KEEPING TWITTER FROM BECOMING "X"

There are many things that make me question why I’m still on Twitter. The new, ridiculous name is just one of them. It’s like the app is going through its awkward Prince/Puff Diddy phase. Just because Facebook is trying on a stupid name change doesn’t mean Twitter should follow. But monkey see, monkey do. These boneheads are billionaires?!

 

In truth, I’ve never really understood Twitter. A tech leader at work talked rhapsodically about it back in 2009. He was connecting with golf lovers in North Carolina and guys who gave insightful critiques on the latest software. Golfers! Techies! It was the pitch from hell. But my first book had been published the year before and I figured I could do some belated promotion or at least build a following for the next book release. (Sigh…still waiting.)

 

The way I remember it, the Twitter stream felt overwhelming. As I’d read tweets, the app would tell me there were 28 new tweets, then 56, then 140. How was I supposed to keep up? I rued dropping out of that speed reading class I took on weekends in high school. (The microfiche slides really did smell like vomit.) When I tried tweeting, I kept being dashed by the character limit. I had to be more concise in sharing my thoughts about the Beijing Olympics, Michael Jackson’s death and Adam Lambert on “American Idol.” When I’d cut things down, I wondered if I was really saying anything. 

 

I’m still wondering. 

 

Maybe that’s the problem. Over time, tweets changed. Influenced by more visual social media like Pinterest, Instagram and TikTok, tweets started including photos, memes and giphy attachments. The images were supposed to draw people to your words but then it got to the point where the words were superfluous. Any aspirations of connecting gave way to accruing likes. 

 

Like the picture of my breakfast. (No, there’s no such thing as too much syrup.)

 

Like the photo of a waterfall from my hike. (Or is it a shot of the leaky faucet in the bathroom?)

 

Like my haircut. (If I were bald, I’d have twenty percent less Twitter content.)

 

Despite all my griping to friends who aren’t on any form of social media, I’ve adapted. If I don’t have a photo for my tweet, I search Google Images to paste something. Notice my tweet! Like it! Comment! Retweet! These are the basic needs we seek to have met on Twitter.

 

There was a time, somewhere around 2015, when I couldn’t check my Twitter account in public. I’d be sitting in a café, taking a quick writing break, checking to see if the Katy Perry-Taylor Swift feud was trending again, and a photo of naked man would pop up…or, more often, a photo of a certain part of a naked man would, yes, pop up. Porn photos, porn clips. Aack! I’d blush and break out in sweat as I flipped my laptop shut or threw my phone into my open backpack.

 

I’d spent considerable time building my Twitter following to prove to literary agents I had a means of promoting my still-unpublished Epic Gay Novel. (It’s hysterical! It’s heartfelt! Unfortunately, it does not include zombies, magical realism or space aliens that fall in love with inflatable Rock Hudson dolls.) I specifically followed gay men, hoping they’d follow back. This is when I realized how much gay men liked gay porn. They posted it. They retweeted it. I blocked the most frequent offenders. It meant a potential loss of buyers for my Epic Gay Novel, but I made a calculated decision that they were too busy watching porn (and ordering inflatable Rock Hudson dolls online) to read my book. Sure, there are references to porn in the book but, without pictures, they would come off as drab as my graphic-free tweets of 2009-2014. 

 

I suspect the Twitter police finally took action. I don’t see porn or any element of nudity anymore. It’s safe to login again at Starbucks or on public transit. I don’t have to wait until I’m home to view snazzy haircuts and yummy brunches (How is there not a world shortage of maple syrup?).

 

But a new, problematic trend emerged. My stream has been increasingly cluttered with guys posting shirtless selfies. 

 

Look at me! I’m at the gym. My bicep grew, didn’t it?

 

I’m cooking. Topless! (Why risk getting marinara sauce on a sweatshirt?)

 

Like my haircut? (I groomed my chest, too.)

 

Sigh. Gays love skin. 

 

That’s okay. I just grew up being told there’s a time and place for everything. I can Google shirtless guys. I’m sure there are sites I can bookmark. I can even make a certain shirtless cover shot of Ryan Reynolds from Entertainment Weekly (June 26/July 3, 2009 double issue) my screensaver. 

 

I don’t log into Twitter to see men flashing pecs and biceps. As regular as it’s become, it’s still annoying. Pec-man, for whatever reason, needs people to like his photo. I suspect he likes his chest. Other people liking it is its own endorphin rush. Is this narcissism? Is it extreme neediness? Is this a brazen If you’ve got it, then flaunt it mindset? Beats me. All I know is I don’t want to see it.

