SUMMONING PRIDE

I’m trying to fight my reticence. Seattle’s Pride events culminate in its parade and other events this weekend. I’m going, even if I’m dragging my rainbow Converse-clad feet.

 

I’ve never participated in Pride in Seattle. It’s not my city and I’m not one of those to do a whole Pride summer tour. Ordinarily, it’s enough for me to bow out of Vancouver’s Pride activities which come to a head at the end of July or the beginning of August. It’s convenient for me to travel elsewhere at that time of year. The cottage in Ontario calls or, if not, I schedule a hiking weekend around Whistler or on Vancouver Island. I don’t require the annual Pride booster.  

 

This year non-participation is not an option. I’m in a new relationship with Evan who lives in Seattle. He’s one of the masses who loves Pride. We alternate spending weekends in Seattle or Vancouver and it was a given that we’d be at his place for Seattle Pride and then at my place for Vancouver Pride. I get to a double booster. Doubly Proud. Yay. Not yay.

 

I know very well how I sound. I’m the party pooper. I’m the rain on the parade. I have to work through this so that, when it’s time to celebrate, I’ll blend in. Let me not be the death of the party. Of course, if I appear blasé or, worse, mopey, no one will notice. No one but Evan. 

 

I could hit the beer garden. Evan likes it when I’ve had a drink. He says I get chattier and I’m giddy. One drink is about my limit. It shouldn’t be a surprise that I don’t do excess anything. Still, I’d rather track down an iced oat milk latte and do what I can to feed off the energy, not so much from eyeing the corporate banners or the go-go boys on floats, but from watching Evan take everything in. Let his joy be mine. 

 

As I drove to Seattle last night, I attempted to conduct my own therapy session. What’s your problem with Pride? How does it make you feel? 

 

My first Pride parade was in West Hollywood way back in 1990. I went by myself and sheltered beside a friendly group of lesbians. They made me feel safe while taking in a spectacle that was overwhelming. So much leather, so much drag, so much skin. There was lots of talk about the Gay and Lesbian “community” which, at the time, seemed conflicted about the B and the T. Bisexuality was often derisively questioned, a half-step out of the closet at best. I’d heard talk about transgender being a distraction to gay and lesbian causes. The thinking was that it was hard enough for America to accept gays and lesbians. People who were trans would have to wait. In many respects, they’re still waiting. 

 

However broad or restricted the “community,” I had a hard time seeing my place when I looked at the people in the parade. I was a repressed twenty-five-year-old, raised in a reserved family, having lived eleven years in Texas prior to moving to Los Angeles. I took the parade too seriously, at face value…or, really, the value seemed more focused on lower body parts—jiggly thongs and boobs with pasties. This was what I was supposed to be? I couldn’t see myself in bare-assed leather chaps. I failed to see the parade as a performance piece, as a stir-the-pot device to rally the troops, as a party on steroids…our version of Carnival or Mardi Gras. 

 

What I managed to connect with were the more serious entrants in the parade: the local politicians glad-handing while perched in convertibles, the PFLAG contingent that I knew would never include my own parents and the AIDS organizations demanding action now. Indeed, the parade planted the seed for me to become a volunteer buddy at AIDS Project Los Angeles a year later when I finally decided I couldn’t sit on the sidelines, buried in law school case studies in beach-blessed Malibu. When the parade wrapped, I left with a smile on my face—a genuine one without any nudge from booze. I couldn’t process the gay garb, but I truly felt the core message of Pride: It was okay to be gay. I was not alone, in spirit at least. There were tens of thousands of gays, lesbians and allies who would high-five me if I dared to relax and venture beyond my overly cautious life, skimming issues of The Advocate on newsstands and staring at my socks while sipping club soda at Rage on Saturday nights. My version of bold was asking the bartender for a lime wedge.

 

In subsequent years at various Pride events, I felt less affirmation as my inner critic cringed at seeing the more daring, out-there components of the parade. I’d learned that the stir-the-pot moments were the ones that made the TV news which didn’t seek to accurately portray the crowd but instead wanted viewers to react. My agenda had been normalizing being gay. I wanted people to realize “We’re just like everybody else.” Others stole the show with the counterargument: “No, we’re not.” I needed approval; they didn’t. 

 

I’ve evolved—to some degree. I love the drag queens. Really, I always have. I just wanted Joe Public to see the average Joes under the rainbow, too. Of course, the big wigs and glittery gowns made the evening news. Any decent drag queen will do what it takes to pull focus. 

 

I’m understanding more about the T in LGBTQ. I embrace trans rights even though my personal interactions remain far too limited. I appreciate the greater focus in the press and in the entertainment industry. I’m incensed how conservatives are using trans issues to get their followers frothing at the mouth and coughing up political donations. Fear the unknown!It’s outrageously manipulative. 

