Okay, I wasn’t that precocious. I probably would have said, "Eww!" At 4, I wanted to marry my mother. But wearing an air circulation-killing bowtie and shiny black shoes made me anti-marriage.
When I was five, I spent too much time with my ear to my parent's stereo, staring at the cover of The Carpenters' debut album and listening to a sweet voice sing "We've Only Just Begun". Sorry, Mom, you’d been replaced by Karen Carpenter. My bride, my wedding song.
Somewhere during childhood, I gained a sense that marriage
was for Other People. This group included bowtie haters, but I still sensed
something was amiss. At weddings, I’d try to picture myself waiting at the
altar for a bride to walk the aisle following a teary flower girl, either
unaccustomed to all the attention or distraught over that fact that several
roses had had their petals needlessly plucked. (Okay, it was wrong to impose my
thought on a little Melody Cunningham.) I couldn’t imagine some woman in a veil
becoming my wife. I had vague notions of feeling unworthy.
In adolescence, I fought to keep new notions vague. If you’d
have told me that someday two men or two women would have the right to marry
each other, I’d have said, “Inconceivable”. I was beginning to fixate on the “two
men” thing, but survival was my highest aspiration. Based on a Texas Monthly article I’d read while
attending high school in East Texas, I would have though it more likely that
I’d be severely beaten or shot to death by drunken vigilantes.
At twenty-two, I’d just finished reading The Mayor of Castro Street: The Life and
Times of Harvey Milk by Randy Shilts. I’d bought a second-hand copy at a
bookstore in Dallas and dared not look the clerk in the eye. It was an
emotional read and it confirmed that murder was more likely than marriage. The
AIDS crisis and Shilts’ subsequent book, And
the Band Played on, led me to believe that, if not by murder, an early
death was still far more likely than a wedding day.
If at any point during my eight years in Dallas/Fort Worth
you’d have told me that people would create a hashtag—A what?!—saying “LoveIsLove”,
I would have said, “Inconceivable.” From what I gathered, being gay was only
about sex. Sinful, dirty, perverted sex.
If you’d have told me during my five years in Los Angeles
when I’d make regular trips into West Hollywood to find “my kind”, that gay men
could love and be supported by a majority of Americans for being themselves and
indeed for being marriageable, I’d have said, “Inconceivable.” As for tweets
and rainbow-hued Facebook profile pics—again, what?!—I’d have said, “Inconceivable.”
And yet here we are. 2015. A long, slow process in some
respects, but a whirl of mindboggling change when I step back. It is true that
a younger generation of men may take their rights to love, marry and just be
for granted. And I suppose that’s as it should be. That’s what we worked
toward. In another generation, I hope being gay and gay love will be entirely
normalized. No “gay love”, just love.
Whew. The talk is of acceptance, not just tolerance. And,
yes, the change is remarkable. I am still of a generation that remembers
otherwise. Being shunned for so long has had a major impact and continues to
define who I am. But I feel the excitement and gratitude. I hadn’t dared to
dream that what should be would be. It was inconceivable.
Until it wasn’t.
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