 

It's not healthy for me and I have a hunch it’s not healthy for a lot of people. One person’s body pride can make another person feel envy and even shame. I have lived a lifetime sizing up my body against others…along with my own brutal self-assessments. I’ve worked hard to get close to self-acceptance. Still, every half naked Twitter post tests me. It’s unwelcome. Call it foolish, but I still scroll Twitter in search of people who have something to say or, if nothing else, a cool beach shot that makes me suddenly Google the Whitsunday Islands. Gym selfies irk me. They feel invasive. If I wanted to be immersed with gym bods, I’d get an Anytime Fitness membership instead of working out alone in the tiny but well-equipped fitness center in my building.

 

A month ago, I began blocking Pec-men and Bicep Buds. One of the first things I discovered was that I didn’t actually follow most of these guys. That was, in and of itself, a relief. I’ve tried to be discerning about whom I follow. These posts were Twitter’s doing, coming through on my phone on the stream labelled “For you” which includes some people I follow but also spits out unwanted content arising from the site’s #$%*^ algorithm. Since I identify as gay, Twitter decided I wanted to see shirtless studs…even though my history of likes has never endorsed clothing-minimal posts.

 

(I have another Twitter account (@gregorywalters –Follow me!) that’s more focused on books and writing. It’s also flooded with folks I don’t follow. I don’t mind as much. Mostly it’s meals from vegans and posts from miniature schnauzers who’ve figured out how to create their own accounts. They really are a bright breed.)

 

I blocked body-baring bros ruthlessly. For the first couple of weeks, this meant I was even more focused on such posts. I was stopping on each one, rather than quickly scrolling past. 

 

Block. Ha! 

Another block. Yes! 

 

It felt cathartic. No shirt? No stream for you!

 

Twitter and its cursed algorithm got the message. Guys in my feed are now fully dressed. One has an affinity for bow ties. Another wears different glasses. I like their quirks; I “like” their posts. Twitter no longer makes me feel like I need to squeeze in a longer bike ride or gnaw on celery stalks for dinner. At last, the bare-chested boys are at bay. Let others reinforce their need to be seen. I can scroll without the muscle assault.

 

Now if only more people on Twitter said something. Original thoughts and not lazy retweets. Of course, if that ever came to be, I’d feel less need to head out and have real conversations with people off-screen. I may never figure out the purpose of Twitter. Maybe that’s a good thing.  

 

 

PLAYING DRESS-UP?

These days I often see men in dresses. I’m not talking about drag performers or people wanting to stand out during a Pride event. It’s just a wardrobe choice and not even a default one because laundry day announced itself a little late. 

 

Why wear a dress? I don’t know. Someone could have stopped me yesterday and asked why I was wearing shorts—an orange and brown plaid, no less—on a morning with a chill in the air. Someone could have asked me why I chose a t-shirt with a busy pattern that clashed with the shorts. And why didn’t I have a light jacket? Had I not been raised by a mother who warned me about catching a cold or pneumonia if I didn’t dress “properly” for the weather?

 

No one confronted me. No explanation sought. No dressing down about underdressing. I was allowed to go on my way, going my own way. That’s how it should be for guys in dresses, too.

 

Perhaps I’m wrongly attributing gender when I refer to “guys.” People can wear dresses. Let lines blur. Let them explore fashion and, if it’s more than that, say, an expression of being nonbinary, let that be, too.

 

I’ve always thought fashion for women offered more choices in color, style and mood. I can’t count the times I’ve walked into a clothing store and gravitated toward a garment that was intended for women. A blouse, not a shirt. A “helpful” sales associate usually redirects me: “The men’s section is over there, sir.” Oh, yes. Shirts in a maximum of four colors, distinguished in terms of style by whether they’re short-sleeved or long-sleeved, buttons down the front or not, collared or no collar. Yawn.

 

This is not a post to announce that I bought a dress, or three, along with glittery high heels. It’s an option now, but I’m one of those older guys firmly entrenched in a certain look, however limiting. ’Tis the season when I stick with Flirts-with-Pneumonia fall fashions, known to others as summer wear. Whatever. 

 

Lauv

About three weeks ago when I went to YouTube to play some music while doing an ab workout before hitting the gym, the channel suggested a new song by Lauv, aka Ari Staprans Leff. Six years ago, the artist had an insanely catchy song called “I Like Me Better” that I listened to every time I was on the treadmill. It was my aural Red Bull, causing me to increase the speed and run harder. Lauv’s discography shows that many other singles have since been released but Lauv remains a one-hit wonder thus far.