 

I’m in awe of the entire alphabet spectrum of terms younger and/or newly out queers can draw from in considering identity. I’ve heard others my age bemoan all the new labels and I get it. We worked hella hard to be accepted as gay. Let that be enough. But it’s a larger menu now. Other people choose what’s the best fit for them. COVID expanded my gay universe, allowing me to listen to and learn from a broader, more diverse group of queer writers than I’d ever encountered during my limited out and abouts, pre-pandemic. 

 

While I don’t think my attempt at road trip therapy last night made any inroads, I’m realizing this writing session is proving helpful. The last time I took part in a Pride parade and the showier events was probably seven years ago. Much has changed, some things for the better, other circumstances raising new concerns. Back then, I was single and I people watched the crowd more than the parade entries. I glanced at older gay couples, I studied younger straight couples who brought along their children with rainbow unicorns painted on their cheeks and I crouched down to bond with labradoodles and, wherever possible, schnauzers. I loved the drag queens, but I didn’t need to ogle the shirtless boys showing off tanned abs and toned biceps. As someone who will likely always struggle with an eating disorder, I’ve learned that I don’t need in-your-face displays of gay gods and the more awkward mere mortals desperately striving for that status. I don’t want to go to Pride and feel worse about myself. My issue. Let me shake another paw with Fido who looks rather festive with the rainbow leash and collar. 

 

I’m an introvert and, as I wrote last year, I get more from quieter moments during Pride month. But I think I can put on a happy face—a genuine one this year—and feed off Evan’s joy while celebrating the more diverse representations of pride. Let me cheer people pushing for trans rights. Let me whoop for LGBTQ seniors. And, as a bonus, let me boogie to the old school soundtrack…a little Bronski Beat, a dash of Gloria Gaynor, some sideline Voguing, a couple of Village People tunes and “Born This Way” as a takeaway earworm.    

 

Okay, Seattle. Pep talk completed. See you Out in the streets.

HEY, JEALOUSY

I’ve never been fond of people invoking the term jealousy. It has its place, but I feel it’s overused and misused. If someone were to say I’m jealous of the writing careers of David Sedaris and Andrew Sean Greer, they’d be right. In this context, jealous is synonymous with the term envious, each conveying a sense of being covetous. I want their writing success…or even a fraction of it. 

 

In terms of romantic relationships, jealousy takes on a different connotation which suggests that the person portrayed as having it is possessive and/or suspicious of the person who has his affection. This is where the word’s use gets dicey. It becomes a term of judgment. We are not supposed to feel jealous. It’s a bad thing. Indeed, it can be weaponized. It shuts down conversation. It’s triggered when someone wonders about the possibility of infidelity. The mere thought of any such thing conveys a person’s irrationality. “Stop being jealous.” The behavior is considered to cause harm to the relationship but so does invoking the term itself.

 

My first boyfriend regularly accused me of being jealous. We were both in our mid-twenties and his entire work environment involved gay men. He was always telling me about guys hitting on him. It seemed to me that, rather than putting these men in their place or telling them he was in a relationship, he continued to receive and maybe even relish their advances. As with so many gay men, he was insecure and the attention fed his ego. What he failed to acknowledge was that it harmed me in the process.

 

Whenever I asked if he mentioned having a boyfriend or if he made clear he wasn’t interested, he seemed to dodge the question and fire back that I was being jealous and I was thereby damaging our relationship. He’d then continue to tell me about these men hitting on him again and again. His burden, his helplessness. I’d listen to these anecdotes and then suggest how he could put a stop to the unwanted attention. 

 

“If you don’t like Ben, why don’t you tell him you have a boyfriend?” “Why does he keep leaving messages on the answering machine?” No cell phones. It was 1991. Also very much a 1991 thing: AIDS. There was no wiggle room for a wayward romp. We’d gotten tested for HIV together and we were careful but there was still a lot of misinformation then about what was safe or, at less safer. The stakes were literally life and death.  

 

He viewed my questions as an assault on him. I was the unreasonable person. Jealous, jealous, jealous. He didn’t tire of his suitors but of what he saw as my suspicion and doubt. 

 

To be sure, rooted in anything I said or did was my own insecurity. I’ve never had high self-esteem and I never denied that. We lived in Los Angeles, the land of beautiful men who all seemed to be model/actor wannabes. Friends in Peoria or Spokane or wherever they grew up told them they had movie star good looks and so they moved in their twenties to Hollywood, hoping to be discovered while waiting tables The Ivy or working in a clothing store on Melrose. West Hollywood was a bonus, a chance to be openly gay in the places that hugged Santa Monica Boulevard, a freedom they never had in their hometowns. As the Village People and the Pet Shop Boys implored gays to “Go West,” the pretty ones left for L.A. while the ones with more niche looks settled in San Francisco. 

