COFFEE & KISSING WITH MY EX

Okay, so my ex said yes to coffee in Denver. (See last week’s post if you want the background.) I emailed Sunday night and he wanted to meet Monday. Um. Sure. I could get it over with.

 

What did I really want in meeting Evan?

 

The last time I’d met an ex who’d dumped me was thirty years ago. By then, a year had passed and I was in another relationship. Coffee was closure and it was an easy process. Within five minutes, I was bored with the conversation, I realized we didn’t have much in common and I felt no more need to look back on what could’ve been. It was never going to work out.

 

Truth? I kinda love the band.

With Evan though, I’d had decades of dating behind me. I’d fallen in and out of love with others. I’d learned a few things about what made relationships work or fall apart. I’d really felt we had a good shot of going the distance. Still, I couldn’t shake the look on his face when we’d FaceTimed a week after he ended things. It said, “I would rather be anywhere but in this moment.” Prison in Siberia. In line for the guillotine in an unfortunate time travel episode. Nickelback concert. Would coffee be punishment for both of us?

 

And yet…

 

He’d started texting me twenty minutes after I emailed. It was textbook texting for Evan, a rapid-fire series of short statements.

                  Thanks for reaching out

                  I’ve missed you so much

                  Think about you every day

 

The eagerness was disarming. How was this the same man who had so quickly dropped me like I was a handkerchief infested with COVID, avian flu and cooties? 

 

When he suggested his place instead of a café, it felt too intimate for a closure conversation. Having some couple sitting beside us, rehashing the plot of Wicked seemed like the protection I needed so I wouldn’t cry into my hoodie and he wouldn’t suddenly snap back to February 2024, remembering all the reasons I’d seemed unworthy. Clutching a warm oat latte in a hipster café seemed safer, saner.

 

But, no, I drove to his place which was itself a strange experience. Technically, I saw it back in February. I was there ten minutes, walking around stunned as he gave me a tour that seemed utterly pointless since he’d ended things in the car ride from Union Station. I could process nothing other than things were OVER and I needed to find a hotel for the night. 

 

Adding to the strangeness this time was the fact I had my sister’s very hyper dog with me and my first actions involved following her own thorough inspection of the place, sniffing everything, seeking socks, shoes or basically anything to put in her mouth, a wet, slobbery way of staking claim. 

 

Somewhere in the midst of me playing Follow the Dog, Evan and I hugged. Long, tight…that kind of don’t-let-go gesture ruined by the fact the dog had discovered the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom.  

 

Evan and I talked, we teared up, we kissed.

 

Wait. What? Kissing was not in my mental flow chart of possibilities for how our conversation would go. 

 

He was clear about wanting me in his life. It sounded like he was proposing something on the friendship path. And I knew I didn’t want that. I don’t kiss friends on the lips. Certainly not the way we were kissing. I couldn’t redefine us, going from my partner for life to a buddy I hiked with when I occasionally ended up in Colorado. 

 

We continued talking…and kissing until I had to leave. Being mid-December, darkness loomed and I had to get back to my sister’s mini ranch with the three horses that needed attending to. I wanted to make the drive in daylight because the “highway” to her place was basically a curvy roller coaster track without the loop-de-loop. (Plus, as it turned out, there was considerable snow coming down within thirty minutes of her place.)

 

I was in the area for two weeks. We’d have time to see each other again. Maybe we’d even figure out what, if anything, we might be to one another again.

 

 

DODGING WHITE CARS

Back in the fall, my sister reached out and asked if I would come to Colorado to dog-sit for a couple of weeks. I was hesitant. Yes, I’d dog-sat for friend in California in July. Yes, I’d dog-sat for my aunt and uncle in September. This is not some new professional gig. I fell into these experiences, there being a mutual benefit in that a dog avoided kennel time and I got to spend an extended break in areas I really liked. Plus, I love dogs and I’ve gone the past decade without one of my own, telling myself I wanted to enjoy travel without the guilt, expense and logistics of dog care. The two dog-sitting gigs were win-win situations.

