NESTING

Hello. Goodbye.

These words have as much meaning in my relationship with Evan as “I love you.” 

Being a long-distance relationship, our time together always has a beginning and end date. It can feel unsettling. A perpetual sense of “just visiting.” To be sure, there is a positive side to that. It’s like being Fun Dad who has only weekend custody after a divorce. His time with the kids means pizza for dinner, extra time playing videogames and no early bedtimes on account of it being a school night.

 

My stints with Evan are chock full of good times. When he arrived Thursday night, we talked of bike rides, looking into a harbour cruise and maybe catching a view of the city from the tower downtown. Lots of Whee! Time in We Time. 

 

Yes, we went for the bike rides. How could we not with rare April sunshine in Vancouver and so many springtime plants in bloom? But the cruises don’t begin until May and the tower idea fizzled out. Someday. 

 

It would have been easy to pack the extended weekend with other inherently fun things. This was especially possible since, due to a break in our relationship, Evan hadn’t visited me at my place since January 2024. Since COVID lockdown back in 2020, I’ve become an expert in touristy and “secret” things to do in Vancouver. I pack in a lot of Whee! Time even when it’s just Me Time.

 

But our visit took on a different tone. I’m highly challenged in terms of doing handyman tasks. Whether it’s lack of confidence, lack of knack or perpetual procrastination, everyday fix-its don’t happen. Due to a VERY LARGE blind spot, I don’t see what needs to be done. 

 

This photo overwhelms me.

As an architect and interior designer, Evan is highly visual. He sees everything. We’ve spent much of our visit doing typical weekend tasks. We bought a new wall sconce to replace a hideous one that’s been in my stairway for the entire two and a half years I’ve lived in my loft, partly due to my indecision regarding which one to buy and partly because I knew I’d never be able to install it myself. (Fear of electrocution.) We bought a new mirror to make my place look more open. We got a bike rack for my car so both our bikes can join us on adventure weekends. We spruced up my balcony with new plants and removed some of the clutter that finds its way to such a space. I bought a funky painting for the freshly lit stairwell. 

 

We drove my car to more places in three days than I typically drive it in three months. (I tend to walk and bike everywhere.) 

 

“I like this,” Evan said midway through Saturday afternoon. “We’re nesting.” 

 

How timely. In the tree across the street, two crows spent their weekend coming and going from a nook in the branches as they built their own nest and sounded ominous caws to utter threats to pedestrians passing underneath. That nook, that tree and everything below it was, in their minds, theirs. (Just wait till the babies hatch!)

 

Our weekend of errands was highly constructive and well-coordinated. Everything clicked as we worked together when needed and alongside one another when tasks could be split up.    

As Evan transplanted clematis on the balcony I sliced and diced for our taco bowls that we took to the beach for a picnic where he sketched and I wrote. (Yes, a bit more inherently fun time.) While he fiddled with the wiring for the sconce, I scrubbed smudge marks from the wall where the previous sconce had been. 

 

We crossed off a lot of things, many of which I didn’t even realize were on my To Do list. The time felt intimate; the nest looks more inviting, more functional. 

 

Alas, Evan flies back to Denver later today. We’ll spend two and a half weeks apart once again before meeting up in New York City where he has a conference. No nesting opportunities there. It will truly be more like a Fun Dad weekend. Broadway! The High Line! Shopping!

 

In the meantime, I know our daily FaceTime calls will include me flipping the phone cam so he can see how the clematis is doing, so he can peek at my new painting, so he can remain connected to, not just me, but our Canadian home. 

 

I’ll have to tend to the nest on my own but, as much as it can be possible, I’ll feel his presence in the space as well. Let his return to the roost come much sooner.

 

EASTER WITHOUT

They say it’s the period leading up to Easter, Lent, when you’re supposed to do without. You give up something. Drinking or butterscotch ripple ice cream or Ryan Murphy productions. 

Okay none of those is a sacrifice to me. No suffering involved. Do they even still make butterscotch ripple? I was always a bad parishioner. 

 

Too often for me, I give up something for Easter instead. Interaction, say. 

 

Normally, I’m good. I spent this long weekend hunting down cherry blossoms for photos while going on bike rides and a jog. I went to Vancouver’s Van Dusen Gardens to wander amongst early rhododendrons and other flowers. I did short writing sessions in cafés. I even had coffee with a friend I hadn’t seen in almost two years.

