CLARITY IN THE RADIO STATIC

As I got in the car, I wasn’t in the mood for news radio so I scanned the dial and came upon an oldie, Air Supply’s “Lost in Love.” It’s from my high school years—I’m an oldie, too. I’d only gone a block when the station drew static. I wasn’t willing to lose the song. I listened as it came in and out. I made it to the end and then flipped to another station.

 

The song—it’s memories and the way it played this most recent time—was perfect for my current melancholic state. I’ve been thinking about love a lot lately. Just like the first time I heard “Lost in Love,” it feels like I know nothing about it. And, just like then, I cannot fathom falling into it. 

 

Back then, I was overwhelmed by the East Texas high school social scene where I felt unseen. I envied the popular people. I wanted their clear skin, their confidence, their gift of walking down hallways with exclamation marks always in tow. Everything they did or said stood out for reasons that didn’t make sense. That’s just what status does. 

 

I went to high school dances. Why so many? I didn’t go to the keg parties in the woods or at people’s houses after the dances. I didn’t know about them. I was honestly shocked to find out a couple years later that there were so many of them, too. I suppose people kept that sort of thing tight-lipped to keep the quality factor up. Isn’t that nonsensical? Unpopular people crashing hip high school parties only happens in movies, right? Why would I want to be ignored more? Why would I want beer which I still find gross unless I squeeze in a half-dozen lime wedges? I didn’t know about fruit beer back then and I suspect these weren’t the kinds of parties that had sliced fruit beside the keg…or anywhere.

 

Love was not conceivable in high school. Not with my zits. Not with my chicken legs and bicep-free arms. Not with my unruly red curls. Not with my utter confusion over my sexuality. I had “tendencies” but they needed constant quashing. This was the Bible Belt. This was the Land of the Southern Baptists. This was Hell. 

 

But on the radio, Olivia sang that I had to believe we are “Magic,” Diana Ross declared, “It’s My Turn” and The Manhattan Transfer harmonized over “The Boy from New York City.” There was hope, wasn’t there? There was something after high school.

 

Still, I subjected myself to deep inhales of Air Supply. Torture, some people would say, then and now. There was something lush in the vocals and dramatic in the way each song built to a crescendo. I sang along to every song on their albums, always hitting the high notes, just like co-lead singer Russell Hitchcock. (Back then, American Idol and William Hung hadn’t entered pop culture. I may have doubted many things about myself, but I had no reason to believe I might have been tone deaf. Ignorance, in that case, was bliss.) I sang along cluelessly to tunes like “Every Woman in the World,” “Even the Nights Are Better” and “Making Love out of Nothing at All.” Still, “Lost in Love” was my number one. 

 

SIDE NOTE: My first ever concert was seeing Air Supply on the Stephen F. Austin campus in Nacogdoches, Texas. (I was never going to be popular.)

 

Then, as now, song lyrics could be garbled, not all of them as much so as, say, “MacArthur Park” (Who leaves a cake out in the rain?!), but, oh, how I’d love to give so many pop tunes a quick edit. If I’d actually been in love when I first heard “Lost in Love,” I’m not sure it would have given me any tips. 

         I realize the best part of love is the thinnest slice

                                [Is this about cake, too?]

         And it don’t count for much

         But I’m not letting go

         I believe there’s still much to believe in.

 

So lift your eyes if you feel you can

Reach for a star and I’ll show you a plan

I figured it out

What I needed was someone to show me.

 

"Mockup" or mockery?

I re-searched those lyrics. He does not pass on the “plan” he’s shown. I blame Air Supply for keeping me lost in love whenever that feeling finally did occur.

 

And still I listen, then and now. Air Supply 4ever! This is just like me in love. Always loyal. Always the fool. 

 

So, yes, bringing matters to the present, the zits went away, the concept of popularity stayed back in high school (since I had no interest in entering politics) and I got myself far, far away from the Bible Belt and places with more Baptist churches than banks and gas stations combined.

