I'M A BIG KID NOW

I’m fifty-seven. This week I finally became an adult. 

 

Always was a late bloomer.

 

For the most part, I’ve been acting like someone beyond adolescence for a few decades now, but there was always one realm where I was thirty going on thirteen and, eventually, fifty-seven going on thirteen. Even teen me knows that’s messed up growth.

 

I’m often told I look young for my age[1] but, to be clear, I don’t resemble an adolescent. Those whiskers that sprout when I can’t be bothered shaving are decidedly gray. TikTok is still the sound of an old-fashioned grandfather’s clock. I haven’t had the urge to get drunk just because it’s Friday night since…well, that’s never been an urge on any night or day. In some ways, I was an old soul even when I was a teen.

 

Despite my age, I can still be childish. Sometimes I think it’s a good thing, like when I can’t stop peeking out the window to see if the forecast might come true and snow may fall. (It came this week! I raced outside to play, desperate to jump and spin like the dogs who seemed to think snow was almost as nifty as the chewed-up tennis ball that, sadly, rolled behind the fridge two weeks ago and has yet to be rescued or replaced.) I still think “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” is the best show in the whole wide world and I wouldn’t hesitate to do a cannonball off the cottage dock if my sister were lying there getting some sun.[2]

 

Ah, family. That’s where the bad side of adolescence can pop up. There’ve been other domains that have induced immaturity, but I’ve been able to walk away from them.

 

The silver lining in never having children—something I always wanted—is that I don’t have an ex whom I have to continue communicating with to discuss and inevitably disagree on parenting issues and, somewhere down the line, meeting later in life for our child’s wedding, posing awkwardly in one of those family shots with the weary photography shouting, “Smile! Look happy! Cheese! Ricotta, Parmigiano Reggiano and all that!” 

With exes, I can choose which ones to maintain a relationship with and which ones to relegate to the category, Things I’m Glad Are in the Past. Yes, that’s you, John, last known to be in Phoenix. You may join Cabbage Patch Kids, the Reagan years and debates over Debbie Gibson versus Tiffany. (Why couldn’t I like both?)[3]

 

Unfortunately, I can’t put my family in the past. I’ve put an international border between us, but the ties remain, however tenuous. I know I’m not the only one who still gets triggered when interacting with parents. I immediately regret my behavior after the conversation. Sometimes I feel it in the moment. Why am I acting so petulant, so juvenile? Why can’t I stop it? 

 

Thirteen again. The fact that this round comes without zits is no consolation.

 

Not being a parent, I don’t fully know the process, but I suspect that, in the moments after a child is born, there are two official documents that are drawn up. Of course, there’s the birth certificate, one that is officially passed on to the child when the parents deem him responsible enough to hold onto it. (I took possession of mine just before I turned thirty. Such a big boy!) I can’t confirm it, but I’m pretty sure there’s a more secretive second paper given to members of Club Parent. I picture it as pearl white card stock with gold lettering, a lifelong permit: 

 

Having successfully participated in Lamaze classes, given birth to a baby and committed to painting the nursery in gender-stereotyped hues, you hereby have full permission to push said baby’s buttons, at will, in perpetuity.

 

Some parents, such as mine, treat this permit with particular reverence. They misread “permission” as “obligation.” It doesn’t show up on any X-ray, but I think I was born with an excess of buttons. The triggers are different from that period in the last century when we all lived under the same roof and I spent most of my time holed up in my room, showing my rebelliousness by cranking up Donna Summer and Air Supply. But there’s always new material.

 

“Going to church might do you some good, you know.”

 

“You have to be nice to me. I’ll be dead soon.”

 

“Texas has COVID totally under control. What’s wrong with Canada?”

 

Almost all triggers are pulled by my mother. That’s because I only talk to my father when the calendar obligates a phone call, mercifully spaced six months apart: Father’s Day and his birthday which happens to be Christmas Eve. 

 

I’m officially declaring myself a full-fledged adult this week after navigating the birthday call with exemplary social skills. It’s been a few days and I can’t recall a single thing we said to each other but therein lies the proof. No huffing, no puffing, no churlish sigh, no statement or action/reaction akin to a cathartic door slam, followed by me cranking up “Bad Girls.”[4]

 

We talked just like two people who really don’t know each other all that well, like I might talk to Wally in accounting while queued for the eggnog bowl at the office Christmas party. (Tipsy Tracey is a tad shaky with the ladle.) The subjects were safe—that, in and of itself, is a sign of wisdom that comes with age—the tone unwaveringly cordial.

 

My mother is who she is. My father is who he is. I’ve stopped trying to point out how they’re wrong…about politics, about the fact that depression doesn’t go away by smiling more, about how tricky it really is to get my unpublished manuscript on Oprah’s Book Club list. (Wouldn’t it be nice if my mother were actually correct on that last point!) 

