EAVESDROPPING ON HOPE

I went swimming at a public pool beside a local high school on Friday. My normal swim day is Wednesdays so I was taken aback when, in the middle of my workout, my lane was closed down. This left only one lane for swimming laps—the slow, medium and fast swimmers merging into one. Let’s just say I was not happy. When I asked the lifeguard if this was going to be a regular thing, the poor guy shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” He’s the guy that just shows up to do his shift.

As it turned out, the slower swimmers got out of the pool, leaving the lane to just me and one other swimmer. Our speeds were comparable. I focussed on just swimming laps, getting my workout in. But around me, there was a lot of cheering and shouting. Each time I would turn to the side to get a breath while swimming freestyle, I could see a large group of people who looked student-aged standing fully clothed along the side of the pool. They seemed to be the ones causing the commotion.

It was only after I finished my last lap that I came up for air and saw what the ruckus was all about. This looked like a group of grade eight students, roughly 13 or 14 years old. They were cheering on their classmates who had constructed small, one-person boats out of cardboard. The objective was for the boat makers to paddle their craft from one end of the pool to the other while trying to keep their cardboard structures afloat. The scene was comical and chaotic at the same time.

 

Let’s just say there’s a reason freighters aren’t made from cardboard.

I got out of the pool and showered, then proceeded to get dressed in the changing room. While this was going on, two of the students who had taken unfortunate plunges in the pool, entered the locker room to change out of their wet clothes.

One of the boys said to the other that he’d forgotten to pack a towel. “What were you thinking?” said the other boy.

“I asked my dad to pack a bag for me,” came the reply.

The other boy lightly mocked his classmate. “What… You get mommy to pack for you?”

The boy without a towel took the question literally. His answer: “My mom is in India. “

“What?! How is that?”

At this point, I was tempted to butt in, even though I knew it was not my place. I wanted to give the towel-less kid (Boy 1) some support. I wanted to explain that, based on my years as a school principal working in diverse neighbourhoods, there had been a lot of families from India. It was common for one or more members to go back to India for one to two months at a time. This was practical. Why travel so far only to turn around again after a short visit?

Boy 1 handled things on his own. “My family’s complicated. “

“How so?”

“It’s a long story,” said the boy, perhaps wanting to dodge the explanation.

“I’ve got the time,” said his curious classmate. (This amused me.)

“It’s about surrogacy.”

“What’s that?” Boy 2 asked.

“It’s when you take an egg—”

“Oh! You mean a surrogate.”

 

“Yeah,” Boy 1 said. “My dads are gay.” This time there was no hesitation. 

As my back was to the two boys, I assume the boy without the towel simply nodded his head. Boy 1’s explanation was taken matter-of-factly. There was no ridicule or teasing about the fact his dads were gay. No need to ask questions. It just was what it was.

 

Instead, the conversation passed without a segue to a more involved negotiation about how to scrounge up enough money for the two of them to buy pizza for lunch.

I am heartened by this conversation. Despite regressive actions from conservative adults who happen to be in positions for making and changing laws, this younger, non-voting age group seems to take in stride differences related to LGBTQ identities. They are growing up with freer forms of expressing themselves and seeing their peers do the same. While some lawmakers are desperately trying to keep a lid on All Things Gay, messages, conversations and supports are out there, both online and in person. 

 

Fourteen years ago, I was pleased but skeptical when the book, It Gets Better, was published, with words of encouragement from notable people. I thought it was a noble project, but I wondered how it would be received by some 13-year-old who was actively being bullied or living in a household where anti-gay remarks were regularly made by parents. How does Hold on until you’re 20 help a young teen cope? When you’re 13, 20 feels like a lifetime away.

 

But now I can view the book over a longer trajectory. Since 2011, despite setbacks, things truly have gotten better. It’s not a time for complacency—there is more to be done and supposedly enshrined rights may still be volatile—but there is evidence that things are getting better for younger people, for both those who identify as LGBTQIA+ and those who don’t. One of my favourite sayings, You Be You, appears to have more traction with this age group. There will always be ways to put peers down but perhaps queerness is less likely to be the cause for ridicule. 

