MY BIG GAY TRAVEL BOOSTER

I’ve spent the last week swarmed by people, my ears abuzz from horns honking at all hours, my nose hit by a range of odors, ranging from the sweetness of icing piped out of a cake shop door to a muggy sweat emanating from alleys (imagine what it’ll be like in August) and dog pee on concrete (it is from dogs, isn’t it?). If New York City is the city that never sleeps, well, there are so many reasons why. My white noise machine from back home would be useless here.

 

I’m not sure if I could make it here amid all this steroidal everything. I tell myself it’s my kind of place, but it would likely wear me down. On this trip, I’ve watched seniors navigate crowded sidewalks. I worried about a blind man this morning walking along Fifth Avenue near 42^nd Street. I tried to give a little more space to a woman with cerebral palsy as she stepped out of a bagel shop. They all seem to manage just fine and the throngs of people instinctively offer an occasional ebb to the flow at just the right times. Maybe this is what Barry Manilow meant by a “New York City Rhythm.”

 

I wonder even more about tourists from small towns and places that aren’t even towns. What do they make of all this? What do they tell their neighbors when they get back home? 

 

I’m glad they made the trip. Their itineraries may be much different than mine. There’s not a chance I’d go to a Hard Rock in any city and certainly not in NYC. I don’t want a photo in Times Square with two Elmos and a Minnie Mouse. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty simply because it’s hard to miss, but it’s never been a destination of mine. Still, I think anyone who spends even an hour somewhere in Manhattan will be struck by the diversity of people here. It’s one of the things I absolutely love about New York and I believe that there’s great value to incidental exposure if not full immersion. The world is here. Let people take a bit of that perspective back to Antelope Hills, Wyoming and Montrose, Mississippi. Let a little Blue mix with Red. 

Most of all, let small town queers feel a sense they are not alone. While there are LGBTQ connections on Twitter and elsewhere on the internet, plenty of gay affirmations can be found In Real Life in The Big Apple. With only a tiny bit of effort, I got a potent gay booster shot during my stay. It wasn’t on account of Grindr or gay bars. I wasn’t involved in any of that. Gay things are just part of the rich fabric of this city.

To be clear, this wasn’t My Big Gay Trip to New York City. If I lived in Little Rock or Tallahassee or Missoula, I might feel an urgency to get double boosted in gayness, but spending my time in Vancouver and Seattle made any items on a gay agenda optional rather than required sightseeing. I passed by but didn’t take photos of Stonewall (there was some scaffolding obstructing the façade) and The New York City AIDS Memorial. I didn’t Google a gay-oriented show on Broadway. (I did see “Summer, 1976” with Laura Linney who will forever be Mary Ann Singleton from Tales of the City in my mind, but the play wasn’t overtly gay even if it co-starred Jessica Hecht who played Ross’s ex, Carol’s, lesbian lover, Susan, on “Friends.”) I just explored Manhattan, doing a gay thing or two, but mostly taking in familiar favorites that had more to do with food, art and exercise. 

But there was always a gay presence. I didn’t snap pictures of the young queer with eye makeup and long, shimmering fingernails, lined up behind me at Chelsea Market, waiting to order pizza. Nor did I get a shot of any of the older gay couples who dressed up to make an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art their own Instagram event, trying to out-Lagerfeld Karl Lagerfeld. There were plenty of other on-the-street gay-spotting moments, years and years more fodder for Bill Cunningham if he were still with us. Nonetheless, here are a few shots to document getting my Big Apple gay booster:

Painting by queer Chicano artist Joey Terrill at MOMA: "Making Tortillas in New York"

from his series Chicanos Invade New York. There's a delightful sense of humour in 

Terrill's work which made me linger. Note the Broadway poster on the wall. "Bent"

starred Richard Gere and premiered in 1979. The play was about the persecution of

homosexuals in Nazi Germany.

This photo at MOMA--"Las dos Fridas" (The Two Fridas).

Shame on me for making an Ellsworth Kelly painting background fodder for a selfie at MOMA.

Here it is without the photobombing: gay artist Ellsworth Kelly's "Spectrum IV."
I didn't realize Kelly was partnered with artist Robert Indiana from 1956-1964. 

A very popular exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

Long lines meant more people-watching.

The mesh lower half of this dress reveals what resembles men's briefs according 

to my fashion-ignorant eye, giving the look a certain gay fetish appeal.

Karl's own iconic look.