 

My mother will continue to land a half dozen once-maddening, naïve and/or condescending “You should…” or “Why don’t you just…” pokes in every conversation and my father may still drop a shockingly intolerant bomb or two, but part of getting past my teens is that I don’t have to work so hard at establishing my independent identity (i.e., “I’m nothing like you!”) when I’m baited. I’ve realized that, by now, it goes without saying. I am who I am, too.

 

So there it is. Goodbye to thirteen. Now I’ll stick with pretending I’m fifty-seven going on thirty-five. If I cover the mirrors, I can still find a make-believe world in adulthood.

    

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[1] It’s happening so much less though. I’m holding onto a comment from a doctor I met with in the fall who was startled by my age and said I looked twenty years younger. Yes! But then, we were the same age and, well, I thought he looked twenty years older. Of course, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want him telling me I was going to die…and not on account of some underlying disease.

[2] She wouldn’t appreciate it—which would be the whole point—but skin cancer runs in the family. I would tell her it was an act of kindness.

[3] Force me to choose and it’s Debbie. She had me at “Only in My Dreams” and hasn’t been able to shake my love since. Aw, Tiffany…what Could’ve Been.

[4] Donna’s “beep beep” is way more satisfying than The Roadrunner’s, right?

FISHING FOR GHOSTS

It’s happened again. I got a message from the dating site Plenty of Fish yesterday: “Ray123 likes you!” I cringe every time I get one of these notifications. I have enough familiarity with dating sites to know that most matches are mismatches. Inevitably, I won’t like the person who likes me. In turn, if I press the little heart beside BrainyStud’s profile to indicate I like him, it’s a sure bet I’ve created an unwanted wrinkle in his morning. It’s a maxim of human nature that we want what we can’t have. 

 

Usually, I wait until I have a few likes before I log in and brace to read the profiles. (I know, I know…“bracing” doesn’t sound like the right state of mind. It’s a reflex now, an online dating tic.) Sometimes, sadly, it’s the photos that tell me there won’t be a coffee date in the works. I hate that. It makes me feel dismissive and shallow. But just like BrainyStud may not like my red hair, I’m not drawn to the guy with pronounced chipmunk cheeks or the guy who’s a dead ringer for a ’60s hippie. It’s intentional. His profile name includes the word hippie. I might dig someone’s groovy tie-dye, like the one modeled in his profile pic, but not a closetful. 

 

I even pass on the guy who wears a baseball cap in every single photo. If you’re bald, own it. I love a good head of hair, but baldness can be sexy too. I don’t want to date a guy who wears a hat to Chipotle, to the fancy Indian restaurant I love, to the opera, to bed. (Although the damn cap might be my opt-out card for the opera. “If you’re going to wear that stupid hat, I’m not going.” Ha! Figaro yourself.) 

 

It’s possible I’m too hasty, but these profiles are first impressions, presumably created after some thought and some browsing of one’s selfies. Maybe the guy with the collection of John Deere hats is the one that got away. I make bad decisions with football pools and stocks, too. 

 

I’ve gotten to saying “sorry” out loud when I come across a like or a message from a guy who’s just not my type. I know how hard it is to put yourself out there and face rejection, even if it comes from pressing a silly button.

 

Sometimes I’m on the fence until I read what, if anything, the guy has written in the profile. When it’s a shell of a profile, I pass. If a guy can’t put in a little effort, why should I bother? Moreover, as I’ve noted many times before, I struggle to get past poor grammar and spelling in a profile. For anyone who’s challenged in that regard, for god’s sake, get a friend to proofread your writing or pay attention to the colored lines that appear under intrested and serfer. (You have no idea how hard it is for me to intentionally mistype something and move on. Three deep breaths and counting backwards from ten don’t help at all. Side note: How passionate is someone about surfing when he can’t spell it? If I think Dostoevsky is the world’s greatest novelist but always stumble with writing his name, I’d probably mention Stephen King or, even easier, H.G. Wells instead.) 

 

There are times when it’s just clear we won’t hit it off. I’m not going to waste time with a hunter who loves monster truck shows. Same for the guy who is passionate about Voltaire and loves extended oboe solos. They say there’s someone for everyone. Best wishes and all that.

 

This will be a quick browse today. I’m skipping over hippies, hunters and ball cap models. My mission: find Ray123 who apparently likes me in that low key, button-pressing-in-lieu-of-sending-a-message kind of way. 

 

Logged in and bracing, I click the search button to update the standard search for my area with a reasonable age range, my age roughly in the middle. Scroll, scroll. Can’t find a Ray123. Profiles are listed based on most recent log-ins. If he “liked” me yesterday, his profile should show up early in the search. Scroll, scroll. It comes to a point where I’m in ancient territory, people whose profiles are in the same order as always, having not logged in presumably for months. 

 

There is no Ray123.