 

Seems I got more than just a workout from my trip to the pool.

“BOOTS” ON NETFLIX (A Review…of Sorts)

Okay, I’m a slow streamer. I don’t binge. It often takes two nights to watch a show, with a few “down” nights in between when I’m reading or doing something else instead. 

 

But I finished watching Boots on Netflix last night. 

 

I’m still not sure what to make of it. Like many original shows on Netflix, I shrugged through episodes. Things were just okay much of the time. It felt like how I watched Survivor back in the day. I always wanted to skip over the challenges and get to the whispered camp negotiations and the episode-ending tribal council. The challenges were just contrived nonsense with Jeff Probst yelling the occasionally cautionary remark. 

 

Same for Boots. I’ve already seen An Officer and a Gentleman. I know that military training involves a lot of camp activities on steroids (e.g., sink or swim; obstacle course; target shooting) and, instead of Jeff Probst, you’ve got drill sergeants who are built like tanks yelling at you. Belittling you. Saying things that should put them in HR if this were the corporate world. The berating gets old. It becomes an annoying buzz, like that of a mosquito swirling around your head in the dark at three in the morning. You listen; it’s grating; you want to smack the source of the noise to stop it.

 

Yeah, so I’m not the target viewer for Boots. A boot camp feels like too much testosterone, too much bravado, too much negativity. I’d have checked out even before having to put on the leather boots. But this, I was told online, was a gay show.

 

I tried to focus on the personalities. In my mind, the show comes down to three characters: Cam Cope, played by Max Heizer, his best friend Ray McAffey (Liam Oh) and Sergeant Sullivan (Max Parker). The rest of the characters are caricatures—the guy who just might be crazy, the guy who desperately wants to call home, the guy who’s too aggressive, the guy who alienates his mates. With all the focus on drills, there isn’t the opportunity to get to know the supporting cast. 

 

I’ve said the drill scenes carried zero interest for me, haven’t I?

 

Cope is a likable, passive guy—perfect for the “yes, sir” mindset of the military, but too scrawny to look like he’s got a shot at becoming a Marine. He’s also gay, a fact known only to his best friend who fully accepts him. This is 1990, by the way, a time when George H.W. Bush was president, a time before Clinton’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell…a time of just Don’t. Being gay meant living in a fortified closet or a dishonorable discharge.

 

McAffey has daddy issues, his father having served in the military and raising his son with a stereotypical stoicism that might serve him well on the battlefield but doesn’t make a good parent. McAffey must excel. He must exceed. 

 

Sergeant Sullivan just has issues. Early on, he seems to zero in on Cope as someone unworthy of being a Marine. (“Why are you still here?”) SPOILER ALERT: He’s closeted and anytime his gayness is in danger of being detected, he becomes a masculine prick, taking things out on the recruits (or someone else). I found Max Parker a stunning screen presence—enough so that I scanned his Instagram and discovered he’s a gay Brit with a husband—but he’s got a challenging role, most of his scenes played out with his guard up, emotion limited to whatever we can see in his stunning eyes or in a slight cheek twitch. Every time there’s anything vulnerable about Sullivan to make the viewer like or relate to him, it’s followed by a scene to make you hate him. Is he a compelling character? Not really. I may have been too distracted by Parker’s good looks to appreciate any nuance in his portrayal of Sullivan.

 

Once you strip away all the drills of boot camp and the obligatory let’s-get-drunk and let’s-throw-food scenes, Boots boils down to: Why the hell would a scrawny gay guy want to be a Marine? Cope seems like a remarkably composed person. He’s been bullied but he seems like a survivor, albeit on the meek side. We’re told several times he’s “smart enough,” which my biased mind interprets as he can do so many other things. I was a meek, semi-closeted gay guy in 1990, too. Would enlisting and beating up another guy in a sanctioned fight have made me a better person, more of a man…someone who won’t be bullied anymore? Somehow I think I would have felt more ashamed. But then, I never aspired to be “more of a man.” Testosterone was never going to drive me. Sometimes coming out involves coming to terms with what you are and what you’re not. 