 

But it was Easter. BIG expectations. In Canada, it’s a four-day weekend for people who aren’t in the service industry. Good Friday is a holiday. Easter Monday is a holiday. No, there are no egg hunts on Monday and no special meals aside from leftover ham and maybe some colorful eggs reduced to egg salad. Or maybe just a chocolate breakfast, assuming the candy eggs and Costco-sized white chocolate bunny survived Easter Sunday. Really, who just eats an ear and says, “I’m good”? Even if it’s white chocolate, it is chocolate.

Okay, being Easter and all, I feel like I’m in a confessing kind of space. Not only did I NOT give up anything for Lent (other than nonexistent butterscotch ripple), I do NOT partake in tearing apart chocolate Easter bunnies, piece by piece. I do not even eat half the little chocolate eggs before the hunt and sit back to say, “I bought two whole bags. You’re just not looking hard enough.” Mean? Sure. But the neighbour’s kid screams through dinnertime every evening…and neither walls nor doors constitute an effective sound barrier.

 

I do not like chocolate.

 

Yes, go on. Gasp. Call me a freak. That gut reaction just cut you out of being on the re-gifting list for when people give me chocolate.

 

I do admit to one exception. I’ve discovered Trader Joe’s Milk Chocolate Covered Peanut Butter Pretzels and I will NOT be giving them away. It will take me several sittings over a few weeks to get through them because the milk chocolate overwhelms the rest of the flavors. I have confirmed it smothers a teeny tiny pretzel bit but I have yet to taste any trace of peanut butter.

 

At any rate, I won’t be stocking up on my one chocolate exception since I am not making cross-border runs to Trader Joe’s due to Trump’s tariffs and his belittling references to Canada as the 51^st state. (Focus on Puerto Rico, dude.)

 

If Easter weren’t the only four-day weekend in Canada—our Thanksgiving is a three-day fete in October…when there is still a harvest to reap—I could let the occasion pass by without any big holiday expectations. Heck, I don’t eat ham either. Or any kind of meat. No one REALLY wants a vegetarian to crash their Easter dinner. 

 

I’ve had some bad Easters. In 2014, I spent the entire occasion in a psych ward where a patient kept getting put in the lockdown room (within the already locked down ward) since he kept getting into physical fights and threatened to kill “every fuckin’ one” of us. No egg hunt on the ward. The highlight was borscht for lunch one day.

 

Not a good time.

 

In 2019, I spent all of Easter in the eating disorder ward of the same hospital. No death threats, but we had to eat every bit of three meals and three snacks along with copious amounts of water while nurses observed and took notes from a mirrored room with staged seating so they could look down on us. I have never eaten so many apples or drank so much water in my life. May I never experience waterboarding but this felt like another kind of water torture. The highlight was ten minutes of fresh air on Easter Sunday in the rooftop garden which was a sadder space than the ward itself, a smoking pit for other patients where scraggly boxwood grew alongside dandelions and fresh pigeon poop. 

 

I am not spending this Easter in any hospital ward. That alone should feel like a celebration. Yippee! No death threats. No oversized cups of water. No plastic trays with soggy toast (or borscht). 

 

Still, it’s been hard spending Easter alone when I have a partner who happens to live 2,300 kilometres away in Denver. In a country that’s all about God and guns, neither the Friday nor the Monday is a holiday. Airfare was higher throughout the weekend presumably because retired grandparents wanted to fly places to watch one-year-olds cry as all the adults keep telling them to keep looking for foil-wrapped eggs that will become choking hazards if not found (or eaten by Uncle Ted or vomited up by Rex the Chihuahua) by today. 

 

Evan will fly to Vancouver this Thursday instead. He’s worked weekends to earn a little paid time off to create his own long weekend. It’s only a week later than the regular Easter celebrations. I will be thrilled to see him. 

 

If not Easter, then may we always have the weekend thereafter. Stooping and “hiding” eggs behind the sofa legs can’t be good for my back anyway.

 

 

COVID PREPARED US FOR THIS

I blog weekly, typically gay this or gay that. It’s hard to focus on such topics when the president of the United States is intentionally doing things to mess up lives throughout the world…withdrawal of funding to foreign aid programs, blanket tariffs, chaotic messaging. 