 

If I were a paying member of Plenty of Fish, I think I could just type in the profile name and Ray123 would pop up. I don’t know how that would make a material difference. There are three possibilities, none of which are match-worthy: (1) Ray lives in my area but is outside my age range (i.e., younger than 40 and older than 70 (I’m 57)); (2) Ray may are may not be in my age range but lives in Bolivia, Bermuda, Bulgaria or Botswana…or some other faraway place that doesn’t begin with B and end in A (so many possibilities); (3) Ray opted to delete his account upon realizing he accidentally “liked” my profile and couldn’t undo it (Sorry about that, Ray.); or (4) Ray123 never ever existed. Maybe the dating site wanted me to keep my account by offering a shred of hope. Maybe the site wanted to goad me into switching to a paid membership to try to uncover, at last, the enigmatic Ray123. 

 

Silly me. A reputable dating site would not stoop to such tactics, right? They’re primarily interested in my finding my forever partner. If they make a little money through ads and the odd paid membership, well, that’s just good karma coming back for caring so earnestly about my love life.

 

I suppose I should just let it be. Somewhere out there—sing it Linda Ronstadt and Aaron Neville—Ray123 likes me. I’ll always have that. Nothing about monster trucks or oboes shall shatter an unblemished like.

 

Thank you, Ray123. I might have liked you, too.

 

 

 

"SINGLE ALL THE WAY" (Netflix Movie Review)

First, a confession: My waning interest in romantic comedies

I’ll admit I’ve gotten jaded. There was a time when rom-coms were cinematic crack to me. My favorite movie remains “When Harry Met Sally” which has held the crown for thirty-two years. I’ll gladly watch “Moonstruck” over and over, although it’s more to relish Olympia Dukakis’s role than the Cher-Nicolas Cage pairing. (The casting of Cage still feels like the film’s one flaw.) “Silver Linings Playbook,” while to some degree a brilliant ensemble flick, has a romance at its core.  Lesser works like “Sleepless in Seattle,” “Only You” (with Marisa Tomei) and “Pretty in Pink” remain Saturday-afternoon-channel-flipping worthy (if I still channel flipped). I liked the genre and the movies offered hope. Yeah, that’s what I want (…but not with Nicolas Cage). 

 

The prospect of me finding love has gone from “Please” to “Perhaps” to, well, something just short of “Poppycock.” I suppose that’s why the newer offerings in the genre now trigger eye rolls more than some warm feeling inside and a tear or two of joy. It’s better to be cold-hearted than to wallow in “Why not me?” for thirty minutes or three weeks following the credits. Set a romantic comedy in the Christmas season and I go full-on humbug. (I won’t elaborate here. Go ahead and enjoy your candy canes—are you really going to eat them?—and your fruitcake while listening to that version of “Jingle Bells” with dogs barking. Joy.)

 

Last year, I watched a couple of seasonal romance movies due to the relative novelty of the lead characters being gay. Maybe I’d find something more relatable. Maybe I’d feel a fleeting sense of hope again. Or maybe I’d just while away ninety minutes staring at eye candy and wishing, if nothing else, that I could be in the snow. That’s what I got: eye candy and snow envy.

 

And now, on to “Single All the Way”

Last night, I gave it another try. December 2^nd is freaking early for me to let a little Christmas in, but “Single All the Way” was the primary image that popped up on my Netflix menu and it was an easy click instead of spending twenty-five minutes scrolling through options Netflix thinks I’ll like. (How is “Hustlers” a 95% match for me and why is “Trail Park Boys” even a 69% match? Seriously? YouTube knows me so much better.) The stickler in me may have even been drawn by the title. Yes, let’s have the main character be single at the beginning, in the middle and at the end. Truth in advertising: single at all stages. Let that be okay. 

 

But that’s not allowed. Even I know that.

 

Truth is, I liked the movie. I liked it more than the holiday gay romance films from last year and it’s not as though I’m any less Grinchy. Perhaps the humbug hasn’t fully kicked in yet or maybe last year’s fare helped me see that dressing up Christmas romance movies in gay apparel didn’t elevate the genre. Really though, I think it came down to a better cast and script.

 

The movie started off standard. Michael Urie, whom I loved back in the day when he was snarky Marc St. James on “Ugly Betty,” plays Peter, a character who isn’t so much chronically single—let’s not make him too sad, after all—as a short-term dater. It’s not even that he’s some cad who loves ’em and leaves ’em. No, they leave him. He picks the wrong guys. But he’s got his plants to console him. He may have a shallow job as a social media publicist but he’s passionate about plants…and not in a Seth Rogen kind of way. He also has his bestie roomie whom he’s known for nine years, the handsome but unassuming Nick, played by Philemon Chambers. Yes, Nick’s great but gays aren’t like rabbits—at least, not in their own warren. Borrowing from “When Harry Met Sally,” Peter and Nick are proff that gay men can be great friends without sex ever getting in the mix. 

 

Peter’s in a new, perfect relationship with a cardiologist blessed with a model’s looks and Nick’s just happy to do on-demand odd jobs (like a Door Dash handyman) while trying to come up with a sequel to an immensely successful picture book about his dog. 