 

The new single, “Love U Like That,” is as hooky as “I Like Me Better.” It sounds like a hit. Unfortunately, it hasn’t caught on yet, garnering two million views. (By comparison, the official audio and official videos for “I Like Me Better” have collectively accrued more than half a billion views.) I encourage you to give the new song a listen. (WARNING: Earworm potential.) It’s the video I wish to elaborate on, one in which, yes, Lauv presents as a guy who decides to wear a dress.

 

On first viewing, I stopped my ab crunches—Wait, did he just put on a dress?—but then I continued my workout. The low neckline of the dress shows off Lauv’s hairy chest which is part of this new phase of dressing in dresses. Whereas in decades prior a man in a dress while having a hairy chest or hairy legs was part of a comical image, it’s now a conscious choice to embrace both masculinity and femininity. (It also rankles conservatives even more, but they don’t have standing as “drag” critics.) The robin’s egg dress with an extra long train flows beautifully as Lauv dons a sparkly silver helmet and rides a motorcycle. If I have any criticism of the video, it’s the rain sequence where Lauv wears an unflattering white tank top and the visual effects folks pelt him with an insane amount of water. That’s the part that comes across as overdone. (Side note: I also wish Lauv would manscape his hairy shoulders but, after viewing his social media, it’s clear Lauv loves his hair, wherever it grows.)

 

David Bowie

It's possible this is a stunt to attract new attention beyond what seems like an established fan base. But this has been done before with artists like Sam Smith. Harry Styles, who seems to opportunistically court gay men, grabbed headlines three years ago when he appeared on the cover of Vogue in a dress. Musicians have always embraced out-there fashion. Elton John and David Bowie were among the singers of the ’70s who were known for making glam-fem fashion statements. If Lauv in a dress comes off as a copycat tactic in this new era, so be it. There are trendsetters and trend followers. Isn’t that the essence of fashion?

 

Still, there may be something more to Lauv donning a dress. For several months, Lauv has been public about exploring his sexuality. He labeled a June TikTok post, “when ur dating a girl but ur also a lil bit into men.” He elaborated: 

I havent done much aside from kiss so tbh don’t

 wanna jump the gun but tbh I feel things and 

dont wanna pretend i dont.   

 

Go for it, Lauv! Maybe add capitals, apostrophes and full words as well on your journey. My Word document (and I) would appreciate a reduction in red squiggly lines as I quote you.

 

In July, Lauv titled another post, “I’m gay but I’m not gay but I’m gay but I’m not gay.” He also posted a video on Instagram in which he referred to wondering about his sexuality and said:

I’m in the midst of figuring it out…I’m going 

to be making more videos like this and just 

being open. This is the first song in this 

new chapter.

 

Seeing and hearing him speak was engrossing. It feels like he’s choosing to share the entire coming out process with his fans. There’s all the awkwardness and forward-then-retreat talk people exhibit when they are first coming out or when the stakes are higher. Lauv is an entertainer with a new album that will soon be released. This must indeed feel like risky business. Literally. 

 

There’s more to come apparently in Lauv’s journey. I don’t think he’s going to lose fans. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look as though he’s gaining fans either despite continuing to put out catchy music. The life of a pop star is brief for most. I’m hoping this “chapter” of Lauv’s life will help Ari Staprans Leff be more comfortable with his own identity in terms of gender, sexuality and in other areas as well. May his closet be filled with a vast array of clothing choices and may he step out of it with a better understanding of himself.

 

BAYARD RUSTIN, BY THE BOOKS

One thing that’s been made readily apparent in recent years is that history is not static. In an era of “alternative facts” and politicians meddling with educational curricula, the past stories of a time, place or person can be controlled to align with a particular narrative. 

 

This isn’t entirely new. As a boy living in Canada, I often heard it said that America’s first president never told a lie. It was part of the ongoing effort to enshrine him as a legend, a hero and a symbol of goodness. George Washington being the first president was not enough. If only America still valued truthfulness. What will the “legend” of Trump be?

 

History has long been his-story, told by men, mostly white, presumably straight. The subject matter went down smoothly with clear heroes and villains. Now that women and minorities are diving deeper into history and insisting that their roles be included in the telling, it’s causing resistance. It’s becoming more uncomfortable. Statues of revered white men get toppled. Extra perspectives clutter long-established accounts of The Way We Were. It’s so inconvenient. 