 

I fell in love five times. And, remarkably, each of those times the guy loved me back as much as he could. I can go to a Love Anonymous meeting—I think I just made that up; don’t Google a local chapter—and I can stand up and say, “It’s been almost six months since my last love.” No doubt, there would be knowing nods. Translation: Yes, yes. We’ve heard your story. Not again. PLEASE! 

 

Okay, no story time. I’ll just say not every story has a happily ever after. (Do you hear me, romance writers and readers? WAKE UP!)

 

I can lean into another Air Supply song, their follow-up to “Lost in Love”: “All Out of Love.” Yes, well sequenced. First “in love,” then “out of love.”    

 

I can’t be sure, but I think that’s the way things will stay for me. I’m not being dramatic…though I will be next time I hear “All Out of Love” on the radio, Hitchcock pulling vocal gymnastics again to a crescendo that consists of a four-peat of “What are you thinking of?” Frankly, I’m letting all that go. Whatever my ex is thinking of, it’s certainly not me. 

 

Not in the cards...

I’m settled again, a single man. Five times in love feels like an awesome record for a guy like me. Not as awesome as one time in love that lasts forty years and still ticks on but, with an assist from hindsight, that was never going to happen. I think love has run its course. I’ve spent too much time hoping for it, looking for it, saying I’m not looking for it and hoping then it will come my way just like people say. Mathematically, I’ve longed for love longer than I’ve been in love.

 

Dating sites today are empty shells of what they were. I’ve had a baffling five months of  Grindr and Scruff, apps that are reputed to be more about Right Now than Mr. Right but for me have been about guys who are too afraid to post a picture much less say something.

 

I’m not going to hang out in gay bars. I’ve learned and relearned that I really don’t want drinking to be a cornerstone of any relationship.

 

I’m all out of love in terms of opportunities. I’m okay with that. Part of growing older is coming to terms with some of our dreams and aspirations not coming to fruition in the way we imagined. 

 

I do like my time to myself. I want to focus on some friendships I value. I want to explore more of the world. I want peace of mind. I’ve been muddling with all this quite a bit. Leave it to Air Supply to help me reach a crescendo and then let things fade out. 

 

It all feels right. Time to switch the radio off.

 

 

 

  

WHOSE ANNIVERSARY IS IT ANYWAY?

WARNING: Grumpy old-ish man post. 

Sometimes I know I shouldn’t but I do anyway…

 

 

 

I suppose public displays of affection have always been a struggle for me. My family is repressed and I spent my adolescence and college years in Texas during the late ’70s and the ’80s. Gay. Closeted. Any public expression of affection—words, actions, the slightest glance—was not within the realm of possibility. Affection itself, even in private, was not part of my world.

 

I hated Valentine’s Day. Still do…especially after this year. 

 

I think I’ve grown some. Seeing a couple hold hands as they take up the whole sidewalk is cute enough to keep my annoyance in check while stepping into the curb to pass them. They have a dog on a long leash and a baby stroller, too. Still holding hands. Kinda wow.

 

When it’s an older couple walking hand in hand, I’m even more touched. Maybe Martha and Richard are newly dating, having finally dumped their now-insignificant others, Henry and Betty, but I make the assumption they’ve been together fifty or sixty years. It makes the handholding more astonishing. Still connected, still loving each other, still able to amble about without compulsively checking phone screens to see the latest Facebook posts about grandchildren and Fran Hofstadler’s runner-up pickleball trophy.

 

Over the course of my relationships, I’ve learned to relax when a moment arises to hold hands, hug or even kiss in public. At first, it would only happen in the gay ghettos like West Hollywood and Vancouver’s Davie Street. Even then, there was an unspoken mutual agreement to let go if three or four straight-looking dudes approached. A hand felt nice, but the prospect of a punch made it prudent to create a bit of distance between us. Blame a strong survival instinct and a gut feeling I wouldn’t look so good with a broken nose. 

 

In my most recent relationship, open affection was more common and most welcome. Still, I would occasionally flinch. A reflex. I’d spent a lot of time in my past fretting over being gay bashed. I was subjected to verbal hate, enough to make me ever-aware someone might take things to another level. 

 

To be clear, physical touch is good. Let people be affectionate.

 

And you thought this would be a cranky post.