 

[MILD SPOILER ALERT: I was quite concerned in the early going of the movie since I figured this was going to be a “Pretty in Pink” storyline where Peter has to choose between his best friend (à la Duckie) or the supposedly more obvious choice (à la Andrew McCarthy’s blander, blue-eyed Blane). The cardiologist character was blander than bland. (Can’t even recall the color of his eyes so there you go.) Thankfully this who-will-he-choose romance doesn’t ultimately include the doctor. The story mercifully abandons the L.A. setting with its unlikable supporting characters and heads to New Hampshire where Peter goes to spend two weeks with his family for the holidays.]

 

I’ve learned that romances have certain familiar themes—tropes—that romance lovers yearn for. “Single All the Way” not only has the who-will-he-choose triangle but hauls out the pretend-we’re-a-couple premise. In older gay movies, it may have been the gay man needed a woman to play the role of girlfriend to quell his family’s questions about why he isn’t dating. In this story, Peter convinces Nick to fly to New Hampshire with him with the same objective: to quell the Qs about why Peter’s still single. (They know he’s gay and fully accept him. But he’s got to find someone, right?) It’s supposed to be that insufferable when Peter goes home alone. Without Nick as a fake boyfriend, the entire visit will have everyone focused on Peter’s troubled dating life. Apparently, Santa and eggnog are slated as also-rans.

 

Okay, so Peter may be a bit of a drama queen and Nick may be a bit of an enabler/sucker but, hey, New Hampshire (or whatever passes for it as a filming location) looks nice in the snow. And snow allows the introduction of a hunky ski instructor/gym trainer whom Peter’s mother, played by Kathy Najimy, sets him up with, not knowing about this Peter-Nick ruse which Nick immediately bows out of so Peter can go on this blind date with James, played by Canadian actor Luke Mcfarlane who was Kevin Walker’s adorable gay boyfriend Scotty on “Brothers & Sisters.” Yes, I’ve had a crush on Mcfarlane since then, but I have to admit that his current, beefed-up body looks a tad overdone. (Gimme the old Scotty.) It was also disconcerting that this version of Mcfarlane looks startlingly like I guy I really fell for seven years ago who dragged me along for an entire summer—most of it while we were in different countries—and then dumped me with a line I swear guys should never use: “I don’t know if I’m attracted to you.” Sadly, I’ve heard that a few times. Please, stick with “It’s not you, it’s me.” It’s lame but the sting isn’t so much less.

 

Okay, so nice to see Mcfarlane in the role of Peter’s other possible love interest. Will it be longtime roomie Nick (who has a very nice body too with perhaps less bulk) or hunky jock James (whom we never get to see shirtless in what should’ve been an obligatory après-ski hot tub scene)? 

 

What I loved

In the opening L.A. scenes, Urie comes off as playing the same snarky character from “Ugly Betty” which works better for a supporting character. Thankfully the script and the change of setting soften the role and make him a likable lead. Some may consider it a problem though that the women characters are more engaging, due to the stellar casting of Najimy as the mom, Jennifer Robertson (who played Jocelyn on “Schitt’s Creek”) as a sister and Jennifer Coolidge as an aunt. None of them venture much beyond what we’ve come to expect from them, but I would happily watch a sequel to see these three actresses continue their roles. Heck, Netflix, how about a series? With this shining trio, it must have been a challenge in the script and the filming to offer anything to the other supporting roles. Barry Bostwick as the father starts strongly in a quick phone appearance but then is reduced to being a passive, wise, calmer presence as a counterbalance to the women. The other characters—Peter’s two brothers-in-law and another sister—have nothing to do and little to say. They only exist to explain where Peter’s two young nephews and two adolescent nieces came from, each of whom have more lines than their parents (other than Robertson’s role).

 

Often when I watch a rom-com, especially when it’s a Netflix-original, the emphasis is on the rom, with the com basically a no-show. At some point after the first third of this movie, I laughed out loud and I had reason to ho ho several more times thereafter. When the sister played by Robertson seems to place herself on Team Nick, she says, “Nick’s a ten and Peter is a ten in New Hampshire.” It’s such a sisterly thing to say. There’s also a tiny monologue by Coolidge that perhaps befits the actress more than the character. (I’m putting it in a footnote[1] which you’re welcome to skip reading if you’re planning to watch the movie.)

 

Coolidge’s Aunt Sandy runs rehearsals for a children’s Christmas pageant which she calls “Jesus H. Christ” which just seemed amusing to me as I imagined possible middle names. I’d never heard it before but apparently it’s been around since the nineteenth century, sometimes considered as profane, other times humorous. There’s a Madonna reference I won’t spoil but it’s quite clever (and oh so gay). Perhaps my favorite WTF moment was Coolidge’s appearance in the Christmas pageant, dressed as Glinda the Good Witch from “The Wizard of Oz.” It’s just a visual gag but it had me freezing the screen and quickly verifying my hunch on Google Images. Bang on. Bravo!