 

I realize my insecurity must have been exhausting. But maybe his was, too. Why did he seem to go out of his way to tell me about all the guys hitting on him and about the ones that did so persistently? It’s possible that neither of us was frequent or expressive enough with stating how attractive we found each other or of how much we were into one another. I told him many times my questions were not a reflection of him and the possibility he couldn’t be trusted; instead, they showed my insecurity which could be eased (for the moment, at least) with reassurance. The doubts were more about myself than about him. I wanted us to go on forever, but I worried he’d find someone better. So many were better.

 

Forever lasted nine months. He broke up with me because he found someone else. A very good friend of mine. Someone better…or at least so it may have seemed. Rick certainly had the self-confidence I didn’t. I presume they got involved while John and I were together because it was only a few weeks after breaking up that John flew to Michigan with Rick to meet Rick’s family. It was no victory that I apparently had good reason to be jealous. 

 

It's been three decades since that first love. I’ve fallen in love several times. I’ve been cheated on many times as well. I’d like to think I’m more secure, but that’s perhaps a hollow notion that I tell myself. Maybe I’m just more prepared for “forever” to fall flat. Maybe that makes the stakes not as high. 

 

Evan and I just reconnected after nineteen days apart, a huge chunk of time considering our relationship has just passed the three-month mark. While he was in rural New Mexico, I was traveling remote regions of Iceland. We were intent on daily contact—a few pics and texts from him while I was sleeping six times zones away and the same from me while he was sleeping. They would provide smiles and a sense of place in terms of our experiences, but the heart of our contact would be our daily FaceTime chats. He wasn’t just the first person I might talk to in a day; often, he was the only one. It was a simple plan that got complicated in its execution. The internet connections got weaker with each day, our FaceTime chats choppy ins and outs when there was any connectivity at all. Conversations were rushed and incomplete, goodbyes coming via text when it was clear that further FaceTiming would only be an exercise in frustration.

 

It was Evan who asked for reassurance. Had I met anyone? Had I fooled around? He reframed the questioning four times over the course of only a few minutes of better connectivity since he was back in Seattle and I’d moved on to the city of Göteborg in Sweden. I recognized this kind of scrutiny. I also knew that Evan had also been cheated on many times in his past relationships. We’d had decades of things not working out. Could this new love we’d found with each other be any different?

 

Every time he asked, I smiled, answered calmly and honestly. I never felt attacked. I never felt it was about me. He was feeling fragile. He needed to know I was still into him and only him. I told him what I’ve told him before. “Ask me whenever you need to. It’s okay.” His need. “I will never be offended. I am one hundred percent committed to you and I will tell you that again whenever you need me to.” It was such an easy exchange. Time and distance had made him vulnerable, maybe us vulnerable. He needed to feel safe and secure. I’m happy to do what I can to convey that.  

 

I have never cheated. I never will. I know that, but he’s still figuring me out. He may never fully trust that I will be faithful. He’s had cheating boyfriends and, while I’m not like them, I bet each of them assured him they weren’t the cheating kind. Sometimes other people’s words make our own seem too good to be true. I get that. I will say and show what I need to so that Evan feels reassured and as confident as possible that fidelity is possible, that we have the potential to last. He’s doing the same for me. Let neither of us be branded as jealous. Let us both find reassurance if and when we need it. 

 

 

 

 

 

  

A SIGN OF PRIDE, FARTHER AFIELD

 

I keep my eye out for gay things when I travel in more remote areas. No, not gay people. I’m oblivious in that regard. Mostly. I people watch as I do anywhere, but I focus on clothes, hair and the interactions (and lack thereof) between people. Sexual orientation is rarely a factor, particularly when I’m in a relationship. There’s a gay guy! Um, so? Handsome, too! (Sorta.) Again…so? To the extent that I do any people sorting, it’s not gay versus straight; it’s local versus tourist. What is it like to live in this small town? If I see a rainbow flag or some other queer-positive symbol, that’s when I amend my primary ponderance: What is it like to live as a gay person here?

 

I was heartened to see a sign about Pride while walking through the old streets of the town of Visby, Sweden (population 24,000). My instinct was to snap a photo, but part of the sign had been torn off which made image appear less prideful. Who had torn it? Was it an act of hate, some individual’s effort to create a backlash? If I were a queer kid in Visby, what would I take away from the image? First, I suppose there would be a sense of belonging. I’m not alone. I can be myself here. But then what to make of the tear? Maybe I can’t. Maybe it’s still not safe.