 

If I were like his Republican supporters, I would bury my head in the sand. The sky isn’t falling. I would instead write another post about being gay. But I’m not and I can’t. Feeling cause for stress, I’ll continue on the theme of last week’s post, Border Walls, where I mentioned that I, like many Canadians, will be limiting my border crossings to the U.S. 

 

It’s normally an easy trip to make. Most Canadian cities are in the south of the country so the Canada-U.S. border is only a short drive from home. It’s about a forty-minute drive for me and I have a Nexus pass which allows me to skip what can be long lines at times. 

 

I moved back to Canada from Los Angeles thirty years ago and border crossings have been rather regular ever since. It started with me making grocery runs for American products I couldn’t get in Vancouver. I grew to like Fairhaven, a community in Bellingham a short drive across the border. I write in various cafés there, my favorite in Boulevard Park with a view of Bellingham Bay. I ride my bike on Chuckanut Drive, a gorgeous, narrow roadway lined by arbutus trees and evergreens and offering views of the sea. I visit the charming hamlet of Edison. It’s all part of a day trip that invigorates me.

 

Just as often, I keep driving south. I love Seattle. I love Portland. I absolutely adore the Oregon Coast. I’ve driven down the coast to L.A. a number of times. 

 

I won’t be making any of these trips in the near future. I must minimize my time and my spending in the United States as long as tariffs and belittling comments about making Canada the fifty-first state continue.

 

The intention is that, if enough Canadians stay away, the U.S. economy will take a hit and mayors and governors will start speaking out. Senators of border states—even the Republicans—may finally tell the omniscient president to knock of the rhetoric and axe the tariffs. 

 

Wishful thinking? Perhaps. In February alone, however, Canadians made 500,000 less border crossings. As I drove home late Friday afternoon from a B.C. hike, signage for four local border crossings each indicated it was less than a five-minute wait. This is unheard of heading into a weekend when waits typically exceed an hour. If this trend continues, yes, American businesses are going to feel the pinch.

 

What Trump doesn’t understand is how pissed off Canadians are and how his agenda has united us, stoking national pride more than I’ve seen in my lifetime. COVID is still in our rear-view window. We went a couple of years without being able to cross the border. Maybe all that was a rehearsal for this. Limiting trips to the U.S. does not seem like a big sacrifice now.

 

Just like during COVID, I’ve begun making a list of all the places in British Columbia I want to visit or revisit on day trips and for weekend getaways. I’m looking forward to these travels. BC is a beautiful, varied province. I’ve also begun glancing at other places in Canada and abroad that have long been on my bucket list. This feels like the perfect time to explore some of them. I am truly excited. Let me support other people and economies.

 

I do still have to make some trips to the U.S. My family lives in Colorado and Texas. My parents are in their late eighties and travel, especially flying, is harder and less likely. In the past, I have consciously avoided trips to Texas but now it looks like an annual trip will be required. My partner also lives in Colorado. Visits to see him are non-negotiable. He’s my priority and I won’t let politics get in the way of our relationship.

 

Still, my time in the U.S. will be much reduced. I will miss all my usual haunts. I will also miss seeing some friends but, quite frankly, they’re overdue to visit me in Canada. 

 

Come for a visit. Canada is very welcoming. Canada recognizes the independence of sovereign nations. Canada does not start trade wars presumably as a clumsy way to ignore and renegotiate trade agreements. 

 

I am but one Canadian. But I am also one of many. 

BORDER WALLS

As circumstances would have it, Trump didn’t need to build a wall. Instead, he created one. To the north, as it turns out. I have a hunch Trump isn’t so good at geography and, frankly, doesn’t care.

 

**

 

This is a difficult post for me to write. Much of it is seeded in anger, laced with guilt. As a Canadian who was once a legal resident of the United States for sixteen years, I have many reasons for visiting the country to the south many times every year. Friends from university and law school live there. My parents and immediate family are there. My boyfriend, too. 

 

And yet everything that is happening politically in the U.S. based on who the majority of Americans voted to be president makes me no longer wish to visit. Like most Canadians, I am greatly offended by how Trump has taken his bullying and belittling personality and aimed it at Canada. 

 

My mouth dropped when he first referred to Canada as “the fifty-first state.” There is much the two countries had in common, but we are most certainly distinct countries. His jabs, literally blurring border lines, are highly offensive and his rhetoric cannot be disregarded, given how he lives in some sort of colonial era time machine, thinking he can claim Greenland, the Panama Canal and Canada as American territories. 

