I got my ear pierced. I slapped a pink triangle on the back
of my car. I ate really bad food at gay and gay-friendly restaurants. At the
next monthly meeting for volunteers who buddied with Persons with AIDS, another
group member asked each of us to take out all our paper money so he could stamp
it with pink triangles. The intention was to remind the public, businesses in
particular, that gay dollars mattered. This became a ritual before we got into
sharing about the emotional turmoil and practical needs of our AIDS buddies.
When I moved to Vancouver, I recall a thin little phone book
you could pick up at various gay establishments. It was the LGBT business
directory. Basically, if you’re gay, then shop gay, support gay. Help your own
community.
And so I tried.
Three times, my ex and I worked with gay realtors to assist
in selling a condo and buying a house. Unfortunately, the level of service was
wanting. Flakey, in fact. For subsequent real estate transactions, we switched
to a fashionable Romanian straight woman and an Italian woman whose image was
plastered on bus benches throughout the city. These women were more aggressive,
more responsive and never batted an eyelash as my high-maintenance ex muddied
each deal with peculiar demands. They got the job done.
But I didn’t recycle the LGBT Yellow Pages. When we needed
to completely renovate our century-old house, we contacted business listed
within. We got quotes from three gay designers/contractors. On each occasion,
there was much delay in getting the proposals together. I had the feeling these
guys took our business for granted. They’re
gay, I’m gay. It’s a lock. (It didn’t help that two of the three were
overly flirty with my exotically handsome ex. There was a blur between
professionalism and their need for personal validation…or something more.) We
went with other people, hygienically challenged tradesmen recommended by
friends and family. Despite the best intentions, I failed to support to support
The Team.
Still, I wasn’t ready to abandon the gay cause. I knew I
wanted a gay doctor. One straight general practitioner in Santa Monica ended a
standard checkup by saying, “I never want to see you again.” It was during the
AIDS crisis and I had responded to a question by revealing I was gay. He may
very well have been homophobic, but I suspect my behavior during the
examination that was just as off-putting. I am a frantic patient. Even a
stethoscope makes me flinch and gets me to starting rambling from nervousness. I
needed a doctor who would get me…or at least tolerate me. A gay doctor seemed
like a logical starting point.
At the first gym I joined upon moving to Vancouver, there
was a hunky doctor that many of my friends went to as their family doctor. He
was renowned for his antics on the party scene and his regular use of party
drugs and steroids. I bucked at going to Doc Popular. Why would I consult this
guy regarding the best decisions for my personal health?
I did stay on the gay doctor stream. I chose another gay
doctor, a man whom I was told took his time with patients and might be able to
handle my medically-triggered anxiety. For the most part, it has proved to be a
good decision and I have stuck with him for nineteen years, even when I had to
travel by ferry to see him.
Confession: I would say my doctor is far more attractive
than Doc Pop. I have crushed on him all this time, but it is his calm nature
and his amusement over my quirks that keep me going to him. The fact he is easy
on the eyes is a bonus.
That’s all.
I swear.
I’m just doing my part to keep gay dollars in gay pockets.
2 comments:
It's an interesting concept. I don't think we have that here in Australia, but it may be a secret publication only the in-the-know types are aware of.
Bottom line - go with the best provider, pink or not pink. Your body will thank you for it. Safety first.
Been following (and enjoying) your blog for a while now - best of luck in your endeavours :)
Hi Andy,
Thanks for reading and leaving a comment! I do try to support LGBT service provides but, yes, they have to deliver. Sometimes they seem just as flaky as what I encounter in the dating world.
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