 

But Cope chose the Marines. Go figure. He’s a likable character. I cared what happened to him. That’s something. 

 

The most interesting character to me wasn’t a part of boot camp at all. The very talented Vera Farmiga is almost wasted as Cope’s single mom, Barbara. She herself is a caricature, a cluelessly bad mother in dowdy clothes, but Farmiga makes the most of the few scenes she’s in. I’d enjoy just watching a reel of her work in the show. I doubt I’ll tune in for what is set up for a second season, but I hope there will be more time to explore the mother-son relationship. If written right, that’s where the magic will be. 

 

Boots is based on the memoir, The Pink Marine, by Greg Cope White. I suspect I’d have enjoyed the book more but, no, I’m not going back and reading it now. I have a seemingly endless reading list and I’ve had my fill of military storytelling, thank you very much.  

"TWEAKMENTS" OR FREAKMENTS

I have bought a lot of books I’ve never read. Someday, I tell myself. If only I’d stop placing holds on books at the public library. I tend to have unread newspaper articles that linger as well, less now that I’ve stopped forking over $12 Canadian for the Sunday New York Times. It’s become a treat instead of a habit. My coffee table is much less cluttered.

 

Even so, I came across an article in my desk drawer yesterday. It’s from August 19, 2021. I’d never read it, but I hung onto it anyway—a tempting read; one that might lead to trouble. It’s called, “Lifted Necks, and Other Upgrades for Guys.” Basically, it’s about men having work done to “improve” their looks. I finally read it this morning.

 

Botox. Fillers for cheeks and jawline. Em-Sculpt (to tone abs). Laser treatments to remove sunspots. Buttock lifts. Breast reduction for men. A nose raise with fillers. Eyelid surgery. Liposuction. Neck tightening. 

 

It’s all there. 

 

What surprised me most was the ages of the men interviewed in the article. I actually laughed when I read about a 27-year-old having “Botox as a preventive.” What?! What will this guy be doing when he hits my age, 61? 

 

Most of the article was not at all funny. I should readily dismiss the entire topic. I should take into account the professions of several of these guys—a personal trainer, a social media influencer, a public relations executive. Their appearance is part of their brand. I should also think about that woman who was nicknamed Catwoman for having too much work done. As well, I can conjure up several celebrities who look like they went too far. My L’Oréal eye cream may not be doing any good but at least it’s not doing damage.

 

Still, I actually read with interest. Like I said, tempting. I’ve had an eating disorder since I was 17. I have body dysmorphia which causes me to obsess over perceived imperfections. The first body part I ever wanted altered was my elbows. I was probably twelve. I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that elbows, when the arm is fully extended, are ugly on everyone. Seriously. They’re just a weird body part. What would one do if they received an elbow compliment? You’re mocking me, right?

 

One common behaviour of people with eating disorders is body checking. Not the hockey move but the repeated looking in mirrors and the reflections in windows. It’s about fear, not vanity. It arises from, How bad do I look? rather than, How good do I look?  For more than a decade—probably much more—I’ve also been body checking by looking at other men’s bellies. I basically notice every single one. I compare them to mine. It’s my own theory of relativity. In relation to other men, how bad is my stomach? Guys without any gut protruding over the waistline of their pants make me panic. They remind me I’m not good enough. Guys with “beer bellies” calm me. I know I’m somewhere in between and, if I could ever be objective, I might be able to admit my stomach doesn’t protrude. 

 

Or does it? Cue panic once again.