 

What the hell is going on?

 

The current position of the
Republican Party...
heads in the sand.

I would expect Republican politicians to unequivocally say, “Knock it off, Donald.” Not so, of course. This is a group of “leaders” that kowtows to him. The wrath of Trump is too great. The possibility of Republican politicians being ridiculed by their chosen leader is something these weak-willed “leaders” fear too much. They covet their purported positions of power too much. What power, I wonder, if they are muted? They don’t want to be primaried in the next election cycle, booted from the ballot, replaced by a candidate who is even better at kowtowing. 

 

Prime Minister Brian Mulroney and
President Ronald Reagan...I liked
neither of them, but they knew
the importance of a solid, amicable 
relationship between Canada
and the U.S.

A solidarity based on a leader’s coercive, vindictive power has no place in a true democracy. I’ve never aligned with Republicans, but I’ve also never been so disgusted with each and every one of them. Without individual voices, they are useless political beings. Cardboard cutouts could take their places.

 

And then there are the tariffs…

 

When the threat was first announced, Trump lumped Canada and Mexico, his country’s neighbors and traditionally close allies, with China. Yes, let’s punish trade via taxation, targeting Canada, Mexico and China. 

 

WHAT?!

 

I think Trump’s bullying tactics are his way of eventually bringing Canada and Mexico to the table to renegotiate North American trade, something a leader may legitimately wish to do. Agreements become outdated. Certain elements of them may be viewed as being “unfair” or “too favorable” to a particular party. Fair, rational leaders call for meetings and begin negotiations. But Trump goes for a Tonya Harding approach, taking a crowbar to the knees of Canada and Mexico. Let me rough you up. Suffer, dear neighbor, and then, somewhere down the line, maybe we’ll talk. 

 

This may be how a stone cold businessman leads. This, however, is not how a democratic leader governs.

 

Again, the “leaders” of the Republican party are too weak, too fearful to speak up. Why, Donald, are you actively, intentionally seeking to piss off the closest allies of the United States? 

 

In any other world scenario, it would be a legitimate question. It would be THE question.

 

I can’t even write calmly about Trump’s Putin crush and how he has disrespected Volodymyr Zelenskyy and imposed egocentric conditions on any support for protecting Ukraine’s legitimate right to sovereignty. Trump does not understand democracy. He has never had to be democratic in his business enterprises. Why the hell did the majority of Americans entrust him with leading what was once reputed to be the greatest democracy in the world?

 

It feels like Americans as a collective have lost their spines…and their souls.

 

I have American friends who did not vote for him. I know how upset they are. One good friend contacted me for recommendations of Canadian places to visit during his summer travels. This gesture is very much appreciated. I do hope a great many Americans, realizing the harm tariffs intend to impose on Canadians, come to Canada and do what they can to invest in our economy. 

 

Sadly, my family—former Canadians, now American citizens—voted for Trump. They shrug. It’s terrible, they say. But they do nothing. They say they could not have known Trump would target Canada. They don’t see their own foolishness in voting for a presidential candidate who ran on soundbites instead of a platform. Personality over platform…yes, a democracy is in demise. 

 

Prince Edward Island

To every American who wants to truly say, “Sorry, Canada. We’re with you,” I say show it. Call your political representatives, especially if they are Republican. Tell them in clear terms you do not support Trump’s tariffs and belittling tactics aimed at the country’s neighbors. Repeat your objection. Make clear that you will not vote again for representatives who stand back in silence. And, yes, come visit Canada. Vancouver. Calgary. PEI. Québec City. Banff. Montréal. Toronto. St. John’s. Winnipeg. Georgian Bay. The Bay of Fundy. Cape Breton. Whistler. Victoria. The Gaspé Peninsula. Niagara Falls. Whitehorse. Yellowknife. Churchill. Haida Gwaii. There are so many places worth seeing.

 

My predicament is that I still have to visit the U.S. in a time when the Canadian mentality is to stay away. Why go to a place where its leader is so disrespectful to our country?

 

I just returned from three weeks in Denver. I’m scheduled to go to New York City in May. These are not places that voted for Trump, but I am still crossing a line. My partner lives in Denver. I visit him because I love him and I want our relationship to continue to grow. He has an upcoming work gig in NYC, hence that travel destination. Keeping our relationship going requires as many regular visits as I can afford. (Airfare and exchange rates make things financially challenging as it is.) I’m a writer so I can work anywhere. My partner has very limited vacation time as is typical of so many American jobs. He’ll visit me in Vancouver in April, but it’s basically a long weekend as his company also has a very limited work-from-home policy. 