 

I find new accounts fascinating. I’ve always enjoyed history. It was one of my majors in university. I especially liked when a professor or a resource offered stray bits that muddied standard accounts. My eyes glazed over when lectures centered on battle scenes, but I leaned forward every time key moments in history were analyzed in terms of societal impacts. Blemishes in a nation’s history were not to be suppressed. Weren’t we supposed to learn from our mistakes? Alas, we’re in a period of time when many want to avoid discussing mistakes, much less learning from them.  

 

MY GOVERNMENT MEANS TO KILL ME: A NOVEL

 

By Rasheed Newson

 

(Flatiron Books, 2022)

 

 

A few months ago, I read a historical gay novel set during the AIDS crisis of the 1980s, Rasheed Newson’s My Government Means to Kill Me: A Novel. The tacked on “A Novel” is important because Newson’s story is heavily footnoted, a practice lending a scholarly quality to the telling. (I think it’s the history geek in me that adores footnotes. They are the equivalent to DVD extras—little anecdotes and explanations that often spur me to exploring online rabbit holes.) Most of Newson’s footnoted references were already familiar to me, having lived through the ’80s and reading my share of both Black history and gay history. It pleased me to know that much of Newson’s extras would offer new learning for others. However, this footnoting, while refreshing and offering something unique in gay fiction, became a hindrance at times. It made the story gimmicky, as the author had, Trey Singleton, his Black gay main character, stumbling into too many historical moments like a queer Forrest Gump. A good idea, taken too far.

 

And one of the things that felt far too far was the author’s inclusion of Baynard Rustin, a real life Black gay civil rights leader, who becomes a guru for Trey, Rustin’s perch not on top of a Himalayan peak but in a New York bathhouse, a simple white towel around the waist serving as an apparel modification from the draped white cloth worn by cartoon gurus. In Newson’s account, Rustin spends A LOT of time in the bathhouse. I recall at least one scene with him having sex. In a footnote, Newson explains that there is no evidence that Rustin frequented bathhouses. This is when I sighed. I may love footnotes, but I’m aware that many readers skip them. An important clarification will be missed.

 

Martin Luther King, Jr.
and Bayard Rustin

To some readers, and likely the author himself, this portrayal may come across as humorous, even enlightened. While the novel states this is a pure fictionalization, it feels like an unnecessary stunt. Rustin is credited with being an early mentor of Martin Luther King, Jr. and helping organize the 1963 March on Washington. No doubt, Rustin was as flawed as any human and entitled to a sex life, but this feels like an offensive twist. Call me a prude. 

 

Still, credit that novel with making me seek out more about the actual life of Bayard Rustin, a name I’d vaguely recognized and associated with the civil rights movement without anything more substantive. I read the Wikipedia blurb and clicked on a few of the footnotes. And then I stumbled upon a picture book about him, A Song for the Unsung: Bayard Rustin, the Man Behind the 1963 March on Washington. I was pleased to find four copies in the Vancouver Public Library system. 

A SONG FOR THE UNSUNG: BAYARD RUSTIN, THE MAN BEHIND THE 1963 MARCH ON WASHINGTON

 

By Carole Boston Weatherford & Rob Sanders

 

Illustrated by Byron McCray

 

(Henry Holt and Company, 2022)

 

 

A Song for the Unsung is a fitting title for a book about Rustin. Music was an integral part of Rustin’s life. Raised as a Quaker, Rustin attended university with support from a music scholarship and at one point recorded an album of spiritual songs. (All this makes his fictionalized bathhouse presence more of an affront.) In many ways, he was an unsung civil rights leader due, in part, to being an openly gay man. His activism took place behind the scenes since his homosexuality was considered a distraction and a way to disparage not only Rustin but civil rights activism. How far we’ve come to have a picture book celebrate the life of Bayard Rustin and, in particular, his leadership in organizing the March of Washington, an event attended by 250,000 and the occasion when Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his “I Have a Dream” speech. The book doesn’t focus on Rustin being gay, offering only a passing reference: “As a young Black gay man, Bayard Rustin was also learning about another kind of inequality and injustice.” 

 

Rustin during his later years, skirted any attempts to cast him as someone who fought for gay rights. In his own words:

I was not involved in the struggle for gay rights as a 

youth ... I did not "come out of the closet" voluntarily

—circumstances forced me out. While I have no 

problem with being publicly identified as homosexual, 

it would be dishonest of me to present myself as one 

who was in the forefront of the struggle for gay rights.  