 

The circumstances in Visby are more complicated than in other small towns because there isn’t a big city an hour or two away. Visby is on the island of Gotland (population 58,000) in the middle of the Baltic Sea, a three-hour-fifteen-minute ferry ride away from Nyäshamn (13,000) which itself is an hour away from Stockholm. 

 

In places like this, Pride is even more important, not as a spectacle with drag queens and shirtless go-go boys, but as a means of networking and finding allies. A boyfriend? The chances are as remote as the area.

 

I Googled “Gotland Pride” and was somewhat relieved to discover that the celebration occurred three weeks prior—over the course of four days even. Old signs get torn for an assortment of reasons. I dislike seeing dated notices and have been known to remove such items from bulletin boards. Maybe someone else who likes to keep things current tried to take down the poster and didn’t realize how much adhesive had been applied. But then maybe I’m being generous. If I lived on Gotland, I’d try to put all my thoughts into coming up with plausible, non-hateful explanations for the bulletin’s damage. 

 

Too much thinking about a single sign? Sure, no doubt. But then, it was the only one I saw. (The others were surely removed in a timely manner.) Gotland Pride may have been in May, but June is Pride month most everywhere and I’ve seen recognition of this in shops in both Göteborg (605,000) and Stockholm (979,000). I now take these visuals for granted, along with considerable skepticism, when I spot them in cities. Is a business making a strong statement about LGBTQ rights or is it just another business decision? Welcome, gays! Buy a trendy new blanket here. And socks. (If I ever open a shop of my own, I’ll stock socks. Even if it’s a vacuum cleaner store, I’ll sell socks, too. I’m getting excited thinking about the uptick in sales. 🤑) 

 

When I started this blog, I too lived in a remote area. The only public building in my community was a small elementary school. No bank, no café, no mom-and-pop convenience store. The closest town had 4,000 people and, along the entire eighty-five-kilometer stretch of coastline, residents totaled 30,000. It wasn’t an island but, due to mountains and water, the area was only accessible by ferry, other boat or seaplane. These figures are smaller than those that pertain to Gotland, but the ferry was only a forty-minute journey, with Vancouver (675,000) another twenty minutes away on an exceptionally good traffic day. Many posts I wrote while living there addressed finding a natural paradise and a haven for writing but also teetering from the bliss of being alone to a vulnerability in feeling lonely due to the isolation. My home would have offered the foundation for an idyllic lifestyle had I been in a relationship, but as a single gay man, it nearly did me in. Indeed, several medical professionals finally implored me to move. 

 

I made that doomed decision to move to a remote place as an adult out of freewill and fanciful thinking. I feel the pain for other single gays and lesbians living in remote areas. Maybe they choose to be hermits. Maybe they are more extroverted (most everyone is). Maybe they don’t entertain any desire to be partnered. Maybe they moved there as a couple and then the relationship fell apart. Even for couples, it can feel isolating. I recall one gay couple I met early on who hosted a party which turned out to be a last hurrah of sorts. After five years living in the nearby town, they’d had enough. They were returning to civilization. 

 

I feel even more concern for queer youth growing up in these places. Not their choice. Sure, there’s the internet now to connect with like-minded people but that’s not always positive either and it sure as hell doesn’t make up for in-person friendships and relationships. 

 

I perused the Gotland Pride page on Facebook and came across a video of people marching for Pride. The post included a comment that they’d hoped for fifty and, instead, hundreds turned out. (Really, from watching the clip, maybe just one hundred. It’s not just an orange-haired ex-president who has a way of inflating crowd sizes. But I shouldn’t quibble. If a Gotlander wishes to interpret it as a show of hundreds—hell, let’s round up to a thousand—so be it. But numbers games can be empty exercises.) The posted video would surely be a nice sight for queer Gotlanders and a nice event to experience, but that’s still a small pool of people. How many were actually queer and how many were allies? (In recent years, Vancouver’s Pride parade has felt like a big event for straight people to attend, not entirely unlike everybody being Irish at the pubs on St. Patrick’s Day. Who doesn’t love a party?)  

 

In truth, I didn’t venture much beyond the medieval walls of Visby’s tourist draw to see how the majority of Visby residents live. I recall seeing a trans/gay rainbow flag hanging from an apartment balcony, but that may have been in another town. In two weeks of travel in Iceland and Sweden, it’s been a different place to stay every night. As just a visitor, I rented a bike for my twenty hours on the island and, when not gazing up at the ruins of so many churches, I headed to beaches and shorelines deserted by all but swans and sea gulls. Now that I have a city to return home to and am in a relationship, I crave spaces away from people altogether. For me, it’s a choice and luxury.