 

I know I will have several more U.S. visits this year. Oh, the things we do for love.

 

Another hitch is my Republican-voting parents live in the ever-red state of Texas. I have consciously avoided Texas visits, last going six years ago for my niece’s wedding. My parents have instead visited me in Vancouver and at our family cottage in Ontario. But they are 85 and 88 and far less inclined to travel now. Flying is looking far less likely. I will soon have no choice but to travel to them to see them. I visited them last fall, post-election but before the anti-Canadian rhetoric in the equally red state of Alabama where they drive for an annual vacation. I will likely have to go to Texas later this year. Family will have to come before politics.

 

Québec City

I feel guilty visiting the U.S. 

 

Moreover, I feel guilted by fellow Canadians. I totally get this.

 

I will do what I can. Yesterday, I contacted the Seattle Art Museum, expressly stating that Trump’s tactics have made it imprudent to be making quick road trips to Seattle and supporting American museums despite the fact I personally love SAM. My weekend getaways will be to Whistler, Tofino and Victoria rather than American destinations. It is with great regret that I will not be visiting friends in Los Angeles this year, a place where I lived for five years. I will also not be returning to the Oregon Coast for the foreseeable future. (It is my absolute favorite place in the U.S.) 

 

Greenland

In one sense these are tough choices. I like so much of the United States. But Trump has made staying away feel so much easier. When my partner and my family are not part of the equation, staying away doesn’t feel like a choice at all. Given the current tone at the helm of the American government, it seems like the only way.

 

Ever the traveler, I have so many other choices. I have my eye on trips to Iceland, Great Britain, Portugal, Sweden, Peru and, yes, Greenland.

 

As Canadians are so inclined to say, “I’m sorry, America.” But then again, I’m not. In a trade war between David and Goliath, this is what it’s come to. 

GAYDAR AT THE GALLERY

Awakening Faun (1914)

Keith Haring. David Hockney. Robert Mapplethorpe. I am familiar with the work of many gay artists. Other artists’ sexuality I only discovered by chance. I go to an art museum, see a work I like, Google the painter or sculptor and, every so often, I stumble upon the fact they are (or were) gay. Marsden Hartley. Maurice Sendak. The works speak for themselves but still I feel a sense of pride that the artist is/was “one of us.”

 

Last fall , I discovered another gay artist while wandering through the Ateneum, an art museum in Helsinki. Unlike Hartley who’s best known for his landscapes or Sendak, known for Wild Things, the pieces I saw on exhibit by Magnus Enckell strongly suggested the artist might be gay. Born in Hamina, Finland in 1870 and dying in Stockholm in 1925, some of Enckell’s bright paintings focused on the naked or semi-naked male form when for most of art history so  many artists have been seemingly obsessed with female nudes. 

 

Enckell’s first oil painting on exhibit that made me take notice was Awakening Faun from 1914, the figure being a young, pretty, lean, muscular male in repose, naked except for an orange fabric draped over his privates. The young man looks contemporary, the background a vibrant landscape of forest greens with yellow sun peeking through. Most artists of Enckell’s time would have had a bare breasted woman as the foreground subject matter instead. 

 

Hmm. Gay, perhaps, I deduced.

 

Resurrection (1907)

As I wandered into another exhibit room, I came upon Enckell’s Resurrection (1907), a religious study painting for an altarpiece for Tampere Cathedral. While religious art features considerable nudity, this work, in softer tones than Faun, doesn’t just feature a naked Jesus rising from a burial plot. Instead, there are five men, nude or semi-nude. Enckell seems to take license with the resurrection story and apparently the parishioners and clergy of the church in Tampare, Finland were liberal or oblivious enough to accept Enckell’s interpretation. As a casual museumgoer, I got a clear sense Enckell was pushing things into an intentionally provocative realm. The fact his study painting became a mural work in the church shows he succeeded.

 

Fantasy (1895)

I didn’t Google Enckell until I returned from my trip in Northern Europe. Ateneum held a special exhibit of his work in 2020, describing him as “one of the most significant names of the golden age of Finnish art.” Other works featured in the exhibition included a seated naked boy in 1983’s Boy with Skull, a shirtless young man in 1895’s Fantasy and a nude young man sitting up in bed in 1894’s The Awakening. Aside from the monochromatic Boy with Skull, these works seem to have homoerotic overtones. 