 

Ready…set…go!

 

PDA, okay. PPA, not so much.

 

What I don’t like are Publicized Pronouncements of Affection. On Valentine’s Day, why do people log into Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and every other social media account they have to post a photo of themselves as a couple or just a shot of their love bounty—a box of chocolates, some roses, maybe a new toaster oven? (Who am I to say what’s the right way to say, “I love you”? I am single, after all.)

 

I’ve said it many times…I don’t like obligatory expressions of love just because the calendar indicates it’s the 14^th of February. I also don’t like how the day feels like a flaunting fest, the Haves triumphant, the Have Nots sheltering in place, ordering Domino’s and watching Netflix in a lamplit living room. Definitely no candles! 

 

At least we Have Nots can anticipate all the love in the air. One day. A chance to binge-watch Project Runway or stream Ryan Reynolds movies. Maybe eat lunch in the car on the 15^th as people compete/share what their amazing lovers did for them. (“He kissed me and then asked me to make him a panini in the toaster oven!”) By the 20^th, the Have Nots can visualize roses wilting. Post a pic of that, people!

 

Valentine’s Day comes and, whew, goes.

 

It’s anniversaries that blindside me the rest of the year. I honestly don’t understand the public pronouncements about anniversaries. Maybe that’s rooted in lingering repression. Still, excepting silver and golden anniversaries, I always thought a wedding or relationship anniversary was intimate, something planned and shared for two. Dinner. Romance. Cards with beautiful words, handwritten rather than scribed by some guy in a corner cubicle at Hallmark headquarters. Thoughtful gifts that try to incorporate the year’s theme—paper (1^st), tin/aluminum (10^th, yeesh), steel (11^th). No toaster ovens allowed. 

 

So I don’t get the social media posts:

Happy 4^th anniversary to the love of my life who 

shows true love by watching all televised 

golf tournaments with me.

 

It’s our 32^nd! Through lies, affairs and that two-year 

stint I had to live in the garage, we’ve exemplified 

“for better or for worse.”

 

17 years ago, I met this man at a monster truck show. 

It’s been a passionate love of trucks, tatts and each 

other ever since.

 

Why? 

 

Does the tweet or Facebook post excuse forgetting a card (and a gift)? Does the fact the post got 253 likes, with an especially strong pro-anniversary contingent from Tennessee, make one’s partner swoon? Is this what we’re calling romantic in the social media era?

 

Again, I do not get it. Growing up, my siblings and I didn’t buy anniversary gifts or cards for our parents (except for their 50^th). We didn’t even say, “Happy anniversary!” It would have felt odd. It was theirs, not ours. I assume my parents exchanged the sentiment and did something. They didn’t make a spectacle of it. 

 

I truly like the idea of an anniversary being private and intimate. A table for two. A dessert for two. A celebration for two, with personal expressions of love, door closed. 

 

Why am I writing whining? Because it’s that “Mary Tyler Moore Show” song every single day, but in a bad way. Love Is All Around. 

 

Yes, every single day someone on social media gets to gloat. Still together! Still in love! How true or deep it is happens to be irrelevant. It’s the unwanted blast of another seemingly successful love story that adds to the sting that I have failed. Over and over again. Never a tin/aluminum gift; no steel. Silver is becoming remote according to actuarial tables and gold is impossible. 

It's not enough that I’m aware of all the anniversaries within my family—not necessarily the exact dates or number of years…thirty-something, almost twenty. Every day I’m blindsided by strangers. Ruth and Eddie together forever! (Sixty-five years is BEYOND forever.) Luke and Diego, 22 years! Sara and Samantha, 8!

 

Five times, I’ve been in love, but I never reached Sara and Samantha’s milestone. Gee, thanks for that daily reminder. Have your cake and eat it, too. Me, I’ll pull out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, no sharing, no “Can I have a taste?” 

 

No consolation.

 

  

FROTHING OVER THE “NEW FRIEND”

Apparently, people close to me think I speak in code. 

 

I’d posted some pics last week from a hike I did with “a new friend.” 

 

WHAT?! This caused quite a buzz.