 

While Rustin was open with peers about being gay, the matter became public knowledge due to an arrest in Pasadena in 1953 for allegedly have sex with two other men in a parked car. He pleaded guilty to “sex perversion” and served sixty days in jail. Rustin received a posthumous pardon from California Governor Gavin Newsom in 2020.

 

In My Government Means to Kill Me, Rasheed Newson portrays Rustin as a wise advisor to Trey and Rustin’s social activism is referenced. I have no idea how Rustin would react to the portrayal of him being a regular presence at a bathhouse. Maybe he’d shrug, maybe he’d roll his eyes, maybe he’d pick up present-day lingo and say, “WTF?” It seems as dignified of a response as warranted.

 

Rustin wasn’t a saint. As well, some of his political leanings and his motivations may be questionable. All that is worth of research and scores of footnotes. To make him a bathhouse fixture comes off as trivializing and downright rude.

 

I shall close this post, recasting Bayard Rustin in a more accurate, reverential regard, quoting from Barack Obama in 2013 when Rustin was posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom:

Bayard Rustin was an 

unyielding activist for 

civil rights, dignity, 

and equality for all. 

An advisor to 

the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., he promoted nonviolent resistance, participated in one of the first Freedom Rides, organized the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, and fought tirelessly for marginalized communities at home and abroad. As an openly gay African American, Mr. Rustin stood at the intersection of several of the fights for equal rights.

 

 

 

HIJAB BUTCH BLUES (Book Review)

By Lamya H

 

(The Dial Press, 2023)

 

 

I’ve been underwhelmed by the many queer memoirs I’ve read from younger writers during the past several years. Typically, my impression is the writer doesn’t have enough perspective yet. There’s always a danger of a memoir coming off as self-absorbed and that seems more likely when the writer doesn’t have enough lived experiences. The woe and the wow come off as overdone.

 

After a couple of my writing friends, one lesbian, the other trans, had spoken favorably of Hijab Butch Blues, I tracked down a copy. For what she refers to as her own safety, the writer uses the pseudonym, Lamya H. The book offers a different take on a person’s coming to terms with queer identity. Uprooted from an unnamed country of birth (Afganistan? Pakistan?), Lamya lived most of her childhood and teens in an Arab country, feeling different based on being darker skinned and less affluent than the people who held status. Her sense of difference grew as she realized a budding queerness, feelings that didn’t have words (other than derogatory associations) within her culture.

 

Moving to the U.S. for college at seventeen was an exit pass of sorts but also an introduction to another place where her differences made her feel inferior and shunned. It’s hard to get a sense of how old Lamya H is—the vagaries presumably are intentional to guard her identity—but she seems to have a couple of decades of working through queerness to refer to as she writes this memoir.

 

Each chapter is named for a specific prophet or character in the Quran or, in one case, a group of characters: hard to spot, impish spirits known as jinn. The experiences of the characters in the Quran or told by elders in the case of jinn are related in the particular chapter, interspersed by parallel experiences in Lamya’s life. It’s a unique structure that sets Lamya’s life against a broader context, helping her find new, more personal meaning in the Quran while also interpreting and accepting her own life. The formula helps forgo a self-absorbed telling. 

 

Readers with fewer minority labels to process may dismiss Lamya’s conflicts. Why continue being a practicing Muslim when the religion is male-dominated and homophobic? The idea of walking away comes easily to those whose religion can be more easily removed from culture, family and the more mundane but ever-present aspects of daily life. I, however, admire Lamya’s efforts to reinterpret her religion, viewing Allah as female or non-gendered, finding power in Yunus who learns when to preach and when it’s better to walk away and rejecting the noble subservience of Asiyah, a queen mistreated by her husband, a Pharaoh, “the most evil man that Allah had ever created.” 

 

Keeping her identity private,

this is the author photo at

the back of the book.

This memoir is about finding one’s place. Lamya’s journey involves figuring out how her religion and her queerness fit in her life and how she practices both in New York City, where her visual minority status as a brown-skinned women wearing a hijab, both stands out and gets lost in the diverse fabric of the metropolis. 

 

There are those who will conclude that there is too much compromise in Lamya’s walking along the path she’s created. Maybe there’s too much time struggling with mental and religious gymnastics. It all works for her. I see her as tenacious in the way she questions, processes and balances the mixed influences in her life. I respect the fact she’s creating her own identity based on mixed influences.

 

It's definitely a memoir worth reading.