’ve always liked the fact homosexuals stole a word meaning “happy” even if it’s often hard to align the term and the feeling. (And when we sing “Deck the Halls” and get to the line, “Don we now our gay apparel,” I find amusement in thinking of all the brands in my closet. Works every time—even if it shouldn’t—to make me smile. Voilà, instant gay!)

I spent years struggling with my identity, at first barely whispering the G-word. It’s taken decades for it to come out of my mouth in a casual manner when I’m with a group of strangers. “Gay” is what I've grown into. It's what makes me comfortable. It is the label that works for me.

Along with Hugo Boss.

GONE GAY

Nearly three months back in the city and I don’t have much to blog about. All those gay opportunities? All that gay exposure? Not so much.

The city’s changed. Most have. Gay ghettos aren’t what they used to be. I can’t walk down Davie or Denman Street and awkwardly attempt to make eye contact with a stream of gay men going to and from the gym. There are still plenty of people, but the gays are gone. They no longer travel in packs in the West End.

And, yes, I know that’s a good thing. Generally speaking, it’s awesome. We can feel comfortable living anywhere in Vancouver or in the suburbs. We are accepted. Hurrah.

It’s funny though. A loss comes with the gains. Gays are not an inherently visible minority. As we pushed for rights and protested discrimination, we strove to make ourselves visible. I remember joining in the chant “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it.” Twenty-some years ago, I had an earring in my left ear and a pink triangle on my car bumper. See me. See my gayness.

And now, as I walk, I wonder, Where have all the gays gone?

Are we invisible again? Is that progress?

I think I’m supposed to say I’m more evolved. Don’t see my gayness. See me as a whole person. I’m a writer, a vegetarian, something of a fitness fanatic (maybe without the results for you to see that!). I’m an educator, a solo traveler, a literacy advocate, a quirky dreamer who gets lost in nature (figuratively and, unfortunately, literally).

But I am still gay. And it still matters. Try to make a list of what you are in terms of roles, not characteristics. Notice how gay keeps popping up even as you try to prove how you are so much more than that. Gay still defines us, at least in part. For those of us who grew up before society’s enlightenment, our gayness may define us more than it should have. We often fought our gayness before we fought for it. We weren’t instantly accepted or even tolerated. The gayness created a divide as well as a uniting force. (Hello, ghetto.) It weighed on us more. And despite the radical differences between then and now, our past doesn’t just fade away.

So as I walk the streets of Vancouver—I do everything I can to keep the car in park—I don’t see people like me. Not in that way. In some respects, that brings relief. I don’t have to look good when I go to the grocery store. I can wear the t-shirt I should have tossed five years ago. (Okay, ten.) But there are days when I miss it. I miss the camaraderie. I miss the glances or, more accurately in my case, the missed glances. I miss the hope that I might run into my future longtime companion (yes, it’s “husband” now) while trying to decide between Häagen-Dazs and Ben & Jerry’s.

We’ve gained acceptance and then dispersed. We’ve abandoned the bars and taken to Grindr. Yes, the app can tell us we’re not alone as we walk the streets. But, as I understand things, it simply announces who’s horny. This is what we fought for?

Perhaps because I am single and because I don’t shop on Grindr, I still would like to know I’m not alone in the Vancouver crowds. Show yourselves, guys. A simple nod will do, a sign that says, “Me, too.” And if you’re single and you see me in the frozen foods aisle, let’s talk—and eat—ice cream. I’d love the company.

IT'S A LIVING

While my 2.5 hour-commute to work is typically a focused rush, I had an opportunity to pause this morning. That’s what happens when the car doesn’t start and you have to wait for roadside assistance. It was a lovely morning, the perfect time to linger along the waterfront, gazing out at boats in the marina as the sun shone brightly and seagulls flitted about in the sky. No need to stress over being late to work. Life happens.

The mechanic arrived and quickly replaced the battery. When it came time to pay, he ran my credit card through one of those handy little machines and then attempted to print out my receipt. Unfortunately, the paper jammed.

“Stupid fuckin’ piece of shit.” Not me, the machine.

Immediately, I had job envy.

I have no desire to try to fix cars. I don’t like motor grease on the hands. And it often takes me two tries just to pop the hood. (The first attempt usually opens the trunk.) I stress just adding air to the tires. What if it’s too much and they explode? My father earnestly tried to pass on the garage-is-my-sanctum gene but my body rejected it.