This is the headquarters of TransPerfect, a company that specializes in translation services. 
I passed it many times since my hotel was a couple of blocks away. I don't care what the 
business is. For me, it was a daily affirmation that Trans Lives Matter.

Joseph Christian Leyendecker (1874-1951) was a gay commercial artist, best known for his drawings and paintings used to advertise Arrow shirts for men. His life partner, Canadian model Charles Beach, was frequently the subject of his illustrations. Leyendecker's work was the subject of a 

special exhibit at the New-York Historical Society Museum & Library.

The Strand is a fabulous bookstore at 13th & Broadway. I always go there when I visit.

This time, I noticed this prominently displayed poster for an author talk about Matt Baume's new book, "Hi Honey, I'm Homo! Sitcoms, Specials, and the Queering of American Culture."

Bookstores are a great place to find LGBTQ material, to validate queer lives and to instil greater understandings and connection to our identities. That's why some conservatives are aggressively trying to ban books. That's why we must read and promote these books and push back for a free press and free speech.

New titles I'll track down at home.

Yes, I went to the book talk! Came upon it by happenstance. I look forward 

to reading my signed copy of "Hi Honey, I'm Homo!"

Love this double-page spread from Gonçalo Viana's picture book, True Colors, 

which I discovered at the bookstore at New York Library's main branch, 

the stunning Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. 

Two boys, a dog and, yes, that's a green cloud.

A storefront. Can't remember where. Maybe a museum

gift shop? Rainbows will forevermore be gay in my mind.

(Perhaps a storm cloud--darkly grey, not green--symbolizes LGBTQ haters.)

 

 

  

THE BREAKUP SONG: A THANK YOU TO TINA TURNER

I’m still adjusting to a world without Tina Turner. I know she was eighty-three—the same age as my mother—but I assumed she’d live forever. “A long illness,” reports said. It’s hard for me to even imagine her as ever having more than a pesky cold. Even then, I assumed Tina would make it work, the sore throat and cough making her voice huskier, richer, throatier. For me, Tina Turner symbolized strength and resilience and, until this week, infallibility. Didn’t we all love her story? Through her graciousness and openness, didn’t her story become our story? Humble beginnings, standing up to prejudice, escaping and recovering from abuse.

 

I had my own story of abuse. It remains with me, popping up at times I wish it wouldn’t—really, I wish I could suppress it once and for all. I go on. Like Tina.

 

Yesterday, I went into a YouTube hole—a lovely one, except for all the annoying Grammarly ads and VRBO pitches. I listened to one Tina Turner song (or Ike & Tina song) after another. So many favorites, some I’d forgotten and a few I’d never heard before. I adore “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” “A Fool in Love,” “Let’s Stay Together,” and “Typical Male.” I sang along and wiggled a bit—not quite dancing—but mostly I stared at the screen, listening to and looking at the iconic Tina Turner. That smile, that hair, those legs, that glorious presence. What a legacy she’s bequeathed us.

 

Still, the song that stood out surprised me. I’d always liked “I Don’t Wanna Fight,” but thirty years after its release, I realize it resonates with me the most. It’s a breezy tune, an easy listening pop confection, but it’s always come through my car radio whenever I’ve just gone through a breakup or when I’m contemplating ending a relationship. I hate conflict, I don’t handle it well and it exhausts me. 

 

I don't care who's wrong or right, 
I don't really want to fight no more (too much talking, babe). 
Let's sleep on it tonight. 
I don't really want to fight no more. 

  

Man, I’ve been there so many times. In this early part of the song, there seems to be a possibility of getting back on track. But the next line makes things clear: “This is time for letting go.”

 

I was raised on the belief that you stuck with someone for better or worse. When I found someone who showed any affection for me, I figured the relationship was as good as I could get, even if “better” was long-gone and “worse” had moved in, seemingly permanently. (Yeah, I’ve had self-esteem issues.)

 

Oh, can't you see that I don't care 
Or are you looking right through me? 
It seems to me that lately 
You look at me the wrong way and I start to cry. 
Could it be that maybe 
This crazy situation is the reason why?

 

This song helped me most in inching my way out of the abusive relationship. I’ve written about it before and I’m not going to expand on it here. 

 

Hanging on to the past, 
It only stands in our way. 
We had to grow for our love to last, 
But we just grew apart. 
No, I don't want to hurt no more.