 

Most of the procedures mentioned in the article are not of interest to me. Even as messed up as I am about my looks, I won’t become a plastic surgeon’s cash cow. I’m not one for invasive procedures. Hell, I have a requisition for bloodwork that’s been sitting on my desk for a month now. It takes a perfect kind of day, including a ton of self-talk, to get me to go for a blood test. I have a severe needle phobia. It’s a thing: trypanophobia. It’s listed in my medical file. One of my medical providers even typed on the requisition form (not at my request): “Please ensure accuracy. Patient has a needle phobia and we do not want to risk repeated lab visits.” Amen. 

 

Botox involves needles. Egad. How would I handle that? Maybe the wrinkles on my forehead and the sags under my eyes aren’t so bad.

 

When people talk about plastic surgery, they talk about going “under the knife.” It probably comes as no surprise knives freak me out, too. Add on the fact that a needle probably has to be administered first for a local or general anesthetic. (I’m having a hard time typing these sentences. My wrists are hurting. I am not kidding. Yes, I am a sad case. I know this.)

 

I will not be making any appointments this week for what the article alternatingly referred to as “tweakments,” a “cosmetic refresh,” or “wellness routines.” Words like torture, horror and extreme trauma do not appear in the article. Talk about skewed reporting!

 

I will admit that a couple of procedures have some appeal: the butt lift and whatever is required to avoid what one man in the article called “extreme turkey neck.” Yes, I don’t want to be Turtleneck Guy. Not in the summer when it gets above 30°C. 

 

But not for now. Maybe when I have to go under for a root canal. Let there be a single anesthetic as the oral surgeon and plastic surgeon work in tandem. 

 

For some reason, I can’t throw away the article. It’s going back in the drawer. I’ve read it, but I may want to read it again as sagginess becomes more of my reality. Who knows what may happen?...Someday.

 

 

 

 

 

  

A DIFFERENT WORLD

Okay, I survived my visit to Texas. My family relations are intact. Still, there were parts of the trip that mystified me. Why, for instance, does a chopped-up highway, much of it under construction, have a speed limit of 75 miles per hour? Just keeping with the flow of traffic as I navigated a parade of semis felt like taking my life in my hands. If Texans can’t drive 55, how about 60…or even 65? (“There’ve been lots of bad accidents on that road,” my father said. No kidding!) 

 

Next time, I might take the connector flight from DFW to my parents’ local airport.

 

My parents live in a condo building with oversized units. Theirs is about three thousand square feet, including a walk-in closet to die for. Texas likes things supersized from vehicles to homes. (My nephew, an exception, lives in a “tiny home” near Austin.) I jogged all through their neighborhood which was full of monstrous homes that made me wonder, Who lives there and what in the world do they do with all that space? Do days pass when they never see another family member? Do they sometimes skip meals because the kitchen is too far? 

 

Fortunately, we did drive through some older neighborhoods where the homes had character. Some houses might even have been described as bungalows. Lovely. This also got us off The Loop which circles Tyler and is dotted with strip malls, gas stations, fast food outlets and car dealerships. Yeesh. Zero charm anywhere along the way.

 

One of my takeaways from my visit is the notion that Texans don’t like change. This includes denying a changing world (e.g., global warming) if those changes mean they have to do something differently, however innocuous. Going out for meals, I realized Texas—or the places we went, at least—wasn’t doing anything to consider its environmental footprint. People drank from paper coffee cups even as they stayed and finished their drinks in the restaurant. Everyone had plastic straws. They automatically came with every cold drink. Doggy bags were Styrofoam containers. Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Styrofoam. Later, as I asked at my parents’ home where to put some recycling, my mother explained (to her chagrin) the condominium complex voted down recycling. No one wanted to haul a big bin out for weekly pickup. I hadn’t realized opting out was an option. How is it people are still resisting recycling?

 

All of this was extremely frustrating. In British Columbia, we go strawless (or use admittedly icky paper straws). Food containers and to-go utensils are made from recyclable materials and are compostable. I know the focus needs to be on what we do as individuals, but it’s mighty maddening knowing that large swaths of the planet are doing nothing. There are easy fixes but Texas won’t go there. To change would constitute a nod to the possibility of climate change deep in oil country. Why have any regard for environmental impact?