 

According to Wikipedia, citing a text in Finnish, “It is generally believed that Enckell was a homosexual, as seems indicated in some erotic portraits which were quite uninhibited for their time, but his homosexuality has never been officially proven.” Enckell is listed in Who’s Who in Gay and Lesbian History: From Antiquity to World War II where it is noted he had a son though he never married the mother and his “private life has aroused fairly little interest. His love affairs with men have not been denied but they have been considered irrelevant.” As it should be, if history didn’t note personal lives of artists in general. But such is not the case. 

 

The point is, my gaydar was activated as I regarded two of Enckell’s works. It seems affirmed by other paintings viewed online. I don’t actively seek out gay bars or gay activities when I go on vacation but discovering and further exploring the work of Magnus Enckell while visiting a Finnish museum was an unexpected bonus to the trip.

 

MEN EXPERIENCING ABUSE - A LONELY JOURNEY

Last week, CNN ran an article entitled, “25% of US men experience abuse, but it’s hard to get help.” The title—and the topic—gave me chills. I’ve been there, on the receiving end.

 

Regrettably, the article focuses solely on physical and sexual violence. Emotional abuse as a separate rather than a subset form of harm is not addressed. It’s what I experienced two decades ago in a seven-year relationship that started out seemingly perfect. I’ve blogged about it before, but it’s worth recounting in case someone else identifies with it.

 

In the beginning, it seemed I’d discovered the perfect mate. My partner was sweet. Perhaps too sweet. Six months in, a conversation arose—I don’t recall the circumstances; it was something minor, as always—where his Mr. Hyde side came out in full force. I was berated and belittled in a nonstop diatribe that was totally out of character and was highly disturbing.

 

He went off to work and I sat on the sofa, stunned, trying to make sense of what was not at all sensible. I got in my car and drove to a beach an hour away, spending much of the day wandering and wondering what I’d done wrong. How had I set him off? 

 

I knew innately it wasn’t my fault and yet it seemed easier to blame myself than to find flaws in him. Still, I kept teetering in trying to process the incident. Was this a one-off I should forget about? Was this the beginning of a new dynamic in our relationship? I’d already fallen in love with this guy. Was I supposed to leave? As outrageous as his temper had been, didn’t it reflect poorly on me if I ended things after the first rough patch? 

 

I stayed. This was my man. This was my partner for life. We hadn’t exchanged vows—couldn’t back then—but I was invested…“for better or for worse.” That was an expression we’d all grown up with. It was something I believed in. I was supposed to stick around. Stand by my man. I was supposed to work things out. 

 

Everyone who met my partner saw him as handsome and oh so charming. I’d found one of the good ones. A great one! He never ever showed his darker side to my friends, family or colleagues. 

 

The tirades became more frequent. There was no way to predict when they would happen. Out of the blue, something would trigger him and suddenly he was spewing a rapid-fire, mostly irrational monologue about how f#*king “useless” and “worthless” I was. I learned quickly that trying to refute his claims only escalated and extended the fits. I learned to just sit there and take it. 

 

Whenever it was over, I would be quiet. I would try to avoid him. He couldn’t understand why I was so subdued. He’d returned to Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Charming. What was up with me?

 

What I came to realize was that he had no recollection of these tirades. These moments were episodes of blackout rage. This made the incidents more challenging to process. I couldn’t talk with him about what he said after the fact because he didn’t believe he’d said such things. (I tape recorded one episode but never dared play it back, fearful it might trigger something worse.) 

 

For six and a half years, I lived in fear of what might come in the present day, maybe the next hour or even five minutes after a totally normal exchange. I told no one until a decade AFTER I’d managed to get out of the relationship when my best friend ran into him at a party and started saying how great it would be if we got back together. 

 

I felt so much shame. I felt I should have been stronger in somehow helping my partner who denied ever berating me. (His mother and sister both exhibited the same behaviors.) 

 

I should have left. 

 

I internalized all the comments about being worthless. I blamed myself. I sometimes told myself I deserved the abuse. 

 

The CNN article mentions that children or pets are used as wedges to keep the abused person in the relationship. In our case, we had one dog, then another. My bond with both dogs was far stronger than his and I feared that, in a breakup, he’d insist we split them.