 

Just know that, despite all my intelligence and the fact friends regularly leaned on me for solid relationship advice, it took years for me to untangle all the ropes that kept me tied to my partner. Tina Turner got out; I could, too. I’ve always had so much respect for her.

 

As with most pop songs, “I Don’t Wanna Fight” treads lightly on the subject of a rocky relationship. There have been many times when, while working through a breakup, I relished songs like En Vogue’s “My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It)," JoJo’s “Leave (Get Out),” and, of course, “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. But those songs muster strength while holding onto bitterness. The anger feels good…until it doesn’t. 

 

Breathe out. 

 

Let it go. 

 

That’s where Carole King’s “It’s Too Late” and Tina Turner’s “I Don’t Want to Fight” come in. Catharsis. Time for closure. Forward motion.

 

“I Don’t Wanna Fight” has an interesting pedigree, based on a quick Wikipedia search. It was written by Lulu (who scored a #1 hit with “To Sir With Love” in 1967), along with her brother Billy Lawrie and Steve DuBerry. It was originally offered to Sade, but she passed and sent it to Tina. The song is on the soundtrack of the Tina Turner biopic, “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” starring Angela Bassett.  

 

I’m hoping the days of breakups are behind me. May “I Don’t Wanna Fight” just be a song. Catchy, melancholy, something that got me through messy times. Let “Better Be Good to Me” become my new Tina Turner anthem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ANSWERS IN THE PAGES (Book Review)

By David Levithan

 

(Alfred A. Knopf, 2022)

 

One oft-told piece of advice for writers is to never chase trends. Trends, by nature, come and go and the manuscript a writer works on in 2023 won’t land on a bookshelf until 2026 or later. A trend from 2023 might feel tired by then. The book could be a bust. 

 

But David Levithan has a knack for picking the right topics before they trend so his books are incredibly timely when they are finally published. His young adult novel Wide Awake was published in 2006 and is set against the backdrop of a U.S. president seeking to remain in office by refuting that he lost the election. The parallels with Trump following November 2020 are eerie. (I’m hopeful Levithan is also prescient in having the duly elected candidate in Wide Awake be openly gay. Buttigieg 2024…or maybe 2028!) It’s been a long time since I read Boy Meets Boy (2003), but I remember feeling like the first chapter was unrealistic, the setting being an extremely queer-positive high school (How could that be?) and one of the supporting characters, Infinite Darlene, being both the quarterback of the football team and the homecoming queen. Two Boys Kissing (2013) centers on high publicity earned from the titular act and came out at a time when YouTube and TikTok influencers were finding their way in using social media to be seen.

 

While book banning has been around for ages—and Levithan himself has had his works such as Two Boys Kissing dragged into banning brouhahas—his newest book, the middle grade novel, Answers in the Pages, coincides with the current refresh on book bans, parents emboldened to challenge public school curricula as state legislatures and governors call into question what they consider woke propaganda. 

 

The structure may confuse young readers as three stories are told within this novel: (1) a book icon marks chapters about a fifth grader named Donovan whose mother leads a campaign to ban a book selected by Donovan’s openly gay teacher, Mr. Howe; (2) a turtle icon appears at the beginning of chapters about Gideon White who has a collection of eighty-four turtles, one of them real (Samson), and who feels a special sort of connection to the new boy in his class, Roberto Garcia; and (3) an alligator icon designates chapters from The Adventurers, the book Donovan’s mother is challenging, which reads like a young superhero tale of two boys, Rick and Oliver, plus their sidekick, Melody, who are trying to dodge the evil McAllister who constantly puts the boys’ lives in jeopardy while trying to coerce them to divulge a Doomsday Code.

 

Got all that?

 

The chapters are short which helps the reader orientate more readily to the shifts from tale to tale to tale. There’s a seemingly separate gay storyline running through each tale. Donovan’s mother has concerns about Mr. Howe’s book selection because the last sentence of the book intones that Rick and Oliver are gay:

 

At that moment Rick knew just how

deeply he loved Oliver, and Oliver

knew just how deeply he loved Rick,

and the understanding of this moment

would lead them to much of the 

happiness and adventure that came next.

 

As for turtle-loving Gideon, he comes to feel similarly to Roberto and these feelings are mutual.

 

Basically, Levithan has loaded Answers in the Pages with gay content aimed at elementary school readers. Levithan is basically saying to Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, the legislature and reactionary conservative parents, “Your move.”