 

And so I segue into the political/religious milieu of what I experienced in Texas. To be clear, I did not have conversations with strangers. I did not mention the orange dude’s name and, thankfully, my ears didn’t prick up with others talking about him. Whew. Things were more subtle. On Sunday, I drove along The Loop, stopping at a dozen gas stations and drugstores, on a quest for a copy of The New York Times. Nothing doing. I can only conclude that Tyler, Texas does not carry that paper. Why would it want something representing that dang “liberal media”? Why would it want another point of view? 

 

As I knew would be the case, my parents watched Fox News each night… “but only the broadcast with Bret Baier.” A balanced journalist, as my mother asserted. I tried watching. On a segment about the government shutdown, all their interviews and quotes were from Republicans except for one Democrat whose aired soundbite wasn’t even a full sentence. Sorry. Nothing balanced about that, no matter who the news anchor is. I did not point this out; instead, I went to the guest bedroom and did a Wall Street Journal crossword.

 

At the coffee shop where I wrote on a couple of mornings, there was a Bible quote from Luke covering a full wall. I don’t recall the quote as being particularly polarizing; I’m just not used to having anything biblical in my face as I have my oat milk latte. Stranger perhaps was when I returned my Hertz rental car at DFW. As I got out of the car and greeted the attendant with a friendly, “How are you?” she responded, “I’m great because the Lord Jesus Christ is still my Savior.” Um. What? Is that even allowed from an employee to a customer? Of course it is. It’s Texas!

 

Sheesh.

 

Perhaps the most bizarre moment came during the last twenty minutes of my stay at my parents’. While my father was in his office space, giving away personal information that might well have been part of a scam (“I hung up before I gave away too much.”), my mother entered the living room and began a monologue of news items of the day, each piece delivered with a distinctly skewed conservative bent. Don’t respond, I told myself. But how could I read my novel while she continued to rant? 

 

My mother knows very well how radically different our views are. As she rattled on, I wondered if I had done anything to bring this on. I couldn’t recall making a single political statement. I’d duly admired churches (“nice architecture”), strolled rose gardens and obligingly sampled egg salad for dinner. I can only assume that slipping out while Bret Baier finished his newscast the night prior had left my mother thinking I was missing out. 

 

I really wanted to keep my head down, to stare at the paragraphs of my open book. That would signal I was otherwise occupied. But then I also knew this would be interpreted as ignoring my mother. Guilt trip to follow. I made occasional eye contact, doing my best to keep my facial expression neutral. My mother surprised me with an out of left-field (er…right-field) Margaret Thatcher quote about socialism. Please, I thought, Let this command newscast come to an end. 

 

But not soon enough. I finally had to interrupt. “I’ve had a really nice visit. Can we please not end it on politics?” One more political comment and that was a wrap.

 

Later at DFW airport as I waited for my flight to depart, I scrolled Twitter as a break from writing on my laptop. My eyes caught the name Margaret Thatcher. I stopped scrolling. By god, it was a Fox News tweet—how is that in my feed?—with the exact quote my mother had spewed that morning. And yet she claims she’s not beholden to the network. It was a disappointing ending to the visit. I did my best to shake it off, trying not to think how much a single news source was shaping her views.

 

Oh, Texas. What have you done to my parents? After forty-seven years of them living there, they are most definitely full-fledged Texans. They have always been conservative. Just not so unabashedly so. Still, I feel a sense of triumph. They will not change; rather. Instead, it is up to me to change. I kept my mouth shut for once. I’d like to think they will have nicer memories of my visit. In the end, that’s what counts.

 

CROSSING THE BORDER

It’s still five days away but already my mind is in Texas. It’s not about longing. No, the Lone Star State looms. 

 

Texas is a Red State with a lot of personal history. I lived there for eleven years, from tenth grade through university and four years of teaching. But I left thirty-six years ago. I headed to L.A.—Malibu, specifically—and thought I’d never look back. 