 

It was different in the case of my sister. Nothing against her or her dog, a four-year-old, partially deaf English cocker spaniel. Even by my sister’s reports, the dog had some challenges, but I knew the dog and I would figure things out in some sort of comical alpha battle.

 

The problem was where my sister lived—Colorado. I realize the state is generally a draw from a tourist’s perspective. Her home is in a rural community, an hour outside of Denver. Urban accessibility, a general plus but a distinct negative for me. 

 

The last time I was in Colorado, I’d flown to Denver on Valentine’s Day. My partner of nearly two years had just moved there to start a new job. After a Seattle-Vancouver long-distance relationship, we were committed to making Denver-Vancouver work, too. I’m a writer; I can write anywhere. Denver would simply be a new setting. 

 

But we hadn’t even made it to his new place before we broke up. Ten minutes in the car and I was suddenly single. They say there’s something about the Colorado air that induces altitude sickness. Apparently it also implodes relationships. 

 

I stayed at a hotel that night and rescheduled my flight. A two-week visit got whittled down to a day. I insisted on that day, figuring it would feel too pathetic taking the first flight home on February 15^th, my sole memory centered on getting dumped. Instead, I walked around downtown, forcing myself to be a tourist, cramming in more than usual to try to temporarily distract from what had brought me to Denver and what had happened. I needed the city to be more than That Place. I salvaged the city’s reputation but barely.

 

The idea of flying back to Denver ten months later had zero appeal. It felt like I should wait a few years or, really, a lifetime. There were other places to see. Omaha, for instance. Iowa City. Duluth.

 

I went back and forth with my sister, first via text, then a phone call. “Are you sure about this?” (She’d be paying for my flight.) “Isn’t a kennel cheaper?”

 

But she did seem sure. 

 

And I, having not always been the best member of the family, set aside my Colorado-avoidance urge to say, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

 

To most people, an ex would not factor into the decision at all. The trip was not about him. He and my sister did not live on the same street or in the same neighborhood. I was certain they did not shop the same Safeway and, if I had to avoid Trader Joe’s, well, I could do without the banana chips.

 

Still, with months until my trip, I found I was dreading it. What if I run into him? The chances were so remote, I kept telling myself. Six million people live in Colorado. 700,000 in Denver. Nope, there was no way our paths would cross. He was yoga; I was gym. He was Mexican food; I was Indian. He was flashy New York City-styled cowboy; I could duck into a closet if I saw him approaching from two hundred yards away. If coincidence actually came to be—and it wouldn’t—I could deke and dodge. 

 

But I couldn’t convince myself with 100% certainty that we wouldn’t stumble into one another. His family cabin was off the same highway, halfway between my sister’s place and Denver. It was an added possibility. What if he ventured there due to a burst water pipe or a sudden calling to lay a few mousetraps for winter? 

 

I became surer of the fact we wouldn’t walk into each other on the street or in a café. My worst-case scenario became a chance encounter at a traffic light, me glancing down from my sister’s SUV into his white BMW. No matter how much I tried to lean into logistics and statistics, I couldn’t shake this idea. Sure it would be winter, our windows rolled up, any “hello” or “Oh, shit” fully muted. 

 

But seeing him would be enough to undo me. All the frantic travel I’d been doing for ten months to numb the pain of rejection and to delay processing the loss of the person I’d thought was finally The One would be for naught. One glance. So much potential harm.

 

I developed an anticipatory new phobia: fear of white cars. I am terrible at identifying makes and models of vehicles. I can distinguish between a semi and a Fiat, but everything in between has a sameness to it. Any approaching white car could, for at least a fraction of a second, register in my brain as a BMW. His BMW. Driving would produce tiny shocks every time I’d spy something that is white. 

 

There are so many white cars.

 

Shock agony.