 

My biggest quibble:

When I blogged about the two gay Christmas rom-coms last year, I griped about the lack of diversity. Yes, they made the season gay but things looked like an awfully white Christmas, with or without snow. In “Single All the Way,” Nick is Black. There’s the added diversity. I suppose these things take time, but I don’t recall anything mentioned about his race. I’m sure the intent is to show that Peter and his family totally accept Nick to such a degree that no mention is necessary. (By contrast though, the gay thing comes up a lot.) Other than a kid in the pageant who has a line or two, there are no other Black characters. No Black friends. No one from Nick’s family. (There’s reference to the fact his mother died not so long ago.) I don’t even know if Nick was written as a Black character in the original script. Given the role as filmed, Nick could have been played by someone who is Asian, white or First Nations. Part of the problem may be that the character of Nick is underdeveloped in the first place. He smiles a lot in a guarded way, often from just behind Peter’s back. He supports Peter. He’s Mr. Nice Guy who, pardon the expression, comes off as white bread. No wonder Peter’s overlooked him for nine years. I wanted more Nick for Nick instead of just Nick for Peter, if that makes sense.

 

In a Nutshell

No regrets watching “Single All the Way.” It exceeded my expectations which were, admittedly, low. Thumbs up and I really mean it when I say I’d watch a sequel or follow these characters in a series. That’s a jolly endorsement from a begrudging Grinch.

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

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[1] “The gays just know how to do stuff. They’re survivors. And for some reason, they’re always obsessed with me. I don’t know why, but I like it.”

WORLD AIDS DAY, 2021

Here we are again, another World AIDS Day. I could wish there were never a reason for such a day, but that’s nothing but a wasted wish. AIDS happened. It’s still happening. I’m grateful there’s a day that’s been so well established for us to pause and to reflect, not just on our loved ones who died, who became HIV+ or who have been otherwise impacted, but to think with a broader perspective of all that the world has lost and all that still needs to be done.

 

All photos are from posts
for The AIDS Memorial.

I continue to look at the daily postings on the Instagram account for The AIDS Memorial to read remembrances of people who died of AIDS-related causes. I invite you to go there today, to gaze at the faces, to read a few tributes. If you’re too young to remember the most devastating period in the eighties and nineties, five minutes of going through some of the posts will make the loss more real to you. It will stop you from dismissing AIDS as something that happened Before You, like World War I or the fourteenth-century bubonic plague. You will understand, if only just a little, the devastation of AIDS. If you lived through that time, the posts will bring back some of the pain, fear and helplessness, but it’s imperative to remember, to honor and to wonder about all that the world lost in terms of the relationships and contributions of these individuals.

 

Every day, I smile at the photos. Dear souls, some with goofy smiles, some with really big hair, many enjoying a moment at a club or playing with a young niece or just sitting on a living room sofa. We didn’t have cell phones with dozens (hundreds?) of selfies and social media sites for posting every group dinner, each time going to the beach or even every Christmas or Halloween. (Someone may have taken photos on a Nikon or Polaroid camera, but they weren’t so easily shared, if at all.) Often, a post about an uncle, partner, father, aunt, mother, best friend or grandparent includes the comment, “This is my only photo.” It feels more precious and more important that these images are seen.

 

I’ve gotten so accustomed to viewing these posts that I catch my mind twisting and contorting the most basic facts as if to conjure a cup half full from an empty glass. Typically, a birthdate and a date of death are included. I do the quick math and catch myself thinking, “At least he made it to thirty-six.” Pardon my language, but it fits here: How fucked up is that? It comes, I suppose, from having read so many posts about people who never made it to thirty. Imagine being twenty-two, testing positive and knowing that death may come in a matter of months (if it’s the early eighties) or a few years (if it’s the nineties). Hope was there. The fight was there. Time wasn’t. There was no time to question the efficacy of experimental drugs, many of which ravaged the body. People invested in maybe. It was all that was offered. 

 

I’ve met men in recent years who have been HIV+ since the mid-eighties and are healthy, undetectable individuals living full lives. But most people died. Overwhelmingly stacked odds. Imagine making it twenty-four and setting your twenty-fifth birthday as a goalpost. (My buddy Stephen’s target was twenty-nine. He reached it and lived an extra month.) I’m fifty-seven and finding some warped relief or solace in someone living to thirty-six or forty-two or fifty-one is seriously fucked up. 

 

Families lost so much. So many partners lost their lovers, now often referred to as husbands even though marriage wasn’t an option back then. So many friendships were cut short. So many creative contributions will never be seen, so many mentors who never got to share life’s learnings. WE lost so much. 

 

AIDS is by no means over. For many, it can be effectively managed, but care is not uniformly accessible and there are complications regarding regularly taking medication and other health factors. According to the Joint United Nations Programme on HIV and AIDS (UNAIDS), 680,000 people died from AIDS-related illnesses in 2020. (The AIDS epidemic has taken 36.3 million lives since what we consider to be the beginning.)

 

36.3 million individuals.

 

21% of women and 32% of men living with HIV still do not have access to antiretroviral therapy. In 2020, 1.5 million new HIV infections were diagnosed. There is still no cure. There is still no vaccine. There is still more to be done.