 

Well, not exactly. That’s personal history rewriting itself. My years at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth had been particularly good times. I left Texas but many of those friends didn’t. At least, not at first. Back when George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton were presidents, I’d make an annual trip to see friends and family. Politics had no bearing on travel decisions within the U.S. 

 

My, how that’s changed…

 

As far as I can recall, I’ve only returned twice in the last fifteen years, once for my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, the other time for my niece’s wedding. (My niece now lives in Colorado.) 

 

Yes, my parents still live there. I sound like a heel since I haven’t visited. They’ve been living in a condominium for many years and I’ve never seen it. (My mother reminds me of this often.) But I do see my parents. I used to anyway. We would see each other every summer at the family cottage in Ontario. A few times I saw them at my sister’s place in Colorado. They’ve come to Vancouver as well, often connected with one of the many cruises my father loves to plan. 

 

For the past two summers, my parents have not gone to the cottage. They’ve said they won’t be going anymore. Navigating airports and flying have become too much for them. They’re not driving to Colorado either since the higher altitude negatively impacts both of them. And so, In 2024, I visited them in Gulf Shores, Alabama where they drive to spend a month each fall. It wasn’t so bad. I walked the beach, I biked a marshy area, I wrote by myself in a café. No politics. (Headphones can be glorious.) I don’t remember what the news of the day was but it was two weeks after twice-impeached Trump was elected president once again. (WTF?) My parents’ candidate had won so they probably felt like victors, too. Why rub their son’s face in it? (We’re not that kind of family.) I watched morning news with my parents. Safer viewing. More talk about the weather than anything else. I tracked down a New York Times while my parents read The Wall Street Journal. Politically, we coexisted without any two-track debates where our arguments never converge. This news-related ceasefire was a rarity for us.

 

But now it’s a much belated return to East Texas, the city of Tyler, two hours from Dallas, forty-five minutes from where I went to high school. 

 

East Texas.

 

This is a central hub for Red State thinking. This is the state that wants to put up the ten commandments in every classroom, for god’s sake. This is a state that smiles smugly as it proudly busses and flies immigrants to New York. It’s not an anti-gay, anti-trans leader like, say, Florida, but you can bet they’re on that bandwagon. I do everything I can to block from my mind whatever it is that Texas does politically. I don’t need the agitation or the aggravation. 

It would be easier to visit if my parents weren’t such news junkies. News is on morning and night. There are two newspapers delivered each day. My father comments on many of the news items, his opinions highly skewed. I hope to read, write or time my exercises with some of the newscasts. Anything to minimize the chances of an argument. As it is across the entire country, no one is going to change anyone’s mind in my parent’s household. All I have to do is shut up, even regarding topics about which I care deeply.

 

Repeat: No one is going to change anyone’s mind. 

 

Quite frankly, the news scares me. I don’t want to hear what’s being said on Fox News, nor do I want to hear what Texans are telling Texans. I don’t want to have a better understanding of what books are being banned, what anti-gay and/or anti-trans bills are before the state legislature or have recently been enacted. I don’t want to hear the political banter when I write at the café my mother tells me she thinks I’ll like. 

 

Must. Wear. Headphones.

 

In between newscasts and football games (which I also can’t bring myself to watch), let there be times to chat and connect. Let there be an occasion when I can hop in my rental car, drive to a state park and walk among the pine trees where the flora has no political opinions whatsoever. Let me get through this trip, family ties intact.  

RUN AWAY WITH ME (Book Review)

By Brian Selznick

 

(Scholastic, 2025)

 

I’ve been a fan of Brian Selznick since before I knew it. His name first registered with me with the publication of thick-as-a-brick books The Invention of Hugo Cabret (2007), adapted into the 2011 Martin Scorsese film Hugo, and Wonderstruck (2011). What I didn’t realize—or I’d forgotten—is that Selznick also illustrated middle grade novels by Andrew Clements such as Frindle (1996) and The School Story (2001). What makes Selznick’s novels distinct is that they are chock full of illustrations which are not presented in the traditional way where they are spread out throughout chapters; instead, his illustrations come in large chunks, pages and pages of detailed black and white, full-page sketches. The illustrations often move the story along, filling gaps between the sections of prose that come before and after.