 

   

IN A RELATIONSHIP, TRAVELING SOLO

A dear friend of mine is a seasoned international traveler. She and her husband are both teachers and they take every fifth year off to see the world. (Oh, what a luxury: job security!) Her adventures are documented through professional-caliber photos and enchanting blog entries. She has a way about her that allows her to connect with virtually anyone. Even close to home, an ordinary stop in a bookstore becomes a meant-to-be interaction with a stranger, both of them clearly benefiting from the experience. We could visit the same place in the world, one of us starting out five minutes ahead of the other and we’d have entirely different experiences, mine fun but ordinary, hers a captivating tale. (I keep telling her she’s got what it takes to be published as a travel writer, but she’s a humble soul, quick dismiss my praise.) 

 

One of the things I admire most about her and her husband’s travels is that they spend much of their travel year apart. One year she chose to see India while he headed for Peru. At some point, they met up in Costa Rica. I’ve always loved that they can be happily married—which has always been apparent—and yet they can maintain an individuality, nourishing their own curiosities, continuing to grow alone while ultimately thriving together.

 

I want that.

 

At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself. 

 

The biggest obstacle has been obvious. Oftentimes, I haven’t had a partner with whom to travel separately. Hey, fictional boyfriend (who, as a fictional image, I’ll say is a doppelgänger for Ryan Reynolds), enjoy your three months in South Korea while I’m in Slovenia. Meet me in Morocco. Alas, I waited and waited for days in Marrakesh. My Ryan was a no-show.

 

Another obstacle has been that travel has never gone well when I’ve had a partner. Weekend in San Francisco? Disaster. Nostalgic visit to Dallas and Fort Worth where I lived for eight years? Our “special” dinner after hours of bickering in the rental car which didn’t seem to have functioning headlights? Subway sandwiches, for god’s sake. Road trip to L.A.? He wanted to head home without me.

 

So, yeah, maybe just the travel alone while in a relationship. I’ll “like” each of your Facebook pics from Cleveland, Doppelgänger Ryan, if you “like” each of mine from Budapest. (Yes, I’m damn well going to have a better trip than Ryan.)

 

I’m in a relationship now. (Hallelujah!) Evan and I have traveled well together so far. Our second date was an entire weekend in a quaint rural part of northwestern Washington. We’ve spent another fabulous weekend together in central Washington and had a romantic four days in New York City. The blips have been few. One, maybe two. I swear I cannot even recall what they were about.

 

At the moment, we’re both traveling but in separate places, an ocean between us. He’s visiting parents and friends at his Airstream trailer in Taos, New Mexico while I’m spending two weeks in Iceland and Sweden. His trip had been planned months before we met. His parents duly booked a nearby Airbnb. He likes schedules and looking far ahead. Evan’s joked about merging our calendars—okay, I don’t really think he’s joking—but I keep saying my calendar is always blank. I’m perhaps an anti-planner. Whims work. I didn’t start looking into my trip until two weeks beforehand and was still making reservations while at the airport in Vancouver.    

 

So there it is. I got what I asked for. A guy in my life and a trip on my own. Healthy. Enlightened. Far from codependent.  

 

And yet it’s glitchy. We’ve only been together three months. It should be merely a slight extension of the reality of our relationship. Time apart is something we deal with on a weekly basis. We live in different cities. There is already an international border between us. That sounds more dramatic than it is. Seattle and Vancouver are three hours apart when the traffic flow is good and the border wait isn’t so bad. Things have evolved into us having long weekends together such that we see each other four days a week. 

 

The gayest part of my trip has 
been taking a photo of Rainbow
Street (which is not much more
than a crosswalk) in Reykjavik.

Instead of three days apart, it will be nineteen. That’s a big chunk in a new relationship. I think we feel as secure as we can be with this early test of time and distance. Still, there are what ifs. We’ve given each other plenty of reassurances. For my part, I’ve made it clear that dashing to a city’s gay bar or cruising locals on my phone has never been my thing. When I travel, I go to art museums, I map out scenic runs and bike rides, I search for quirky local color and I set out to find the best pour over coffee. Basically, I seek solitude. I love the fact that everyone is a complete stranger and the introvert in me recalls what my parents and teachers instilled in me when I was five: Don’t talk to strangers. Yes, I know I’m missing out on fascinating interactions that my teacher friend falls into but, even if I were to engage in talk, it would only make me break out in a sweat and I’m already stressed over the fact that public laundromats are nonexistent in Iceland and Sweden. The most engaging conversation I had during my six days in Iceland was with a couple of sheep that wanted their picture taken. (Apparently, they haven’t mastered the selfie.) 

 

View from walking along the crater
of Hverfjall in northern Iceland.