 

So far, I cannot find any mention of this Levithan novel being banned. (In recent years, at least two Florida county school districts have banned Two Boys Kissing while another district has banned Levithan’s Someday.) Maybe Florida hasn’t come up with a book scanner that sets off alarms when “gay” is detected somewhere within. But there must be one in development, with ample state funding aimed at expediting the process.

 

Of the three stories told within Answers in the Pages, the friendship between Gideon and Roberto was the most interesting. It’s still rare to read about gay boys that young beginning to make sense of feelings and their identity. Gideon wonders why he feels differently about Roberto than about his other friends. Why do things matter more? What does this friendship+ mean? SPOILER ALERT: They figure things out, innocently, touchingly, on Valentine’s Day, sharing a box of chocolates. It’s lovely and, yes, age-appropriate. But it will make certain conservative parents upset, spurred on by the knowledge that conservative parent fretting is in vogue at the moment. 

 

The book challenge played out in Donovan’s storyline is realistic. There’s an activist/savior role some parents assume when challenging books. And the kids always know what’s going on. Perhaps all the hot air backfires, piquing children’s interest in the reading material that’s in the spotlight. A student in Donovan’s class gives her own take on how Donovan’s mother’s crusade gets around:

            “She didn’t dare call my mom. But my mom 

found out anyway, because moms talk. And 

your mom is telling everyone the book we’re 

reading is about two boys who fall in love and 

run off with each other in the end. And she says 

the school should not be ‘promoting such ideas.’

I think that’s a direct quote. According to Tarah’s

            mom, who told my mom.”

 

If anything, Levithan is gracious to Donovan’s mother, careful not to villainize her. She and Donovan remain close throughout the story, agreeing to disagree about the suitability of The Adventurers. (I’d have expected Donovan to have been more resentful, more temperamental, blaming his mom for extra, unwanted attention he gets at school.) His mom doesn’t want the book banned outright; she just doesn’t want it taught to fifth graders. (Um, how many tenth grades would want to read about ten-year-old boys fighting off evil?)

 

Levithan provides portions of the fictional book that’s under scrutiny. He skips chapters, not that it matters much. I’ve never been interested in good versus evil battles. They go on and on, like a videogame, one ridiculous predicament following another. I never come to care about the characters or the stakes. Truthfully, I don’t know if Levithan explained the Doomsday Code and I didn’t bother going back to look it up. Given that there are three stories in the book, I wonder if the publisher considered rendering the supposed excerpts fromThe Adventurers as a graphic novel, creating an obvious visual distinction between it and the other two stories, but also adding another element of interest for young readers. Of course, there would have been extra costs involved to hire an illustrator and to print the book, especially if The Adventurers sections were in color, but I think the investment would have made a better book and widened the appeal. I’m grateful that Gideon and Roberto developed feelings for one another because, whatever it is that Rick and Oliver feel in terms of love for one another, is void of emotional impact. It’s the impetus for writing about book banning, that’s all.

 

Answers in the Pages was published in May 2022, only two months after DeSantis signed Florida’s “Don’t Say Gay” bill into law. Levithan cleverly gives the state a middle finger by giving Oliver from The Adventurers a past as a youngster in Florida, raised under odd, dangerous circumstances. (It involves an alligator.) As Rick and Oliver dodge another one of McAllister’s plots to finish them off, Rick leads an exchange between the two boys:

            “It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”

 

            “Yup. But you know what—with every-

            thing that’s happened, one thing’s

            remained absolutely true.”

 

            “What?” Rick asked.

 

            “I still hate Florida.”

 

As always, I’m impressed by Levithan’s clear, entertaining writing style. He has a breezy, yet direct way of writing that is perfect for offering humor as well as more serious fare. Take this little passage about the more traditional book assigned to Gideon’s class:

            Ms. June held up a copy of Harriet the Spy. 

Some kids in the class cheered, because they’d 

already read it. Other kids in the class groaned, 

because they’d already read it.