“Fuck! Fucking piece of shit.”

More profanity. On the job. How refreshing.

Okay, I’m not actually one to swear a lot. I can go days, even months, without cussing. (It all depends on how long I go without banging my foot on the bedpost.) Some people are not meant to swear and apparently I am one of them. When I say the F word or the Sh word or even the harsher version of “heck”, people laugh. It just sounds funny coming out of my mouth.

So I am not making myself clear here. I don’t want to be a mechanic and I do not long to swear like a sailor (or a mechanic). The job envy comes from the fact this guy can show up for work and just be himself. No filter, no concern with how he might be perceived. How freeing!

I began this blog hiding my identity under the name Rural Gay. (Many other titles came to mind, but they were already taken by bloggers. Dear Gwyneth, “goop” was supposed to be mine, all mine!) In time, I also set up a Twitter account as Rural Gay, but I attracted very few followers. Apparently tweeps were reluctant to follow someone with a cryptic name and an image of scenic British Columbia. My follower count languished below 150 for over a year. Eventually, I dared to refer to myself as James Gregory and include an extreme close-up head shot. I now have more than 2,300 followers. Even on something as relatively anonymous as Twitter, people want to have some sense of who you are.

James Gregory is a pseudonym. I do not use my real name because of my job. I do not want my employer to know that I have struggled with an eating disorder, but more importantly I do not want my bosses or other stakeholders to read about my dating experiences and ongoing travails as a gay man.

While I live in a country where gays and lesbians have had the right to marry since 2005 and there are provincial and federal antidiscrimination protections pertaining to sexual orientation, I suspect that an unfiltered gay me would be problematic.

I am an elementary school principal. Everything I say and do comes under scrutiny. I hear myself quoted as I stroll down the hallway and, when I run into parents outside of school, I often get, “We were just talking about you...” I have been told it wasn’t principal-like to show up at work with a few blond highlights. (This from a colleague with far more obvious streaks of blonde dye in her hair.) While very few Canadians spew vile about gays being pedophiles, there remains some discomfort with gay men being teachers or principals. This is a society which still tolerates the Boy Scouts’ No Gay Adults rule.

I have no doubt that many staff members, parents and perhaps even some students know the truth. I do not ooze oodles of testosterone (as evidenced from the fact I just used the word “oodles”). I have some voice inflections and hand gestures that may even be regarded as effeminate. I’m past the point of caring or, God forbid, self-monitoring every utterance or movement. It’s basically a don’t ask, don’t tell existence. Everyone’s happy.

Except me.

As a writer, there are several projects I am working on that would present an extreme disconnect from my life as a principal. One manuscript centers on a young gay man’s dating experiences, including comically sexual mishaps. Should it be published, I would not share it with my family and I certainly would not want members of the school board to have it on their Kindles. There remains a clear divide between my work life and everything else.

I know there are openly gay teachers and principals. I follow a blog by a grade six teacher who has no qualms with blogging about his dating life. Some people are more courageous or perhaps they are just better supported. Years ago, I worked at an elementary school with four gay men on staff. It was far easier to be completely open, at least among colleagues. Every work setting is different. It makes it disheartening, however, to find myself retreating to the closet as my career “advances.”

While I am highly skilled and respected at work, dissatisfaction creeps in when my life is rigidly compartmentalized. We’ve all seen how Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was a step, but not an endpoint.

Ideally, I would love to abandon the career, one that I have so loved but that now keeps me in a box. To write full-time or to eke out a living as a barista while writing on the side feels like a daring, exhilarating dream. As long as I still have a mortgage, a radical pay cut is out of the question. It’s just another reason I feel desperate to sell my house.

For now, I continue my muted existence in a career that I am otherwise passionate about.

It’s a living. But sometimes I wonder if it really is.

RECONSIDERING THE GAYCATION

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I was part of a series of long-term relationships. Travel was an exciting part of being with a partner. I wanted to have our pictures taken in distant places. Look at us! We have our arms around each other! We’re smiling! We’re happy! We’re in love!

Photos don’t lie.

I loved the idea of sharing a king-size bed and waking up each morning chatting about we’d do without the distractions of work, our regular social circle and “Live! with Regis and Kathie Lee”. (Okay, only one of us needed an update about little Cody and big Frank. (And I told you it was a long time ago.))