 

And so a month before my scheduled Colorado dog-sitting I decided to be proactive. After I arrived, I would reach out to him. “Hey, I’m here for two weeks. Let me know if you want to grab a coffee.” It would be done. I’d have reached out and gotten it over with. 

 

He could ignore the message.

 

He could say he’s out of town, a work trip in Omaha. (Lucky bastard.)

 

He could reply, “Why the hell would I want to do that?”

 

A message hanging in the virtual world would, of course, put him back on my mind but the fact was he was already on my mind and I was failing to bat away all notions of a coincidental encounter. If he ignored it or said no thanks, I’d have at least done my part. If then we did cross paths, I’d be justified passing with blinders on. I wouldn’t be slighting him because he’d already done the slighting.

 

There was one other response I hadn’t fully considered:

 

He could say yes.

 

And that’s just what he did.

 

 

WHAT IS "OLD"?

Those of us who have lived at least a few decades see how fluid the terms young and old can be.

 

MUST be. 

 

When I first came out—finally—at twenty-four and started going to gay bars in West Hollywood, an especially brutal place for being judged based on looks, I remember thinking forty was so old. When I dated I guy who was thirty, I wondered if our age gap was too great. 

 

Thirty or even forty as something considered older…it feels embarrassingly stupid now. It also reminds me of needy guys on Twitter, announcing it’s their thirty-fourth birthday and saying they’re old just so those of us who are older will say, “Thirty-four’s nothing. You’re so young.”

 

Yeah, I don’t do that. If a thirty-four-year-old wants to feel old—genuinely or falsely—that’s his shit to live with. I remember thirty-four. It felt like the perfect age.

 

But now I’m sixty. My hands did not shake as I typed that, but I’ll admit to pausing after the period. 

 

Holy #%&!

 

SIXTY! So old.

 

But old in terms of being sixty feels like the word fag. I’m allowed to use it for myself but, hell no, it’s not okay for other people, i.e., younger people, to attach old to my age. That’s when I get defensive, even annoyed. Sixty is nothing. Or, at least, it’s definitely not old.

 

Yes, hair-obsessed...

I got my back up last night as I watched the first episode of Season 9 of Queer Eye, set in Las Vegas. The woman being made over was a sixty-three-year-old former Vegas showgirl. It wasn’t an especially memorable episode aside from the fact I was obsessed with the new guy’s hair—the highlights, the length, the styling. (New guy is Jeremiah Brent, replacing Bobby Berk as the interior designer.) I did, however, become too aware of how much the show set the showgirl up as being old.

 

Not knitting (or collecting)
doilies yet!

A grandma.

Living in the past, living only for her children and grandkids.

No new goals.

Let herself go.

Gray hair is bad.

 

Yes, it’s in the show’s interest to portray the poor woman as dour and dowdy in the beginning. This is a makeover show and a radical transformation is key to an episode’s success. Let her reveal come with a string of exclamation marks. Let the viewer say, “Oh, my god, she looks so good…for sixty-three.” Yeah, I added on that qualifier. As if sixty-three is old. 

 

I don’t know what I think is old anymore. I just know it’s not sixty. I won’t allow myself to think that. I certainly am not going with sixty-three, counting down the days before OLD walks into my home and takes over. Hello, knee-high socks and gaudy golf outfit, polo shirt tucked into plaid pants, Buddha belly as prominently on display as unkempt eyebrows and strands of ear hair.

 

Yeesh. Let that version of old be held at bay for a lifetime.

 

I cringed every time Tan, Jonathan, Karamo, Antoni and The Hair Guy said old or older. They made sixty-three something to dread…unless it came with a team that redesigned your entire home, kinda sorta showed you how to make a red pepper dip (Oh, Antoni) and arranged for a last hurrah on a Vegas stage. It’s worth noting that the QE crew is experiencing its own age creep with all but Jonathan now in their forties. (Still, so young now in my books!) From my perspective, the nineteen years between Karamo and the showgirl weren’t so great.