 

Granted, I’m quite the introvert. New friends don’t come my way every day. Or every year, I suppose. My life is not people-oriented. I write. I run and bike. I travel solo. I usually hike solo too now that my hiking partner moved to Montreal. 

 

So, yes, my Facebook “friends”—somehow I have 98 of them…and I do know them all—were intrigued that I would have a new friend with whom I did something in person. The buzz wasn’t just about being social. People read what they wanted into “new friend.” They leaned into that as an old euphemism.

 

Hopes. False ones.

 

I think the inquiring minds wanted to see me moving on. Good news for a sad sack. I’d been dumped in February by the guy I’d felt certain I’d be with for the rest of my life. That dismissal remains a head-scratcher. I’ll never understand, but all I can do is move on. 

 

True, I've been very happy with
dogs, but a schnauzer does not
replace whatever need there may
be for a boyfriend.

My friends really weren’t all that helpful after my breakup. My mother and sister, in separate communications, advised me to get a dog. They’ve been married sixty-three and thirty-eight years, but why should I still hope for finding a good man who might love me back? I was great with dogs. That’s where I’d find a nurturing relationship…as long as I supplied the pooch with ample treats and picked up its poop. 

 

My tailspin since being dumped has been its own solo journey. I can’t snap out of it and people don’t mention it anymore. Despite my considerable mental health history, people don’t check in.. 

 

To be fair, people were engaged with the dumping story. Some version of it had to be shared. It naturally came out when someone would ask, “How’s ____?” (I don’t name my ex anymore. It’s not about pettiness. It just helps me detach.) Sometimes, early on someone would ask, “How was Denver?”, the place where my ex moved and where I’d flown for a two-week trip that was over in ten minutes. It made for a juicy story. Lots of exclamatory reactions.

 

“He didn’t!”

“No way!”

“Unbelievable!”

 

But after the good story—if only it weren’t mine—there was no more follow-up about how I was doing. Single once again. I remember NBC ran a sitcom, Undateable, for three seasons from 2014-2016. I never watched. It was during my own prolonged undateable period. I didn’t want to give the show a shot and conclude that, Undateable was too relatable…not funny at all. 

 

I can’t help but think friends and family have given up on thinking I was date-worthy. Lost cause. He should probably stick with low-hanging fruit…or whatever is rotting on the ground. It’s probably the whole vegan thing. [I’m vegetarian but that doesn’t seem to be a thing anymore.]

 

And yet there was that hike with a “new friend.” 

 

I got a text from eastern Canada. “Ooh! How was that hike?” 

 

Maybe they just liked the photos, I thought. “It’s a beautiful one,” I replied. 

 

And then: “How was the friend?” Really? 

 

A friend from California wanted to FaceTime. “So…a new friend, huh?” 

 

“Yes. New friend.” She waited for me to spill it. The more. Nothing. I felt guilty. Like she’d committed to a tasty FaceTime and gotten nothing but dry biscotti.

 

A call from my mother. We’d just talked days prior. This was unusual. As my parents are in their eighties and my mother had a hospital procedure the week prior, I felt instant panic. I answered first ring. She noticed. “That was fast.” 

 

Yes, yes. How are you? How’s dad?

 

“I see you’ve got a new friend.”

 

Oh, my god. This is why I shouldn’t socialize. Or talk about it. I’d mentioned the “new” bit because my post had been about going on a familiar hike and seeing it through fresh eyes, appreciating more than I might have (although it is a favourite). 

 

My mother, I suppose, was the most likely candidate to misinterpret things. My parents don’t talk about my gayness. They’ve regularly referred to my boyfriends as “friends.” Eventually, they skip the friend/boyfriend conundrum and just call the guy by his name. I hadn’t supplied that. I don’t tag friends. I don’t even know if my new friend is on Facebook.  

 

It’s insulting people would think that, with me being a fifty-nine-year-old man in 2024, I’d still be talking about guys I date in code. No. A date’s a date. A boyfriend’s a boyfriend. 