 

I spent two years actively looking for a place I could afford on my own, far enough from him but still close enough to work. After what I knew was far too long, I finally found my strength and broke up with him. Custody of the dogs was not negotiable. They. Were. Mine. After all my fretting, it startled me how he didn’t put up the slightest resistance.

 

I found a house with a yard for the dogs. It was a ferry ride away from where we had lived. That gave me a clearer sense of separation. It offered a false sense of safety. (His mother told me he’d staked out my new place.) It also meant five hours of commuting to work each day. It further isolated me from friends. Still, I was as free as I could be. 

 

It would be another eight years before he stopped emailing me, begging to get back together. Each email startled and scared me. Would my continuing to reject or ignore him escalate his behaviors. Would physical harm come next? My freedom came with my own dark thoughts about what might happen next, about how maybe things weren’t really over…certainly not in his mind.

 

Physical, sexual and emotional abuse does happen to men. The CNN article mentions that 1 in 4 men experience physical or sexual abuse and, as with so many harms to men, the figure could be low because men underreport and often fail to get help. Men are still raised to believe they have to “tough it out.” They should be “strong enough” to handle things on their own. Seeking help is seen as a sign of weakness.

 

I know I should have walked away not long after that first rage episode. It truly was outrageous. If not after the first incident, then maybe the second or definitely the third. I turned to no one. I didn’t know who to contact. To this day, when I’ve mentioned the abuse to psychiatrists, they have not probed as soon as I’ve made clear the abuse was neither physical nor sexual. What I experienced has never been acknowledged. 

 

I hope professionals are better equipped with responding to all kinds of abuse men experience. If men still find it difficult to confide in a friend or family member, I hope that psychologists, psychiatrists and helplines know how to listen, support and advise better two decades after I struggled alone. Still, no one knows the harm unless the man reaches out and continues to try and try again if the first professionals fail to provide significant acknowledgment and support.

 

Just seeing the CNN article offers some validation. Abuse happens regardless of gender. Let anyone experiencing abuse get the help they need and deserve.

 

  

OK with PDA

I’m sixty but I’m still working on perfecting some moves I should have figured out in high school. 

 

My family moved from Ontario, Canada to East Texas just before the start of my tenth grade year. To say I experienced culture shock is an understatement. The social scene seemed to be on steroids. It was expected that students participate in sports, clubs and dating. Only weeks into the school year, I began feeling the pressure to ask a girl out, if not to one of the Friday dances that followed every home football game, then most certainly to the homecoming game and dance. 

 

Egad! Bigger but not
better homecoming
corsages in Texas.

The notion of a homecoming game in high school seemed particularly ludicrous.  Did people really return for a fall football game after graduating? (I think the answer may have been yes, but I had enough to focus on just trying to keep up with expectations for sophomores.) Let me offer what should be an obvious reveal: I did not get a date for the homecoming game in tenth grade; same for eleventh; and twelfth. I may have earned straight As in classes, but I failed where it truly counted. 

 

So no homecoming dates. No dates, in general. No “going together.” No exchanging class rings. No letting a girl wear my letter jacket. I did land a prom date after a couple of rejections, but we didn’t even last for the entire prom much less the after-parties (that I wasn’t invited to). 

 

Somehow I survived high school. And, no surprise, I’ve never returned for a homecoming game or any of the reunions. Just glad all that’s in the past. 

 

Even if being gay had been a thing back then—it most certainly wasn’t; NO ONE in my graduating class of 350 students was any form of queer—I would not have been dating. I was two years younger than my classmates, extremely introverted and blissfully immature.

 

The fact I never dated meant I never held hands with anyone in the cafeteria during lunch. I never sat on one of the benches in the school courtyard, my body pressed up against someone else like we’d had a Super Glue accident. I did not get caught kissing beside the smoking pit. I demonstrated no public displays of affection (PDAs). My roll-on deodorant would never have held up to that kind of test. Pit stains would have spread to soak my entire Izod shirt. 

 

When dating finally began many years later and far beyond East Texas (in Los Angeles), I still didn’t engage in much PDA. Dancing in the gay bars was always to fast-paced songs like “Vogue” or “Escapade” so the only touching on the darkened dance floor involved the occasional grope from a complete stranger. (The dim lighting hid my red face.) Between songs, our hands usually stayed apart, at our sides. Our lips only made contact with our drinks. The most public gesture between us tended to be eye contact which was hard enough to sustain. 