 

Levithan’s books are always enjoyable. Let as many young readers track down Answers in the Pages while they can. If and when it’s banned in some county in Florida, it will only motivate some young readers to search harder. Books have a way of getting into the right hands. The unfortunate thing is that there are people who don’t know they need to read stories like this because they live in a family, a community and a state where adults are fighting so hard to keep certain realities of the world at bay. Positive portrayals of “certain people” go against the fear mindset they peddle and the gaping black hole they wish their children lived in. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

THE GLORY OF GUNS IN TEXAS (...AND THE GREAT AMERICAN BEYOND)

I was a thirteen-year-old fish out of water when my family moved to East Texas in the late ’70s. Boys kept round cans of Skoal in the back pocket of their Wranglers, spitting the brown gunk in Coke cans. Girls wore monstrous wrist corsages to Homecoming, first having to be seen at the football game in a correspondingly monstrous high school stadium, then alternating between slow dancing to Kenny Rogers and line dancing to the “Cotton-Eyed Joe” in the cleared-out school cafeteria. People talked plenty about Bible studies, ice cream socials and choir practices at any of the many Baptist churches that dotted the town. It’s true that the United States was a foreign country since I’d come from Canada, but the Lone Star State was proudly its own distinct entity. It would never be a fit for me.

 

To be clear, I gained plenty from my immersive experience that spanned eleven years, first in Longview, then in communities in and around Fort Worth and Dallas. I’d arrived as an introverted, sexually confused boy, having been raised in a reserved environment filled with rules about proper behavior. By the time I left for California, I had eighty names on my annual Christmas card list (a pre-Facebook social index) and I could be the life of the party after getting a caffeine buzz from free refills of iced tea.

 

Still, I was glad to leave many things behind: (1) weekly ranting or rhapsodizing over the Dallas Cowboys; (2) “love the sinner, hate the sin” views on being gay; and (3) the extended fall hunting season when I’d pretend I couldn’t see deer carcasses fastened to car hoods and tossed in the beds of jacked-up pickup trucks.

 

Yeah, Texans love hunting. I’ve never gone. I don’t get it. I’m not ever going to get it. For so many reasons, the whole thing is repulsive to me. I can enjoy a weekend in the woods, talking with friends, photographing nature and appreciating animal sightings. It’s called hiking. One of the maxims of hiking is Leave No Trace. To me, that includes bullets and blood. I can take the toe blisters back with me.

 

The whole gun debate in the U.S. is so bonkers I’m going to set aside any further thoughts about hunting, deer heads on walls, bear-hide rugs and gamey venison stew. At some point in time—oh, maybe back in 1791 when the Second Amendment became part of the U.S. Constitution—people needed to hunt for dinner. Oscar Mayer didn’t come around, after all, until nearly a century later. Arguably, they needed a well-regulated militia in 1791, too, for which the Second Amendment was written. 

 

However, I continue to be perplexed by how Joe American living in Dallas or Miami or eighty miles outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming is connected to a well-regulated militia and, thus, in need of a gun or twenty. 

 

I don’t understand why Joe American needs an AR-15 to shoot a wolf that’s salivating over a flock of sheep or to kill a black bear whose fur would look awful nice under a coffee table in the den. 

 

I don’t know why an assault rifle is necessary to fend off a burglar or the Avon lady going door-to-door in the neighborhood. (Please, hon, don’t suggest a tired-looking Joe American could use a dab of eye cream or, heaven forbid, a touch of mascara. The dude keeps his guns loaded.) 

 

I don’t get the mentality of fetching a gun along with the keys and wallet before heading to the hospital, church, the grocery store, movie theater, school, a museum or the mall. I realize some people will say packing heat is necessary in case someone starts firing an AR-15, but why can’t we talk about those AR-15s in the first place—their manufacture, their dissemination to individuals who see themselves as independent contractors in some well-regulated militia, their irretractable holiness in the Land of the Free?

 

Oh, Texas. Oh, America. WTF?

 

Here we are again, days after another mass shooting in Texas, this time in Allen, fifteen miles from where I last lived in the state. I have a friend who lives five miles away from the latest yellow-taped zone of human carnage. 

 

I haven’t visited Texas since my niece’s wedding six years ago, but my parents and brother still live there, as do several friends from my days attending Texas Christian University. I remain connected through Facebook. I’m thankful that most of these people refrain from sharing political posts, but it stuns me how they are completely silent after each mass shooting, no matter how close to home one may be. Are they thinking and praying in private? Are they checking their jackets to make sure they’re armed before doing errands? Do they think a chance of getting blown to bits is just a cost of a freedom that includes unquestioning reverence to a 232-year-old amendment?

 

I’m certain members of my family and several of my Texas friends went to church on Sunday, as they always do. I’m certain they clasped their hands together tightly as the preacher led them through another round of thoughts and prayers. I even empathize with the preachers. How do they make their heartfelt comments sound fresh in light of how often they have to say them? How do they make their statements come off as less rote than “Our Father, who art in heaven…”?