 

His new book, Run Away with Me, is a slight departure from Hugo and Wonderstruck which were both what I would classify as middle grade. Run Away is decidedly young adult in terms of content and its two sixteen-year-old main characters, Danny and Angelo. As well, the chunks of illustrations appear at the beginning (the first ninety-three pages) and the end (the last eighteen), none interspersed within the prose. For the most part, the illustrations don’t propel the story but enhance it. For instance, I found myself constantly flipping back to the first set of illustrations as particular places were mentioned in the story.

 

I would say this is a book about storytelling, both oral and in print. In the prologue, the narrator (Danny), tells the reader that the book is set in Rome in the summer of 1986. The prologue goes on to say that he met “a strange, curly-haired boy…who told me he had no name and shared true stories that couldn’t possibly have been true.” Indeed, the boy, Angelo—a name Danny ascribes to him—claims to be nearly three thousand years old. Selznick also gives us an idea of the tone of the novel when he writes: “He took over my imagination until he was all I could see, in every brick and stone and sculpture of the city. He looked like an angel…”

 

Yes, Selznick, the immensely successful children’s author has decided to tell a gay love story. (After the prologue, I immediately flipped to the About the Author page at the end wherein Selznick’s husband is mentioned.) A gay love story for younger teens. Not the first, but a welcome addition. Hallelujah! 

 

In the main story, Danny and Angelo spend their days wandering—running, often—through the streets of Rome where Angelo seems to have his own stories to go with every statue, fountain and, of particular interest to Danny, obelisk. Some stories are one-time tellings while others continue throughout the novel, most notably a story about the twin Mondo brothers, Alberto and Vittorio, and a sculptor and a young man who seemingly needs to live at sea, Dante and Giovanni. Incidentally, Danny’s mother works at the Mondo Museum, a site dedicated to books, especially known for restoring old and damaged works. 

 

Yes, the story is not just a love story between two boys, but also and ode to storytelling, books and the city of Rome. 

 

More than anything as I read the book, I wished I’d had something like this to read when I was fourteen or fifteen or even while I was still mostly closeted in 1986 at twenty-one. There is a tenderness between these boys from the very beginning:

 

                                    He looked at me with a dazzling 

                                    kind of joy, deep and pure and full 

                                    of surprise. I’d spent so long hiding 

                                    in the shadows, looking longingly at 

                                    others, I’d never imagined someone

                                    might look back.

 

This is a love story young queer readers deserve. The boys’ first kiss:

                                    He was quoting a famous poem by 

                                    Keats…When he was done reciting, 

                                    he slipped off my glasses, folded 

                                    them, and put them in my shirt 

                                    pocket. He then placed his hands

                                    on either side of my face. He was 

                                    trembling slightly, and so was I. 

                                    We both leaned forward, closer to 

                                    each other. Our lips touched, and 

                                    I understood what I’d been

                                    running toward all this time.

 

                                    We kissed, and he tasted of 

                                    honey, and figs, and Rome.

 

I wish my taste buds were that good.

 

As the boys spend more time together, they share more about their real lives and interests but the storytelling never stops. In fact, there are three other gay couples whose stories are told within the book. How great to have a book like this on shelves young readers can access! Selznick is masterful in putting just enough on the page while leaving details to the reader’s own mind, thus thwarting book banners who might salivate at the chance to rid libraries of another gay book. (I Googled and it doesn’t appear that the book has created a ruckus.)

 

As an adult reading Run Away with Me, it’s another reminder how far we’ve come in terms of gay visibility and validation. It also emboldens me to fight for other queer stories on bookshelves so readers with other identities can access their own love stories…or mysteries, thrillers and fantasies. 

