One of the humbling parts of growing older is realizing I’m still growing up. We’re all a work in progress until the day we die. I just wish there weren’t quite so much work and quite so little progress in my case.
A week ago, I wrote about expressing my joy without inhibition, dancing to a Barry White song in my boyfriend’s bedroom. Harkening back to 1990s lingo and pre-prison Martha, it was a good thing, a fun way to wake up on a Sunday morning.
This past Sunday, Evan and I set out for a day exploring Seattle’s less-gay-than-it-used-to-be Capitol Hill, first getting immediate seating at a hip brunch spot where the people ahead of us putting their names on the wait list were told it would be an hour and forty-five minutes. (At what point does brunch turn to dinner?) I figured the hostess had mistaken us for another table for two under the name “Evan,” but both she and Evan hushed me. There had been no mistake. Apparently, Evan’s friendliness and his always stand-out fashion choices paid off. As we sat down, I continued to attempt to process the privilege. Had that happened while lined up outside Arena when it first opened in West Hollywood in the early ’90s, I’d have soaked it up and considered it something akin to a Powerball win. Now, I only felt unworthy…and still very lucky to be in the company of my stylin’ stud.
From there, we checked out the don’t-help-me-if-I-get-lost Elliott Bay Book Company before drifting to the art exhibits at the Frye. Walking on, we crashed a Catholic mass to marvel at the grand church’s interior and to breathe in more incense than I would have liked (to be clear, I would have liked none) and then grabbed a cocktail at the Sorrento.
All perfect. (Okay, the church stop still mystifies, but I’m a commendably compliant follower.) As we wandered our way back to the car, I mentioned writer Ross Gay whose Book of Delights I’ve been reading, one flash essay per day, for the past few months. The author had made a passing reference to “The Sound of Music,” a movie he hadn’t seen and indicated he would likely never see, no reason given. When I’d read it, I was aghast. Like it, feel lukewarm about it or outright hate it, who skips at least one viewing of the von Trapp tale? Then, I checked myself. Ross Gay is Black. “The Sound of Music” couldn’t be whiter with Julie Andrews, The Baroness, that “Do(e), a deer” song and the flowering alpine landscapes of Austria and Switzerland. Why would it be a must-see for him?
As I shared my thoughts, Evan broke into singing “The Lonely Goatherd” in a pitch-perfect bass. It brought back foggy memories of a birthday party my parents hosted for me when I was young. With a hand-drawn set on construction board and a theatrical curtain apparatus, they performed scenes from “The Frog Prince,” maneuvering some borrowed marionettes (From where? It never entered my six-year-old mind. Magic just happens, right?)
Evan’s spontaneous serenading was just as magical. I never sing in front of him (or anyone), for good reason, and he has rarely sung anything around me. He sang because he was happy. We’d had a great day.
And then I ruined it.
As Evan yodel-ay-dee, yodel-ay-dee hoo’d with abandon, a man approached. I don’t recall how I did it, but I shushed Evan. Suddenly aware of our place in public, I imposed my long-ingrained reserved nature on him. I didn’t go well. Nor should it have. I’d taken a firehose and extinguished his joy.
Since then, I’ve tried to figure out why I reacted as I did. Part of it is about how I grew up being gay and part of it is more generally about my upbringing. Despite the fact this is 2023 and I first came out thirty-eight years ago—though that process went on for years with a series of one-on-one announcements that were only dramatic reveals in my mind—I still have moments of wariness about being seen as unmistakably gay in public. Here Evan and I were, walking closely, perhaps even holding hands, with Evan singing the goat song from “The Sound of Music.” To the approaching man, there could have been no doubt we were a gay couple.
Too often, I still feel the compulsion to tone down my identify. I don’t seek to fully mask it as I did in my teens, but the shame and the sense my gayness makes others feel disgust or general discomfort causes me to pivot. Make it harmless, unthreatening. Do nothing to incite homophobic hate. Having the approaching stranger mutter, “Faggots” as he passed would have ruined the moment. To my knowledge, the man did nothing to hint that he’d yell at us, spit in our faces or punch us. Indeed, I didn’t dare make eye contact. I seem to have adopted meekness as a survival mechanism. Despite a grand month of staged Pride each year, I still struggle to be proud. It’s there, but it’s fleeting.
On the more general, non-gay front, I grew up in a Canadian family where standing out was some sort of infraction. My English grandmother believed everything had to be proper, even with respect to how she had teatime with the family dog. My father never asked for help with anything. Such would be a jarring imposition. Restraint was the encouraged mode of being. Rules about when we could have a mint from the candy dish (by invitation only) and how many cookies constituted dessert (never more than two) could never be broken. It’s not that there were dire consequences. My siblings and I just did what we were told. (Sometimes being a compliant follower can be troubling.)
I only have to observe my brother and sister as adults to confirm how I was raised. Neither speaks unless spoken to. My sister mumbles at best, eye contact fleeting. I can’t even describe my brother’s way of conversing. From what I recall, he only talks when my sister-in-law cues him. His words seem to disappear as they mix with the air. Both my siblings married outgoing, chatty spouses who serve as the wedded spokespersons.
I could elaborate, but that little share seems depressing and messed up enough. The takeaway is that I need to focus more on breaking from my past. Maybe my next bedroom dance session will be to a certain Taylor Swift song. If only giving myself a shake did the trick. I may become more aware of my excess of reserve, but I’m not sure how to cut it off or redirect it when it’s instilled in me, its presence showing up as an automatic reflex.
I hope another time will come when Evan will feel inspired to serenade me with a silly song. Let my nature not get in the way of a spontaneous yodel-ay-dee ho. Let his joy become my joy.
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