 

It’s essential that we continue to support those impacted by HIV and AIDS. It’s critical that we remember the history of AIDS—the discrimination, the neglect, the conscious inaction, the continuing stigma, the magnitude of the loss. By honoring and reflecting on loved ones and people we never knew who died of AIDS, may we keep the cause in our consciousness, may we continue to advocate for and financially fund supports for people living with HIV and AIDS and may we bring back a sense of urgency to finding the cure.

 

  

JONNY APPLESEED (Book Review)

By Joshua Whitehead

 

 

(Arsenal Pulp Press, 2018)

 

 

 

It’s interesting that the front cover of this book expressly notes that this is “A Novel.” So often, as I read the anecdotes, I felt certain they were mined directly from the author’s actual experiences. We writers do implant much of our lives into our fiction, but things seemed particularly real here. To the extent the anecdotes are imagined, then it’s high praise to Joshua Whitehead that they came off feeling like memoir. 

 

The fact that I used the word “anecdotes” twice in the opening paragraph is intentional. The novel comes off as a series of vivid vignettes which jump all over the place in time and place. To the extent there is an overarching plot, it involves the titular character earning enough money to make it back to the reservation where he grew up so that he can attend a funeral. The stakes don’t feel high and there is no suspense about whether he or won’t get there on time. 

 

It’s a meandering journey from beginning to end. Sometimes the weaving of past and present plays out in a series of alternating paragraphs. Not my thing, but I appreciated what the author had set out to do. Other times, I’d completely forget that Jonny was trying to get back home since there’d been so many digressions. This might be intentional. I’m no expert on First Nations storytelling, but a quick Google turned up some information about there being a non-linear tradition which also reminds me of some stories I heard from Elders when I lived on BC’s Sunshine Coast on the traditional territory of the Squamish and Sechelt First Nations.

 

What makes this novel compelling is the voice. Jonny identifies as a 2S (Two-Spirit) NDN (Indian) who has left the rez in rural Manitoba to make a go of living in the big city, in this case Winnipeg. Whitehead’s writing makes a strong case for the importance of #ownvoices telling stories from a minority perspective. The slang and the inclusion of terms from First Nations languages enrich the novel. 

 

A couple examples from random page flips provide a sense of the flavor:

 

The house looked like the ones on the rez, two-storeys, an off-green shade, and two windows on the second floor that look like eyes. We always thought our houses looked like Oscar the Grouch’s—maybe they were like that everywhere? Do all rezzes look the same? Like some NDN Sesame Street?

**

 

            I bought a pack of Pall Malls for ten bucks, took one out, and lit it up. That feeling of relaxation came over me, the kind that burns your throat but makes you feel like you’re back home even if you’re hundreds of miles away. A good cigarette is like a familiar story. A Nate [Native] saw me spark one up and made his way over to me. 

            “Hey cuz, can I bum a light?”

            “Oh yeah, sure.”

            “Oh hey, can I bum a smoke too?”

            Damn trickster, I thought, someone’s taught him well.

 

 

Jonny is frank about his life and what his chances are in making it off the rez. His primary source of income comes as a sex worker, typically through a form of online show and tell but also from meeting in person. I’ve never been a fan of having a main character be a queer sex worker. In the past, I’ll admit to being a judgmental prude, but that’s not the case anymore. People are advantaged and disadvantaged. They do what they can to make ends meet. However, the queer sex worker is a cliché in gay fiction. (I’m sure I’ve mentioned before that a guy I dated more than twenty-five years ago read gay fiction almost exclusively. Every time I’d see a new book in his car or on the nightstand, I’d ask, “What’s the name of the gay hustler?” He’d frown, but there was always one. Maybe it made for more interesting reading than a story about the gay antiques dealer or the gay florist.) 

 

Thankfully, the sex work is not the core of the novel. There’s as much talk about the amount money he needs to earn from his vocation as there are details of the job and, combined, it’s still minor part of the story. (I'm glad I kept reading after coming across what may be the worst sentence I've read all year. Describing a dream, Whitehead writes, "Bees buzz around (a lilac), their wings slicing through the air, their bodies velvet smooth in a way that reminds me of how I like to shave my pubes." WHAT? It appears, ironically, on page 69. Whitehead is a much better writer. I feel the editor should have stepped in and said, "Um...just no.") Jonny’s connection to a few prominent characters lends heart to the story. Above all is his loving relationship with his kookum (grandmother) who unequivocally accepts Jonny along with his feminine tendencies from when he was a young boy. He is who he is and she couldn’t love him more. A petite woman, kookum is not to be messed with, except by her own daughter, Jonny’s mother. Both women are prone to drink too much—Jonny, too—but his mother is more of a work in progress who often left the parenting to Jonny’s grandmother. His kookum instills a strength in Jonny, including a sense of pride in indigenous beliefs and traditions. 