 

I have nothing against thoughts and prayers. For anything. But, when it comes to lives lost and more lives in jeopardy, thoughts and prayers are, at best, a starting point, not an endpoint. While I lived in Texas, I taught alongside Catholic nuns, who prayed for so many things and then seemed to shrug, leaving everything else up to God. I found the practice maddeningly passive, a corollary to helplessness. If there is a God, I’d say He/She/They are awfully busy these days. They have a whole planet to tend to…people, animals, and all the changes happening to the land and the water that may not have been contemplated during creation. God’s doing what God does best: blessing people’s meals and listening to little Suzy’s nighttime wishes about passing her spelling test and dodging Melvin, the meanie.

 

God’s probably thinking, Dear God—oh, wait, that’s Me—I didn’t make this mess. And I’m not in the business of blessing guns.  

 

God hasn’t stepped in to answer the thoughts and prayers that came after Columbine High School or Sandy Hook Elementary or Pulse nightclub in Orlando or the country music festival in Vegas or the gay bar in Colorado Springs or the church in Sutherland Springs, Texas or the Walmart in El Paso or the school in Uvalde, Texas or the movie theater in Aurora, Colorado or Parkland or Virginia Beach or Monterey Park or Buffalo or Boulder. Or, or, or. 

 

Thoughts and prayers haven’t changed a thing.

 

I’m waiting for these people to wake up and realize it’s time for something more.

 

Thoughts and prayers AND ________.

 

Say something. 

Do something. 

Demand something. 

 

Stop fretting over drag shows. You know that’s not where the danger lies.

 

It’s time. It’s PAST time.  

 

THE DINNER DANCE

Evan thoughtfully labeled my pizza box 

so I wouldn't get into his which was officially 

called The Meat Lover's.

At brunch today, my partner, Evan, had Korean noodles with ground bison. I ordered the pumpkin quinoa veggie burger. There was no sharing. The cuisines may vary, but this is a typical dining out experience and I’d like to think we’re both okay with it.

 

During my dating droughts, I often wondered if my chosen diet was a deterrent. On dating sites, I mentioned I was a vegetarian, in part to share very basic information about me, but also in hopes of possibly attracting someone with a similar palate—a vegan, a pescatarian, maybe someone who would refrain from gnawing on a giant turkey leg if we ever went to Disneyland. My profile made clear I didn’t have an aversion to meat-eaters. I wouldn’t lecture someone who ordered veal or sweetbread or a rack of lamb. I thought it might even be a perk in that my meal mate wouldn’t have to share. He/They could swallow every one of those oysters without me drooling covetously. 

 

No one thinks twice 

about this kind of hate.

I think vegans are one of the last groups of people whom people feel free to attack. Apparently there are some who have switched to a veg diet who are self-righteous about it and can’t seem to curb the urge to “educate”/shame someone who orders a beef burger with four kinds of cheese and extra bacon. That’s never going to go well. I find it just as annoying when someone preaches about their keto diet or someone who insists on going on at length—without anyone asking—about how sugars/carbs/ice cubes are bad for you. I regard these people as newly committed to a particular diet, channeling conviction to stay the course by going on and on about all that’s right with their choice. Talking about it is self-affirming. If someone counters, it’s an opportunity to defend their dietary shift. Doubling down fuels them. I’m vegan/keto/sugar-free because it’s good for me and maybe just to spite Uncle Freddie.

 

I have never tried to talk someone out of meat. I have, however, been grilled countless times by people I barely know who go out of their way to find flaws in my choice to be a vegetarian. It’s rare that someone asks questions out of genuine interest. I keep answers succinct, intentionally vague since the interrogator is often focused on poking holes in my dietary decision. I don’t know why, but they need a victory—touchdown, Team Meat! My condo would be paid off if I had a dollar for every time someone leaned toward me and said, “Yeah, but what about protein?” I don’t feel any need to defend my diet. Or promote it. Adults are free to make their own decisions. I ask questions of servers when I’m at restaurants because I have to. I’ve had “surprise” ingredients show up on my plate. “Veg-friendly” can be very loosely interpreted. Still, I try to ask my questions quietly and quickly. I pride myself in being low maintenance, hopefully not in a Sally Albright sort of way. 