 

   

STUMBLING--AND CYCLING--INTO A QUEER SPACE

Back in January, I signed up to be a volunteer for an organization called Cycling Without Age. The opportunity seemed a perfect fit for me. I’m an avid cyclist and CWA’s primary intention is to get seniors outdoors, riding on trishaws, offering new experiences in the outdoors. There was one big glitch. There were five training sessions, including four that involved learning how to operate each of the trishaws which had been bought over a span of years so each one had its quirks for how to operate. I’m not a technical person. Anything mechanical quickly overwhelms. Still, I wanted this volunteer experience so much that I dug down and did all I could keep my anxiety in check. I passed training. (And, yes, each of us was formally evaluated.) I was happier—and more relieved—than when I got my driver’s license.

 

Something unexpected came along with my volunteering. It came with a gay twist. During the first training session—a PowerPoint about the organization and the commitment we were getting into—one of the veteran volunteers casually mentioned his boyfriend. I may have jolted in my seat. 

 

Another gay! Hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even turned on my gaydar.

 

To be sure, this volunteer adventure was primarily about connecting with seniors from seventy-something to ninety-one (my oldest and liveliest rider). Every time I’ve ridden, I’ve worried about messing up. My anxiety is always spinning in place, wondering how I will mess up. And, yes, that anxiety has had a rational basis. My trishaw’s bike chain broke on my second outing with an eighty-five-year-old woman and her daughter. We were in the thick of Stanley Park and I managed to conclude the incident was all my fault. (Maybe it was.) On two other occasions, despite the trishaws having e-assist, I have gotten stuck trying to get up a hill. Wrong gear to start with, wrong level of power. Definitely my fault. The errors happen just often enough that I can’t quell the worry about when the next one will occur. 

 

It’s one thing to get, say, a flat tire when I’m out on my own bike. Then, it’s just myself that I have to worry about getting back home (sometimes after dark). With the trishaw, I have seniors I’m responsible for. I have to get them back to the nursing home or seniors’ centre at or around an expected time. Aside from the broken chain incident, everything has worked out in the end.

 

The good thing is I am never out alone as a solo volunteer. There are always one to three other trishaws with other volunteers and seniors. Quite often, at least one of the other volunteers just happens to be gay. There are times on each shift when seniors are not with us, such as when we have to do a thorough check of each trishaw before leaving the warehouse and when we have to go through a task routine upon returning them. As well, there is wait-time upon arriving at a seniors’ facility as the riders are often still getting ready and often need wheelchairs and walkers to reach the trishaws. 

 

Last week’s ride involved two trishaws picking up senior riders at Qmunity in Vancouver’s West End near Coal Harbour and Stanley Park. Qmunity is an LGBTQ centre so I had the pleasure of taking Ben for a ride while Bob, the other volunteer (who happened to be gay), pedalled two women. We were a full queer contingent, darting through park spaces on a sunny afternoon. No rainbow flags were needed. We just had regular conversations as our regular selves.  

 

My last volunteer gig was with AIDS Vancouver where I fully expected a lot of contact with queer people. As for Cycling With Age, the interactions with other gay men have been a pleasant, unexpected surprise. It’s particularly nice since my social anxiety has increased over the past two decades so it’s rare for me to meet new people. 

 

I wouldn’t say I’ve gotten close with any of the volunteers—I’ve turned down attending CWA’s social events (again, anxiety)—but I’ve enjoyed casual conversations with other gay men, most of them in their fifties and sixties like me, a couple younger. All but one is partnered so there is none of the flirtiness that may occur at a gay bar or pub. Mostly, we talk about biking and travel. 

 

It's all so normal—or as normal as it can be when it involves a guy like me who is terrible with chitchat. 

 

I love my time with seniors, especially that ninety-one-year-old who waves her purple cane at everyone we pass and turns to me and jokes, “Next time, you sit; I pedal.” Yes, more rides with Agnes, please! But I’ve also loved the bonus of regular conversations with older gay men. It’s not what I signed up for, but I’ll gladly take it.