I’m still enjoying my adventures. I’m thankful that no one is saying, “How ’bout sleeping in tomorrow?” or “Let’s make today all about Vikings” or, gasp, “ABBA is overrated.” I only have myself to blame over getting sick immediately after eating the dal plate at that vegan restaurant in Reykjavik and no one had to bear my frequent wincing the evening I injured myself in a poorly laid out hotel bathroom in Akureyri. Again, my choice of accommodation. No finger pointing over the broken toe. But Evan comes to mind frequently each day. Swans! (Evan loves swans.) Lilacs all over Visby. (Evan loves lilacs, too.) He’d have loved hiking along a volcanic crater (though maybe not four of them; Iceland is teeming with them). Oh, how we’d have laughed at the room I booked on a ship in Stockholm. The boat was more like a tin can that floats (for now, at least) and the room felt more like a dog’s crate. 

 

He would have laughed, wouldn’t he?

 

I’ve been sharing pics. It’s not the same. I miss the guy. 

 

Atop another volcanic crater, this one 
Eldfell on Haiemay Island off the
southern coast of Iceland. Windy 
conditions and, when going solo, 
I didn't have to fret about 
every hair being in place.

The time difference makes communication challenging. I have photos and texts awaiting me when I awake each morning and the same goes for him. We’ve tried a daily FaceTime chat but the connection has been spotty and, for the last two days, nonexistent. It’s rare that I look forward to a trip ending, but aside from giving my credit card a rest, there’s a silver lining in going home. I’ll have one full day to recover in Vancouver before another weekend road trip to Seattle. It will take more discipline than usual to stick reasonably close to the speed limit.

 

It's less than a month before the next trip. Colorado. Both of us. Together and apart. Weirdly, my sister’s home and his family cabin happen to be only thirty minutes away from each other. We may spend a day in separate spaces but, compared to the distance between Gothenburg and Taos, or even Vancouver and Seattle, it’s like we’ll be neighbors. We may even run into one another in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Time will tell how we’ll negotiate travel. I foresee more solo treks but, I suspect it will be easier once our relationship is more firmly established.

 

The bike I rented, propped up
against the charming hotel I
stayed at in Visby on Sweden's
Gotland Island in the Baltic Sea.

For now, I’m in transit to Uppsala, Sweden and thankful no one is tapping my shoulder, trying to persuade me to venture five kilometers out of the city to see the site where humans were sacrificed in pagan rituals of the 11^th century, their bodies left hanging and rotting in trees. Nope. Not a chance. I’ll be at the botanic gardens (Linnéträdgården) instead. I prefer trees adorned rather basically…leaves, maybe a lovely little nest. And for dinner, I’m good with picking up knäckebröd (crispbread) and cottage cheese at the ICA two blocks from the hotel. Sometimes I think Evan’s rather relieved he’s not traveling with me.

 

 

 

 

 

  

PLENTY OF HEART IN "HEARTSTOPPER"

I recently read a book called Let’s Get Back to the Party by Zak Salih. More than anything, I appreciated the setup: two gay childhood friends who’ve drifted apart, now at midlife, both single, one intrigued by the sexually freer (AIDS-unaware) generation that preceded him, the other marveling at the openness and freedoms taken for granted by the generation that follows. (In truth, the premise is better than the telling.) I suppose I’ve, on occasion, looked in either direction as well. What would life have been like if my coming out years weren’t mired by the omnipresent leeching of the AIDS specter? Conversely, what if there had been established rights and freedoms with marriage a viable option and coming out being a stage to navigate without so much drama? 

 

It’s the relative normalcy of coming out for a younger generation that unfolds endearingly in the eight-episode series “Heartstopper,” adapted from a graphic novel by Alice Oseman and currently streaming on Netflix. Coming out still has its share of angst, particularly since the series is set in a private English high school for boys. The fusion of angst and adolescence will always be. New zit? Drama. Crush in danger of being revealed? Drama. I think I’m gay? Okay, still exponentially more drama. The easiest way to survive high school may always be fitting in rather than being different.

 

The two main characters are Charlie Spring, an outed gay student in grade ten, who is considered a geeky outcast, and Nick Nelson, a popular, seemingly straight grade eleven student who is the star of the rugby team. It’s a familiar scenario; for me, it’s reminiscent of the 1986 movie “Pretty in Pink,” but many other shows and books may come to mind. The difference, of course, is this is a teen romance in which both leads are male. Imagine having this as something to watch (repeatedly) to find hope, connection and courage while coming to terms with one’s identity.

 

Nick & Charlie

If there’s a twist, it’s that Nick’s sexuality isn’t so clear. Liking boys isn’t something he sensed and repressed at six or ten or twelve. Charlie awakens altogether new thoughts in Nick. What is this attraction? Is Nick gay? Bisexual? The bisexuality bent is refreshing since, while it’s long been part of LGBTQ, it hasn’t been given its due. I still hear people derisively dismiss bisexuality as a temporary phase or stepping-stone for people regarded as still having a foot in the closet. 