 

“Age is just a number” may be a cliché but, now that I’m seemingly aging more than when I was twenty-something, it does feel true. Let sixty be the new forty. Heck, honestly I’d say I feel not a day over thirty-seven. And immediately after typing that, I sense that I need to defend it. I still work out six days a week. My runs, as an example, are always eleven kilometers (or occasionally more) and I run them as fast as I did thirty years ago. I seem to spin all day, a flurry of activities. That Tasmanian devil critter’s got nothing on me.  

 

Somewhere (way) down the line, I’ll embrace the word old, but it’s a firm no thank you for now. I’m not going to let that mindset in. Let me continue to ascend and descend stairs, skipping every other step. Let me listen to podcasts or, okay, audiobooks. Let me sing-mumble that “Tipsy” song, even if it’s from my home office desk and not an actual bar. (Oh, the noise!) So maybe I’m not exactly young. I’ll concede that. I have no interest in spending a second of my day on TikTok. But I’m not going shopping for knee-high socks this decade either. 

 

Youngish. That sounds all right. Oldish? Nope. Don’t rush me, thank you very much.

 

 

 

 

 

"WEAR & TEAR"

There are certain words and expressions I’m not fond of as I grow older. 

 

“Sir” has been my least favorite, a term that’s supposed to convey deference and respect, but only translates in my head as the person saying, You’re an old dude. 

 

“Are you retired?” feels like skipping what I deem as a more respectful question: “What do you do for a living?” Fake the assumption I’m still working, still climbing that ladder, still hoping for a year-end bonus that is more than a turkey coupon. (Yes, my first “bonus” came while I was a waiter; we each got a coupon redeemable for the Christmas bird, never mind that I was a vegetarian.)

 

The expression that’s made me cringe—and fret—the most over the past year has, however, been “wear and tear.” When I think of the phrase, tire treads come to mind. Maybe my favorite blue jeans that are starting to grow an unfashionable, even creepy hole just below the zipper. I have running shoes with the soles worn down unevenly which is unfortunately because it finally feels like I’ve broken in. 

 

Those examples of wear and tear only require money and the wherewithal to finally shop for replacements, adieu to the old wares. Sorry, landfill.

 

But the “wear and tear” I’m struggling to get to in this post is far more personal, the description rendered by medical professionals, the subject being my body. Not the body of a twenty-three year old whose been spending too much time on the tennis court. RX: rest. No, the wear and tear for this sixty-year-old body is spoken of as being permanent.

 

I suppose I set my dentist up. I’ve had a couple of dental fractures in recent years, teeth splitting in half…or in less precise ways to create especially jagged edges. I’ve had too many needles to freeze certain areas. (Dammit, it always takes three needle jams before I can’t feel anything in the focal area.) I’ve seen oral surgeons in offices with prime views of Vancouver that are for naught once I’m knocked out. At my last dental appointment, I expressed frustration. My teeth don’t look great as there’s an upper tooth that grew in crooked and my mother (rightly) told our family dentist I couldn’t handle braces. Still, I’ve always been praised over how well I take care of my teeth and how they are strong and healthy. 

 

Strong and healthy teeth aren’t supposed to crack. “What is going on?” I asked. “Am I doing something wrong? Is there something else I should be doing?”

 

Please, not another floss talk.

 

“It’s just wear and tear,” he said. “It comes with age.” Ouch. Apparently, he was truly peeved over my sporadic flossing. 

 

I compartmentalized. Okay. It’s my teeth. They’ve chewed aplenty in six decades. Wear and tear? Better than my grandfather’s era when so many people at my age had dentures, including him. He’d dump his teeth in a glass every night and then the grandkids would beg him to show us his sunken smile. “Eww!” we’d scream and run to the far corner of the room. The poor man took it all good-naturedly…or so it seemed. I have an apology forthcoming next time I visit his grave.

 

So, yes, aging teeth, that’s all. I could still take pride in everything else. I am still told—frequently—I don’t look my age. Recently when I got an electrocardiogram—one of several this year—the technician looked at my stats on a computer screen and exclaimed, “Sixty? Wow! I was thinking you were my age.” This from a guy who doesn’t work for tips. I’d say he was forty. Hell, let’s go with thirty-five.