 

The other prominent relationship is with Jonny’s childhood friend on the rez, Tias. There’s a casualness to the sexual intimacy between the two men, a natural part of the love between them. Jonny would likely choose Tias as his partner for life, but Tias likes women too and his intimacy with Jonny, while beyond being an experimental phase, comes off as impermanent. Jonny will take what he can get, knowing that Tias is connected to his girlfriend, Jordan, and that Tias will likely opt for a more conventional straight life. In the hands of another writer, it might be easy to judge Tias, even dislike him, but he’s genuinely trying to live his best life, very much wanting Jonny to be a part of it. Yes, it’s complicated as is most everything for the characters in this book.

 

Many vignettes are delightful such as an account of Jonny having to work in a group as part of a class “Culturama” project in elementary school. Why learn about his own heritage when a report on Sweden is what is assigned? A bossy group member rejects his first version of rice pudding—there’s always a food element in these reports on foreign countries—so his mother figures out how to meet the Swedish standard. 

 

“Heck, they eat reindeer? Maybe we have more in common than I thought,” she said. When she flipped to the last page, which was about the Swedish tradition of blood pudding, she started laughing… “Here, m’boy. I have just the thing.” 

 

After the bossy girl tastes the revamped recipe, she screams, “This tastes like shit!” However it tastes, it leaves its mark on the girl’s tongue. “It’s not just red,” I told her. “It’s NDN red.”

 

There are memorable tales about encountering a bear in the street, stumbling upon a dead porcupine and the two boys being caught wearing nail polish by Tais’s stepfather. The tone of each differs remarkably. 

 

Whitehead doesn’t whitewash life on or off the rez. There are bleak aspects to both but there’s also a strong sense of survival, of loving people despite their flaws and of holding on fiercely to what makes one unique as a culture, as an orientation, as an individual. 

 

Jonny Appleseed is a novel that will stick with me. I’m sure a second read will bring more to light. I look forward to following Whitehead’s literary career.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ALEC (Book Review)

Written by William di Canzio

(Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2021)

I knew I’d buy this book. William di Canzio’s Alec is a story many readers already know, at least in part. Its inspiration is Maurice by E.M. Forster, a gay romance set in England around 1912 when being a homosexual risked criminal punishment as well as loss of employment and family ties. In the original novel, Maurice Hall fights his urges, even trying hypnosis, but ultimately accepts who he is, falling in love with a gamekeeper named Alec Scudder. Despite differences in class and the challenges pertaining to homosexuality at the time, Forster wrote, “A happy ending was imperative. I shouldn’t have bothered to write it otherwise. I was determined that in fiction anyway two men should fall in love and remain in it for the ever and ever that fiction allows, and in this sense Maurice and Alec still roam the greenwood.”

 

Forster considered an epilogue but then scrapped it, concluding, “Epilogues are for Tolstoy.”

 

And, it seems, for William di Canzio. Well, not just an epilogue. Di Canzio takes Alec Scudder and imagines the character’s life prior to meeting Maurice, then offers Alec’s perspective for the events in Maurice before exploring the characters’ lives thereafter. It’s a risky venture to tinker with a classic novel and its beloved characters, but I’m glad di Canzio did so even if I have significant quibbles…which are a given when someone so tinkers.

 

The Plot

The first section of the book is Alec’s backstory, fleshing out his school days and his work prior to his job on the family estate of Maurice’s friend and former lover, Clive Durham. Alec explores his sexuality with a village chum but, as with Maurice’s dalliances with Clive, the buddy views these as exploratory experiences, what one might do prior to finding a wife and starting a family. Alec doesn’t fight his sexuality. Indeed, he struggles more with the marked differences in England’s social classes, greatly resenting the limits to education and career that come by birth. He does not want to work for others, to bow to them out of obligation rather than, if at all, based on something earned. This storyline complements Forster’s portrayal of Maurice Hall who has some social standing, though limited, perhaps fading. Hall at least has access to a respectable career; in fact, it is his duty to follow the path he too has been born into.

 

The middle of the novel establishes Alec’s beginnings on the Durham estate, then offers Alec’s perspective upon first seeing Maurice, carrying through until the end of Forster’s story. With some significant exceptions, explained hereafter, this account maintains Forster’s tone. Indeed, as di Canzio notes in the acknowledgments, he obtained permission from the E.M. Forster Estate to use many passages from the original work, weaving in his own writing. This is well done, allowing Maurice lovers like me to revisit the source material while learning more about Alec.[1]

 

Alec and Maurice, as depicted
in the 1987 movie adaptation
of Forster's "Maurice"

As di Canzio takes the story beyond the timeline of the original novel, Maurice and Alec explore the “now what” of their new relationship. Having fallen in love rather quickly, there are practicalities to figure out in a society where the risks are considerable should people see through the subterfuge of Maurice hiring Alec for a business venture and catch on to the true nature of relationship. This begins well with di Canzio introducing new characters, including an established gay couple, Ted and George, free spirits living near a village called Millthorpe. This is a nod to Forster who writes in his 1960 Terminal Note that accompanies Maurice of being inspired by his esteemed friend Edward Carpenter at Millthorpe and his “comrade” George Merrill. It’s a nice touch.