 

Being a high school story, there has to be a bully and in this case it’s Harry Greene, one of Nick’s rugby mates, a rich kid who loves to ridicule Charlie and Charlie’s geeky friends. In Harry’s mind, it’s always done in jest. If the laugh should come at someone’s expense, it’s perfectly all right when the person is clearly beneath him. 

 

Nick and Charlie’s worlds would never intersect but for being seated side by side for one of their classes. A friendship forms but Charlie’s feelings seem to go beyond that. It’s the standard situation of This is crazy…What could a guy like him possibly see in me? Of course, there’s the addendum: What could possibly happen between a straight, popular jock and a gay geek? We’re told many times that Nick will only hurt Charlie, particularly since Nick is so entrenched in the macho-infused rugby scene. But Nick never seems to even feign to be a tough guy or a ladies’ man akin to, say Danny Zuko in “Grease.” As a viewer, I never doubted Nick’s sweetness, but then I’m not a high school kid, imagining a dozen doomsday scenarios and interpreting a blank face as conveying a four negative emotions. I can recall this kind of customary teen angst if I let my memory stretch back that far. Frankly, I’d never want to relieve adolescence, no matter how much progress may have been made in terms of LGBTQ acceptance. Gone are the days of phoning someone to be your date to the homecoming dance. (The drama was amped for me living in East Texas where football and dating culture were on steroids.) In “Heartstopper,” there is lots of texting and staring at phone screens, hoping for a response that doesn’t always come. It’s slightly less direct than hearing a voice convey rejection or indifference, but the waits and the worries are still as crushing.

 

  Tao and Elle

Beyond Nick and Charlie, “Heartstopper” has other characters exploring LGBTQ identities. There’s Elle, a Black trans friend who transferred from the boys’ school to a safer, if not more welcoming, private school for girls. She is eventually befriended by two classmates who are a budding lesbian couple, Tara and Darcy. Charlie’s best friend is Tao, a protective, loyal and lippy classmate whom Elle has a crush on. Elle’s identity is not a plotline; rather, it just is. She’s not a spectacle; she’s a person. I suspect her storyline will expand now that Netflix has renewed the series. 

 

Season 1 consists of eight episodes which I breezed through which is not typical of my viewing habits. It’s hard to turn away because it’s so refreshingly charming. You want to root for every character, even perhaps Harry Greene and Charlie’s past, still-closeted fling/boyfriend, Ben. As a bonus, Nick’s mother is played by much-lauded actress Olivia Colman. There’s not much for her to do—indeed, her scenes were filmed over the course of two days—but she manages to convey steadfast support and concern just like Harry Dean Stanton in “Pretty in Pink.” There’s also a Black gay art teacher whose classroom always seems to be empty and who offers Charlie lite advice while always seeming to be on the way out. The room is both a safe space and a spot for Charlie to hide from dealing with his life. A bonus in the series is its fun, hip soundtrack, something like the music was in—yes, again—“Pretty in Pink” back in the day. A song that stood out for me was “Why Am I Like This?” by Orla Gartland.

 

 

“Heartstopper” is the kind of show for which the term “feel-good” was coined as a descriptor. It goes down easy and left me with a smile after each episode. It’s worth a watch.   

 

 

I’M OUT or WHY BROADWAY’S REVIVAL OF “TAKE ME OUT” DIDN’T STIR ME

I didn’t do it, I swear. The day after Evan and I saw the revival of “Take Me Out” on Broadway, pictures surfaced on Twitter of the star appearing naked in a particular scene. Our seats were in the balcony, allowing for decent viewing but most definitely not close enough for clear footage of an impressive extra limb, even when flaccid. Smartphone photography remains a work in progress. (Truly, it’s a shame someone opted to create a bit of a frenzy online by posting the clip. As tickets were scanned upon entering the theater, our phones were required to be shut down and placed in locked carrying cases that weren’t opened until after the show. An actor shouldn’t have to worry about his performance being whittled down to a certain appendage, ogled on social media. It’s both undignified and unnecessary. If people really want to see dangling dicks, they can find plenty of free porn on the internet.)

 

Truth is, a man’s naked body on stage isn’t a big deal. “Hair,” premiering on Broadway in 1968 was supposed to shatter that taboo. I suppose it remains uncomfortable or at least a novelty to theater viewers. What appears before them is not contained on a screen. The naked body and the viewer are in the same big room. It makes the cast of “Cats” seem ridiculously overdressed. 