 

But those multiple ECGs—another one pending!—seemed to tell another story. When I went over various results with a cardiologist, I was proud of how low my heartrate is. It scares nurses and technicians and they always have to check-in with a doctor before I am allowed to leave an examination room but, time and time again, the doctors explain that I am just very fit. They throw in a sentence or two, lumping me in with athletes. Hello, Summer Olympics, 2028, Los Angeles! If I compete, it’ll be an event that doesn’t involve throwing. Or catching. Or punching people. Or pinning dudes to a mat. 

 

Okay, fit, but no Olympics. I know L.A. well enough. 

 

The cardiologist may have tossed out the words “fit” and “athlete” once again, but then he slipped in another phrase: “wear and tear.” 

 

What?!

 

Teeth are one thing. The heart is quite another. He must have seen my face pale. Or maybe it was my eyes welling up. “It’s just part of aging,” he added. Like that normalized everything. Like the lack of an imminently scheduled transplant or triple bypass made everything great.

 

Is that really the bar?

 

“Wear and tear”…and “aging.”

 

Egad!

 

It doesn’t get better. Hello, reality. Or, to rephrase, hell, reality.

 

 

     

  

TRANS ACTIONS

We’ve got to do better. When we say, “It gets better,” that must apply to everyone in the LGBTQ community. That includes trans. We’ve got to step up and continue the fight for queer dignity and queer rights.

 

Frankly, I knew throughout election season that, not only were trans people being demonized during the campaign, but they would then be blamed by their own side if Democrats lost the election. It’s doubly disgusting. The demonizing worked AND allies, needing to lay blame, pointed fingers at trans pronouns, athletic participation, bathroom usage and early hormone inhibitors. 

 

To be clear, blame does not belong to the trans community. Trans rights were not handled well by the left. Democrats were always playing defense or not playing at all and, in such situations, it’s pretty difficult to score. 

 

The weekend after the election, both The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times published front page stories analyzing the result, clearly stating that trans rights proved to be a deciding issue. The WSJ article focused solely on the topic, the headline stating, “Transgender Rights Took Center State Late in Race.” The article’s summative point: “[A]s the campaign neared the finish line, it was the transgender debate that emerged as a powerful force that—along with..inflation and immigration—worked in Republicans’ favor and against Harris.”

 

An effective campaign conducts its research and highlights the issues and stances that will play best to its key voters and those who are undecided. According to the WSJ, “The Trump campaign spent heavily on transgender issues, accounting for roughly one in five ads it aired in the last couple of months,” costing $37 million. [Emphasis added.] The Harris campaign failed to grasp the damage caused by the ads. It did what Democrats have too often done—ignored issues and statements deemed outrageous. “Harris had an opening to address one of those ads, which focused on her support for taxpayer-funded transgender surgeries for federal inmates, during her combative Fox News interview…[b]ut she ended up dismissing the importance of voters’ concerns on the issue.” Really, how many inmates would be getting trans surgeries in a year? As obscure as the issue may be, the ads caused the voter outrage Republicans sought.

 

This slogan is familiar, but I contend
it hasn't been effective enough.
Time to try a new soundbite.

Never ever let Trump statements go unchecked. Never let distortions go without a strong, soundbite-savvy response. Indeed that ad’s soundbite was “Kamala’s for They/Them. President Trump is for you.” 

 

No strong, easily grasped response from Democrats? Hello, damage. 

 

Same goes for all the fear and outrage lathered up over trans athletes. Even Representative Seth Moulton (D-Mass.) felt freaked out by the issue, telling the NYT, “I have two little girls, I don’t want them getting run over on a playing field by a male or formerly male athlete.” I literally cringed from the quote. Even Democrats don’t understand trans issues or the extent to which issues have real life impact. The director of communications for the Michigan High School Athletic Association told the WSJ, “the issue of transgender girls playing girls sports was inescapable on the airwaves” despite the fact only two girls playing on high school teams in the state were trans. Two out of 170,000. A non-issue, spun hard by Republicans. 