Travel also included risks. What if we got tired of being around each other 24/7? What if he insisted on checking out every outlet store? What if he got upset if I couldn’t eat at that highly recommended restaurant that lacks a vegetarian option?

The trips were never exotic. While we talked of India, Portugal, New Zealand and Botswana, we only got as far as San Francisco, Dallas and Whistler. None of the vacations prompted me to start scrapbooking our Romance on the Road. Each trip included heated arguments and nights spent sleeping at opposite edges of the roomy mattress. We always made up before heading home, but the excursions never lived up to all we anticipated. It was as if he were supposed to be sprinkled with fairy dust once reaching our (not so) foreign destination and, when Tinkerbell proved to be a no-show, well, we were doomed to disappointment.

One recurring source of friction involved the daily itineraries. Invariably, my partner wanted to find the gay ghetto and take in a Pride Parade, eat a mediocre hamburger at a gay restaurant or a jiggle a glass of ice at a gay nightclub.

Almost always, I resisted. Didn’t we have enough of the gay scene back home in Los Angeles or Vancouver? Why did we need to immerse ourselves in homo havens when we had each other? How much love did we have if we had to dress to impress other gays or sneak peaks at our “foreign” “community”?

I was defensive and insecure, it is true. But I also genuinely wanted to tour museums and galleries, drive off on day trips and try eateries that didn’t necessarily have campy or beefy waiters. I wanted a break for The Gay Life.

For the past nine years, I’ve had full power to set my own itineraries. My travel choices are only limited by those damn “Based on double occupancy” qualifiers and unexpected, budget-sucking car repairs that pop up just as I get the itch to wander far afield and see...Seattle.

Gays sites are not on the agenda. I can shop all the trendy stores I want, take my time pondering oh-so-modern scribble art in fine museums and curiously chew mock veal parmigiana at the token vegan dive restaurant.

When I spent a weekend in Portland a couple of summers ago, I booked a room at the Ace Hotel, a place I’d discovered online in a post about the Funkiest Hotels in the U.S. From the write-up and from its own website, I knew I would never convince a friend (or, should it ever happen again, a partner) to stay in a glorified dorm room so this felt like an opportunity. An advantage of traveling solo is there is no one to negotiate with. I could do it all My Way.

Nothing in what I read indicated that the hotel was directly across the street from a gay nightclub. It amused me at 3 p.m. to see clusters of gay men having cocktails on the outdoor patio. For a moment, I entertained the idea of popping by later that night. As a single man living in isolation from All Things Gay, I thought a look, a nod or even a brief conversation would be a welcome opportunity to renew my homo credentials before the expiration date.

But then as night came, I pictured myself sitting alone, sporting a strained smile, trying to sell the look of perfect contentment as nondescript house music pulsated (What do you mean you don’t have “Dancing Queen”?!) and others laughed around me.

Why bother? Why do that to myself? I had no answer. I passed.

Four years ago when I went to San Francisco, I attended a football game and a pumpkin festival. Not exactly an update on Tales of the City.

I am beginning to rethink things. The lack of any gay component of my life makes me feel stagnant. I am as full of life as a run-of-the-mill earthworm, asexual and all. The Homo Card lapsed. Seems I don’t even know where to get an application form for reinstatement.

Perhaps a gaycation is indeed in order. I am not thinking about the extreme scenario of being stuck on a cruise ship full of Fake ‘n’ Bake twinks and daddies who squeeze into sherbet-shaded Speedos and hoot loudly as some form of a desperate mating call. Notice me! No, I’d rather be on one of those Carnival sea adventures with no power and boxes of stale Saltines to ration as Kathie Lee Gifford sings “On the GoodShip Lollipop.”

Man overboard!

Still, a weekend wandering The Castro or Chicago’s Boystown might be what I need to revive a dormant component of my identity that I had once fought so hard to understand and embrace. I can’t get my gay back from watching The Saga of Kurt and Blaine. And I daresay that it isn’t good enough to sit back and await Anderson Cooper’s next giggle fit.

Seems I am in need of a full gay immersion. Maybe a sweet man named Pablo will snap my photo as I don a dollar store necklace of rainbow beads and stand in front of Tulsa’s top gay club. I’ll smile broadly and download the pic, reminding myself that I was there. Yep, I’m gay.

Like I said, pictures don’t lie.