 

It’s not just the star, Jesse Williams, who appears naked. “Take Me Out” is a play about a superstar player coming out as gay and most of the scenes are set in the locker room with players dressing and undressing in front of their lockers or saying their lines in a communal shower which appears and disappears as needed. All the players strip down at one point or another, most more than once. 

 

To be sure, these actors had well-sculpted bodies, easy on the eyes. Still, whenever there is nudity in a play, TV show or movie, my first thought is about whether it’s gratuitous or integral to the telling. Being a reserved person, most of the time I conclude it’s unnecessary. I feel sorry for the actors. I’m (usually) uncomfortable for them. I want the scene to end. Let’s move on to a scene where the main character suffers a career-killing shoulder injury (enough baseball talk, thank you) and tries out for a bit part in “Cats,” fully customed, of course. Keep it authentic. 

 

As a tangent, I’ll add that, while Jesse Williams can certainly be proud of his body, my eyes were fixed on him more in other scenes when he wore form-fitting ath-leisure. Alas, the clothes were not listed in the credits of the Playbill. Guess I’ll forgo an Amazon shopping spree and stick with my frumpy hoodies and saggy jeans.

 

I can make an argument defending the nudity in “Take Me Out.” I won’t go so far as to say it’s necessary, but there was a point to it. First, it might be silly to have guys standing around in full uniforms in every scene. It’s a locker room. I’m writing this at a café after having just finished swimming laps. I was in a locker room before and after my swim. There was lots of nakedness. It just happened to be the sort one feels a dire need to turn away from. I don’t need to be inundated with previews of how saggy my ass will look in—what, twenty-five years? Or is it only ten?! Grab your towel, guys, and cover up!

 

I think the nudity was supposed to convey a sense of exposure and vulnerability, the players’ posture and openness to “shoot the shit” changing once it’s revealed that one among them is gay, the straight players implicitly blaming the newly out gay teammate for instilling a sense of modesty and self-consciousness when their modified decorum is really brought on by homophobia. Sure, I can understand that argument. It’s another way to shine a spotlight entrenched man culture. That being said, I’d have preferred it if the play had been set in a dugout and perhaps a bar. I don’t think a single line would have to be amended. Still realistic settings even if it didn’t have players feeling vulnerable in their nakedness with a gay guy in their midst. How much jock-related homophobia do I really need to see?

 

And that leads to the bigger problem I had with “Take Me Out” which originally ran on Broadway in 2003 and won the Tony Award for best play. (It received four new Tony nominations last week, on the same day the nude footage appeared on Twitter, including best play revival and three acting nods, one to Jesse Williams.) Nineteen years ago, the so-called playing field for queer people was considerably more of a minefield. At the beginning of 2003, Netherlands was the only country in the world that had legalized same-sex marriage. “Will and Grace” was a hit TV show, but Sean Hayes, who played Jack, wasn’t out. The U.S. military was still thick in its muted tolerance of gays with its “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy as a means for allowing members to avoid being discharged. In 2003, a baseball team’s unease about a player being openly gay fit with what was going on in society as a whole. Coming out came with complications.

 

As a revival, the discomfort and outright homophobia that players think and feel in “Take Me Out” feels woefully dated, but it’s not presented as a period piece. There aren’t 2003 references in the script. I took it as playing out in 2022. The homophobia in sports—among fans and players—remains largely unchecked. Most gay athletes are still closeted, especially in team sports. It’s a milieu for Neanderthals. It exists, but so much of the rest of North America and Europe has moved on. I’m past the point of seeing portrayals of jocks feeling ogled by a gay teammate and hoping we can learn from it. These jocks are clunky and a play depicting them comes off as just as clunky.

 

Admittedly, there were many in the audience who found the play impactful. People, presumably straight, gasped at expressions of hatred and intolerance, as if they’d not heard these things, as if they thought everyone had moved on. Obviously, not everyone has, but the people I choose to associate with certainly have.

 

Nudity had no part of my wanting to see “Take Me Out.” I simply wanted to see a gay play. I wanted to appreciate the writing. I wanted to identify with gay characters. By intermission, I was wishing we’d chosen a different play; indeed, a different revival. It heartened me when Evan leaned into me and whispered, “Would it be bad if we just left?” My guy was equally apathetic. (I think I would have enjoyed “How I Learned to Drive” with Mary-Louise Parker and David Morse much more. Alas, my trip to New York wasn’t long enough, my pockets not deep enough.)

 

As I’d mentioned last year when country music singer T.J. Osborne of the Brothers Osborne came out as gay and kissed his partner after winning an award on a televised awards show, I was happy for him on a personal level, but I’m so far beyond the point of congratulating sectors that have clung to the Dark Ages when someone finally frees himself from the shackles. A fictional baseball player coming out, naked or not, doesn’t get my attention.