 

Without effective pushback, all that outrage and fearmongering has caused damage to trans people and trans issues beyond election season. 

 

Yes, we failed. We weren’t there. We silently shook heads, tantamount to no response at all. I, for one, await both grassroots and well organized (non-election) campaigns to boost positivity and acceptance regarding people who are trans. 

 

*  

 

History is indeed cyclical and we only need to look at earlier LGBTQ struggles to see when things stalled and when real progress finally happened. 

 

Throughout the seventies and eighties, progress for gays and lesbians was slow. Singer Anita Bryant stepped up as a leading adversary. Senator Jesse Helms relentlessly called out gays as sinners, lumping them in with perverts and pedophiles. AIDS worsened any campaign for gay rights. While gays were in survival mode, bathrooms became a danger zone, with the false perception you could become infected from toilet seats seemingly unshakable. It was in conservatives’ best interest to allow the falsity to persist. Whatever it took to make people remain entrenched as anti-gay. Play it up enough and it meant Republican votes. 

 

Bathrooms remain big in conservative playbooks. So do families, especially children. Once, it was gay men who posed a threat. Recruiters! Abusers! Protect our kids.

 

Updated to trans hate, conservatives now perpetuate pedaling fear that their children will be harmed. “Biological boys” are invading girls’ bathrooms and taking over girls’ athletics! Again, there is little to no substance, no cases put forth as they continue to spin fear. Worse, one common Trump lie at rallies was that parents could send their child to school in the morning and that child would come home the opposite sex. 

 

Sometimes we think Trump’s statements are so outrageous and clearly untrue they don’t get enough pushback. The fact is many Republicans drink whatever Kool-Aid Trump’s serving. They may not truly believe what he spouts, but they’ll spout it too in the name of team spirit. I’ve said many times, Trump and his supporters remind me of WWE arena wrestling—all staged but totally consumed. 

 

Where gays finally made significant strides was during marriage equality campaigns.

 

Progress was not entirely linear. There were setbacks, even in California, which saw the passage of the Proposition 8 referendum, which took away the right to marriage. But the organization became stronger. 

 

One legacy from the AIDS crisis was that gays and lesbians honed advocacy skills. One of the first changes was that more gays came out. They couldn’t sit back quietly while so many gays died. They couldn’t let stand hateful rhetoric that AIDS was God’s wrath. They became politically and socially active because they had to, pushing for more AIDS funding, quicker approval of experimental drugs and protections from job and housing discrimination. Gay men were not united in what was the best approach. Some worked within the establishment while others focused beyond it. 

 

A generation of gay men became well-versed in political and social action. Their experiences then helped with marriage equality efforts. They had a sense of how to mobilize and a track record of what tactics and strategies were most effective. Marriage campaigns at the state level worked together. Each state that passed marriage equality legislation provided momentum. Bit by bit, change happened.

 

In my mind, one of the most effective aspects of the overall campaign was the creation and propagation of a positive, social media friendly sound bite: #LoveIsLove.

 

Where is the trans sound bite? 

 

It’s time for gays and lesbians to join all queers in mobilizing again. We have the experience. We have a better opportunity to affect change with greater numbers of people actively pushing for it. And let me be clear in stating that any gay man latching onto “LGB but not the T” is spinning selfish, hateful nonsense that should be left behind in the last century.

 

It would have been nice if the Democrats had a solid plan to respond to political potshots—no, attacks—regarding trans issues. Nicer if the response not only responded to fearmongering but also put a positive foot forward. If some Democrats believe trans issues hurt them, it’s on them to regroup and rethink how to effectively campaign for trans rights. It’s a no-brainer that, if Republicans found success scaring voters about trans issues, they’ll keep doing it as long as they’re given carte blanche to do so. 