 

Outside of the clubs, the chance of PDA was even less. Whether we were spilling out of a club on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood or Davie Street in Vancouver, my boyfriend of the moment (moments albeit few and far between) seldom held hands, walked arm in arm, hugged or—gasp—kissed. I knew we liked or loved each other. I told myself we didn’t have any need to convey this to passing strangers. Public displays of affection were for the needy and the desperate. 

 

Look at us!

We’re SO MUCH in love! Can’t you tell?

 

Really, who needed to extend all that showiness of high school? Rings. Letter jackets. Clinginess.

 

A bigger factor in my restraint, I’d like to believe, was safety. Even in the gay zones, or perhaps especially in them, there was always a chance some straight guy or guys would react negatively to two men holding hands or—puke—kissing. Just walking by myself or with gay friends, I’d experienced plenty of drive-bys, windows rolled down, someone yelling, “FAGGOT!” or “DIE, QUEERS!” We knew not to laugh. Often, the shameful—shamed—response was to pretend nothing had just happened. Keep walking. Try to continue the conversation. And subtly scan the area to ensure witnesses were present in case the car looped around the block for round two, whatever that might look and sound like.

 

Maybe I should have gone to Pride parades more often whenever I was partnered. Generally, I figured I didn’t need to go under such circumstances. I had a boyfriend. Why not go for a hike, a weekend road trip or go to the nursery in pursuit of shade-loving perennials? Why stand in a crowd under the hot sun, craning our necks to clap for the gay swim team (in Speedos!) or the float with water bottle-toting go-go boys (in thongs!) throwing free condoms in our faces?

 

What I failed to consider was the fact these crowds were practice fields for PDA. Hand-holding, hugging and kissing didn’t carry any sense of danger when we were immersed in blocks and blocks of thousands of queers and allies. 

 

Hold my hand.

Hug me.

Kiss me.

Drape your arms around me.

 

We are SO MUCH in love…and this is a place to express that. Joy!

 

With most of my long-term boyfriends, we did find moments in public to show our affection. And, yes, I imagine it might have felt like tenth grade. Oh! My! God! We are holding hands! Still, these moments were few. Even more so, they were brief. The giddiness was more often expressed in my mind as, We were holding hands. Past tense always came quickly. 

 

Then along came Evan…

 

Evan is not an in-the-shadows guy, not in any environment. He has a distinct style. He always gets noticed based on what he’s wearing. Holding my hand is just something extra. And, yes, he considers it extra special.

 

I can learn from Evan. I do learn from him. 

 

On our first date, we sat opposite one another in a booth at a Mexican restaurant, sharing stories, laughing aplenty and feeling an undeniable attraction. At some point, he got up to use the restroom or grab us another margarita and, when he returned, he scooted into my side of the booth. 

 

Yes, two men sitting on one side of a booth, the other side empty. That definitely said something. For that evening, World, we were together. For longer than that? Hopefully.

 

Sitting there, side by side, that was our first clear PDA. One hour into knowing one another. This relationship would be different…if I allowed it to be.

 

Three years later, I am still a work in progress when it comes to public displays of affection. The whole reason for PDA is different from high school. In adolescence, there is a desperate need to be noticed in the right ways. I’m dating. I’m cool. I’m not going through this angst-filled developmental stage alone. I’ve got me someone. Whew.

 

The PDA between Evan and me is not “Get a room” PDA. It’s tasteful and loving, that’s all. If there is anything performative about PDA now with us, it’s more a celebration of progress made, not as a couple but as part of a movement toward normalizing gay relationships. Some straight couples rarely show affection; some regularly do. Same for gay couples now. 

 

More than that, the physical affection is for our own sake. We happen to be a couple that likes physical closeness. Evan initiates far more often than I do. There have been times when I have flinched…regrettably. We both read certain environments as potentially unsafe. I happen to have a broader concept of unsafe than him so my flinching or all-out pulling away is jarring to Evan. My mistake, perhaps. I do want us to make it home unscathed at the end of each day. My realm of the unsafe is shrinking. We have each other. We love each other.

 

Of course, we should be able to hold hands when we want. Same for sharing a hug. Same for a kiss. Our PDA is becoming more spontaneous. It’s genuine affection. It’s between us. It’s for us. Thankfully, it just feels right.