 

I find food talk rather dull. Can’t we move on to a discussion about gun control, trans rights, the charms of “Heartstopper” (series or graphic novel), job satisfaction, relationship news, travels to Sweden or a spirited debate on whether David Beckham and Adam Levine went too far in terms of tattoos? Anything else!

 

I’m sorry that some vegans have come across as aggressive to meat lovers. Frankly, I don’t feel anyone on Team Meat has ever had reason to feel overwhelmed by a vegan assault. In North America, at least, it’s a meat-eater’s world.

 

I’m sure some guys passed over my dating profile because of the vegetarian mention. There are people for whom meatlessness is unfathomable, not just for themselves but for everyone around them, especially a partner. “Brisket, man! Nothing better. Except maybe ribs. Am I right?” 

 

No comment.

 

You be you.

 

T

here were times when I debated removing the fact I was a vegetarian. I could maybe agree to coffee dates and hikes and parachuting from airplanes for the first few dates. Trick the dude, lure him in after the rush he felt from our times together. (Yeah, let him think it was all me and had nothing to do with freefalling from ten thousand feet.) I wouldn’t spring the vegetarian thing on him until we finally grabbed dinner at Morton’s, my enamored date oohing and aahing over the medium-rare filet mignon while I grazed on a garden salad. Mmm, iceberg lettuce. Buzzkill? Probably. Why go through all that deception? I’ve never wanted to jump out of a plane anyway. 

 

I’ve dated vegetarians or vegans a few times. Admittedly, it excited me. I could suggest restaurants without feeling like I was subjecting someone to an experience that would come out as a big sacrifice during some argument in the future. “How can you complain about my videogame obsession? I ate a chik’n sandwich for you. And kale!” Truth is, I don’t want to talk at length with a veg-dude about seitan or tofu or cauliflower steak either. I don’t yearn to reach my fork across the table at a restaurant to taste someone else’s meal. A common love for oat milk is never going to take a relationship to the next level. A shared enjoyment of a lentil stew is a nice bonus, that’s all.

 

For almost four decades now, I’ve been accustomed to eating differently from others. It’s one hundred percent fine. At restaurants, I can’t imagine how that’s a problem. For dinner parties, I often pass and then invite the friend for a chat while walking the seawall some other time. Sometimes I offer to bring a dish to share or an entire meal for myself so the host doesn’t have to stress. (“You can eat the cornbread stuffing if it’s been cooked in the bird, right?”) 

 

I’m perfectly fine sitting out some events. I try to go out of my way not to be a bother, not just about food, but about everything in life. I hate to pull focus. Still, while I’m accustomed to eating differently, all the non-vegetarians in my life are not. It’s hard for them to see sharing a meal as being something that, oftentimes, involves two entirely different plates. (I’m in for the candles and conversation, not the chili con carne.) Most of us were raised on family dining, everyone scooping from the same ham-and-cheese macaroni casserole. It’s okay when baby Tanya goes through her Cheerios-only phase from three until three and a half (She lived!), but that “picky” fifty-eight-year-old gay guy is a trip. I’m sorry, I’m never going to eat lobster just to make a table of seafood lovers feel an crushing, all-for-one victory over a half dozen ugly crustaceans. 

 

My long-term boyfriends have tried nobly to understand or, if not actually understand, then to let me be. Most have made special meals of, yes, lentil stew (It was delicious) and pasta with corn as a substitute for ground beef (That was just odd). Sweet gestures. Brownie points, for sure. These acts usually come in the first few months followed, I suspect, by late-night emergency runs to the McDonald’s drive-thru to refuel on three Big Macs and a supersized order of McNuggets. (Do they still supersize things? How ’bout the Shamrock Shake? No surprise, but McD’s isn’t exactly my kind of place.)

 

More than a year into our relationship, Evan and I do our best to dance around dinner debates. It’s been glitchy, to be sure. He’s stopped pointing at me and announcing to waiters, “He’s vegan!” To be fair, I think he’d be just as forthcoming if I had a third nipple or once met Elmo—the real one, not some Times Square poseur. When we’re in our separate cities midweek, he proudly sends me pics of the meatballs he made from scratch or the chicken fricassee he had at a friend’s place down the street. The images don’t give me nightmares and I earnestly reply with something like “Bon appetit!” Changing his eating habits is nowhere on my agenda. Food choices excepted, we mesh pretty damn well. It’s not a case of opposites attracting; instead, it’s about accepting—and respecting—our differences.