 

But I think it’s incumbent on major queer organizations to strategize their own counterattacks and, more importantly “brand” trans identity as something positive. That’s right, “brand” it. This is something to sell in terms of politics. There needs to be a #LoveIsLove equivalent that people can embrace and that catches on. Keep floating them out there, see what sticks and then fly with it. Something with long legs. Gay marriage has been legal since the Supreme Court’s 2015 decision and people still #LoveIsLove all over the place, perhaps as much as they wave the Pride flag. 

 

A personal suggestion is #LetThemBe. It’s positive. It’s got the pronoun so many associate with trans, nonbinary and other queers. (I do realize many trans people go with she/her and he/him, but I think #LetThemBe gets a simple, positive message across. If a trans person does choose she/her or he/him, well that’s even easier for straight folks to go with. Less pronoun bumbling if they choose to get past archaic resistance with comments like, “You don’ sound like a woman.” (Yeah, I hick-ified it. It seems apropos.)

 

A friend of mine who is trans told me shortly after the election that many trans people are antiestablishment. They won’t get on board a united, seemingly centrist campaign that speaks to acceptance from straights. That’s not their raison d’être.

 

My response was that was fine. Historically, with gay rights, there has been more than one track. During the AIDS crisis, organizations like Gay Men’s Health Center in NYC and AIDS Project Los Angeles appealed to politicians and celebrities for support while ACT UP went with more controversial, in-your-face tactics that some gays felt were a distraction or even detrimental to the cause. I didn’t always like ACT UP’s actions, but I believe that, while traditional organizations went with diplomacy, there was also a time and place for agitation that occurred per ACT UP’s agenda, not GMHC’s.

 

Too often in politics, things take on an either-or, black-or-white dichotomy. Explore all channels. Let the pro-trans movement have diversity in the channels it pursues.

 

If we all get onboard advocating for trans rights, we can contemplate bigger actions and fund a campaign to counter that $37 million anti-trans advertising effort the Republicans put together. Yes, money matters.

 

What are the key organizations to contribute to in advocating for trans rights? A specific trans organization doesn’t come immediately to mind which underscores how much has yet to be done. During the AIDS crisis, ACT UP was known to most everyone. GLAAD and HRC are also well known, but they have broader agendas than solely advocating for trans issues. (We still need to donate to them and push them to strengthen their trans campaigns both in terms of people and resources.) What is a key trans advocacy organization? One or two need to emerge as having household recognition, spearheading campaigns, becoming prominent fund raisers, organizing a powerful national march, targeting states where change is likely to occur, building momentum off these wins and assuming an advisory role with state- and local-level organizations working to establish and/or protect particular rights.

 

If the LGBTQ community doesn’t show in bold ways how it is stepping up, how can we expect our allies to show up and grow. If we organize in bigger numbers with bigger coffers, we can also establish an expertise that can then better advise Democrat positions and responses—there MUST be responses—during the 2026 and 2028 election campaigns. Do better, yes, and do more. Let’s go!

 

 

Newspaper articles cited for this blog post:

“Democrats Sift Through Rubble, Seeking Answers: Assigning the Blame,” The New York Times, November 10, 2024.

 

“Transgender Rights Took Center Stage Late in Race,” The Wall Street Journal, November 9-10, 2024.

 

 

 

 

  

A TRADITION FINDS A NEW “HOME”

Sad news. The tree I’ve decorated the past two Christmases died. By midsummer, it was basically just a pole in the ground. Once, the little park had two trees. Now it has none. 

 

I either had to let my Christmas tree tradition die or find a new one in another park frequented by the homeless. I’ve spent the past few weeks riding my bike, staking out spots. I finally decided on Oppenheimer Park, still only a few blocks from my home. There’s a big, round cedar that caught my eye first. I walked over to take a closer look and it just didn’t speak to me. (Yes, I tried having a conversation. Tree huggers are tree talkers, too.) A Christmas cedar just didn’t seem right. 