 

Unfortunately, the fact that events in Maurice end in 1912 means that the sequel portion of Alec coincides with World War I. The characters are separated from one another since England’s classism extends to participation in war as well. 

 

Frankly, war scenes bore me and/or disturb me. Even when a battle isn’t occurring, references to life in the trenches—the cold, the fatigue, the rats—get monotonous. I suspect there’s limited overlap between readers who love gay romance and those who seek war stories. Forster himself recognized this in his 1960 Terminal Note which appears as an afterword in Maurice, stating that his attempts to write an epilogue “partly failed because the novel’s action date is about 1912, and ‘some years later’ would plunge it into the transformed England of the First World War.” I’m with Forster. It’s hard to sustain the story of Alec and Maurice when they are apart for a hundred pages. Perhaps it creates longing and suspense for some readers; for me, it killed the momentum and made me want to get on with it. Knowing the dates of the war, it was maddening to know how much more I’d have to endure when a scene was set in, say 1917. Though tempted, I didn’t skip pages. (That’s what happens when I buy a book instead of checking it out from the library.)

 

SPOILER ALERT: Thankfully, di Canzio doesn’t stray from Forster’s overarching intention, that being to allow Maurice and Alec to “roam the greenwood” for ever and ever. It would have been sacrilege to do otherwise. My problem with the ending is the clear shift away from Alec and back to Maurice. For a book that sets out to give us more about the life of Alec Scudder, di Canzio does away with all of Alec’s family so that the ending reverts back to Maurice, his sister Kitty and his mother. The final thoughts and actions involve Maurice, not Alec. I suspect an editor may have required that di Canzio tack on his own brief epilogue. 

 

Departures from the Tone of Maurice

I wonder how Forster would have reacted to certain liberties di Canzio takes, straying from the original’s staid demeanor. There’s considerably more swearing which I’m not sure suits the time. While the f-word was around, it would have been rarely spoken.[2] (Even as late as the seventies when I was growing up, it was considerably less commonly used than now. My mother, born at the outset of World War II, regularly complains about viewing options on Netflix. “Why do they have to use that word?”)

            

Edward Morgan Forster

While Forster might have objected to some of the swearing, I wonder how he’d have reacted to the somewhat graphic sex scenes. On the night Maurice Hall and Alec Scudder consummate things in Maurice, Forster writes: “someone [Maurice] scarcely knew moved towards him and knelt beside him and whispered, ‘Sir, was you calling out for me?...Sir, I know…I know,’ and touched him.” Sharing a bed is as titillating as it gets. “They slept separate at first, as if proximity harassed them, but towards morning a movement began, and they woke deep in each other’s arms.” Di Canzio’s Alec adds far more to the scene:

 

Hall locked the door; when he returned, he stood at the foot of the bed, naked, aroused, unsure…The sheet was tangled across Alec’s middle; he pulled it away. Maurice smiled at the welcome…He touched the head of Alec’s cock and showed him the droplet on his fingertip. He wiped it on his own cheek.

 

Then, as soon as Alec is alone:

 

When he took off his shirt, he still could smell Maurice. He inhaled deeply, happily. And he smiled when he saw their spunk, dried on his belly and legs, on his chest and shoulders, plenty of it, all mixed together.

 

What would E.M. Forster think? Considering he didn’t dare have Maurice published until after his death, would he be horrified or envious of this openness in writing? I suspect he’d still favor restraint.

 

Final Thought

I’m glad William di Canzio opted to write Alec, a companion piece of sorts to Maurice. It’s risky and creates expectations…as well as a built-in readership. There are bound to be disappointments. I’m not fully satisfied with the story, but I appreciated the chance to revisit beloved characters in gay literature.

 

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[1] It’s possible that the seed for di Canzio’s novel comes from Forster’s own prodding. In reference to the character of Alec Scudder, Forster noted, “He became livelier and heavier and demanded more room, and the additions to the novel (there were scarcely any cancellations) are all due to him.” Still, the character challenged Forster. “What was his life before Maurice arrived? Clive’s earlier life is easily recalled, but Alec’s, when I tried to evoke it, turned into a survey and had to be scrapped.”

 

[2] It’s not that Forster confines himself to “gosh, golly,” “darn,” and “fudge.” In one scene in Maurice, Alec, speaking of Clive’s mother, grouses to Maurice, “Penge where I was always a servant and Scudder do this and Scudder do that and the old lady, what do you think she once said? She said, ‘Oh would you mind kindly of your goodness post this letter for me, what’s your name?’ What’s yer name! Every day for six months I come up to Clive’s bloody front porch for orders, and his mother don’t know my name. She’s a bitch. I said to ’er, ‘What’s yer name? Fuck yer name.’ I nearly did too. Wish I ’ad too.” Still, sparing use of profanity not only reflects the time but adds potency when it appears. In this passage, Alec Scudder is not “shooting the shit” with buds at a bar. His words underscore his abhorrence for England’s entrenched classism.