 

Only ten feet away was another tree I hadn’t even noticed on my pedal-by. Slimmer, shorter…but a pine. A Christmas tree! And, yes, a natural Charlie Brown sort of scraggly tree to take over from the prior one. It only required borrowing a six-foot ladder from my building rather than one of the taller ones that might wabble without a helper this year to hold it in place. 

 

Passing by later in the day,
every bench was taken by 
people in conversation.

Oppenheimer Park is probably an even better park for a festive little tree. It’s frequented much more by homeless people and those living in supported housing. A few years ago, the park was a monthslong encampment with dozens of tents. Then, the City made everyone move along—a stressful change, no doubt—only to have tent dwellers resettle at another park in my area. For a while thereafter, the park had fencing all around it, locking everyone out who might re-pitch a tent along with anyone who wished to just sit on a bench and chat with someone else in the community. 

 

 I like to walk through rather than
around the park. This message
painted on the pavement
always lifts me. 

It's been unfenced and open to all for at least two years now. The park is a favorite for sea gulls whom the homeless like to feed leftovers from donated meals. It’s also a place where the benches fill, lots of conversations happening. As destitute as much of my neighborhood appears, basic needs like connection and belonging are met in spaces such as this. I won’t idealize the place. The park still feels grim. There’s a children’s playground where I’ve never seen a child play. (The crows favor it.) 

 

I’ll admit to being mildly concerned about problems arising if I decorated my Charlie Brown tree at Oppenheimer. I wasn’t concerned about the people who frequent the park. (Maybe someone would want to join in like last year.) I worried an overzealous police officer would Bah Humbug my stunt, asserting I needed a permit and advising that the City was unlikely to issue permits for rogue tree adornment. Gosh, maybe I’d even be ticketed, my attempt at token festiveness considered an act of vandalism. 

 

I walked with the ladder and my bag of decorations before sunrise. The morning fog might have been fortuitous too. It wouldn’t be an all-out stealth decorating activity, but maybe the red garlands and silver balls wouldn’t be such giveaways with their gleam. 

 

As I arrived at the park, the sea gulls were in their usual place, taking over the rarely used softball field. Four to six tents were set up in a cluster twenty-five feet away from the pine tree. On a nearby bench, two people slept huddled together, a tarp serving as a warmth-deprived blanket. One man sat on another bench, awake, seemingly content in his own thoughts, my presence not registering. No police officers or cars were in sight despite this area being frequently patrolled.

 

Decorating was easy. I only had to step to the third or fourth rung on the ladder to add ornaments to the upper reaches. Unfortunately, my star could not be suitably affixed  to the top. The droop was too pronounced—sad instead of quirky. Fine. No star. 

 

Traditions move. They adapt.

 

It took twenty minutes to adorn the tree, my gloves off to better handle and hook the ornaments. It’s worth noting that, by the time I was done, my fingertips were numb from the cold (2°C or 35°F). It wasn’t lost on me, the fact I had the luxury of going home and quickly warming up as I watched one man emerge from his tent to smoke a cigarette. Does that act offer any warmth?

 

The whole while, I kept wondering if it was my lack of decorating talent that made the tree seem sad. I told myself I could only do so much with what I had, like a dog groomer giving a makeover to 2022’s officially Ugliest Dog in some contest boycotted by everyone associated with the Westminster Kennel Club. 

 

Still, a man hidden underneath a parka with a hoodie passed by, saying, “Ho ho ho.” No exclamation mark but a suitable endorsement. Five minutes later another man emerged from one of the tents, rising for the day. I heard him chuckle, then say, “That is so cool, man!” A thumbs up, too. 

 

Yes! This is who the tree is for. It didn’t need to meet Martha Stewart’s approval. It didn’t need to become Instagram fodder. The intention was greater than the actual creation. Tent Guy got it and liked it. Mission accomplished. 

 

And like every supposedly selfless act, his cheer gave me cheer. This is what I need for the holiday. Yes, I’m all set for Christmas.