 

It’s true that I’m private and I’ve kept past boyfriends off my social media posts. This was partly to protect my partner’s privacy. My longest relationship—two decades ago—was with a business climber who was very closeted, very paranoid. My partner from Portland was one hundred percent anti-social media—no Facebook, no Twitter, none of the rest. He was usually anti-phone cam as well. What would I have had to post? As for my ex who now lives in Denver, I was tempted many times to make some sort of Facebook reveal…a couple selfies, the two of us beaming. Unlike Portland guy, he loved being in photos. That’s not a knock. I loved taking couples selfies. 

 

If others think my dating record is pitiful—it always ends the same—I share the feeling. I didn’t want to change my Facebook status to “in a relationship” until I was really and truly sure I wouldn’t have to go back and change it again to “alone again, naturally.” I’d decided I would announce my status on our two-year anniversary. If we made it that far, we were solid. We would last. 

 

The breakup came three weeks short of two years. Phew. (I guess?) No humiliating subsequent post, the equivalent to “never mind.” My private humiliation was enough.

 

To conclude, I have a new friend. We hiked. It never dawned on me that would be disappointing. And it’s not. I deserve a good thing or two. Even something that isn’t served up with an ice cream scooper…although maybe that’s something that can be factored in next time I see my new friend.

 

 

LINGERING ON LABELS

We’re a product of our environments and the times in which we grew up. 

 

I grew up in an industrial city in Ontario, Canada at a time when smoking was absolutely fine—ashtrays were in every room. Tattoos were scary markings on members of motorcycle gangs and long hair on guys represented something nebulously radical or a complete lack of direction. “Retard” was a common putdown. First Nations people were reduced to caricatures. (I recall it being funny to assume a crossed-legged sitting position and raising a hand to say, “How” while jumping off a diving board.) Polack (derogatory for people who were Polish) and Newfie jokes (about people from Newfoundland) were shared without any thought of a filter. Fat people were mocked. Kids with glasses were made fun of. Same for redheads (like me). Sometimes hateful things were said about Germans, Italians, Jews, and Jehovah’s Witnesses. Basically, any group that made themselves noticed as being different and “not like the others” could be disparaged. In an oh-so-white community, race couldn’t be used to rank and hate others so people went with whatever differences stood out. 

 

Pretty much every ridiculed factor mentioned in the preceding paragraph either no longer registers as a negative or is at least no longer something to joke about in most groups. Heck, Newfoundland, formerly abbreviated as “Nfld.,” is now Newfoundland and Labrador (N.L.). Eskimos are Inuit. The Northwest Territories is now smaller after part of it became Nunavut. Change happens. We accept. We adapt.

 

I’ve often wondered if there will ever come a time when we’ll run out of groups for which to be intolerant, when John Lennon’s “Imagine” will no longer be just that, when our seeming need to sort and assert false superiority will end. 

 

Ah, but I suppose that’s a Woke dream which when you think of that as an expression is inherently paradoxical. If that’s not to be, then I wonder what group will be next on the list to mock. Who will be the new punchline? What kind of discrimination will divide society next?

 

As I wrote in last week’s blog post and in several others in recent years, the T in LGBTQ is under attack, not just among homophobes but by some who claim to be L, G or B. For them, the community has gotten too big and, I suspect, too hard to keep up with. There are tantrums and then there are people who can’t or won’t cope that drop to the ground, cross-legged, eyes closed, hands over ears. 

 

No more! Make it go away. Make it stop!

 

The world does not stop. Every generation seeks to define itself differently from the ones before. New looks, new terms and, yes, new identities—or at least newer—seek awareness. Language and the way we exist is supposed to evolve. And yet, there are always groups that fight what seems foreign. “Why can’t THEY just shut up and be more like us?” 

 

History repeats itself, even if the characters change.

 

I’ve often thought the current resistance to transgender identities and rights is a last frontier for conservatives. With gay marriage and adoption now legal, with antidiscrimination laws protecting queer people in housing and employment, homophobia is losing ground. So politicians and many citizens are going all-in to fight against trans rights. This, in turn, causes alarm for some who identify as L, G or B. Just when things seemed settled—protected, safe-ish—the pushback against trans, pronoun choices and everyone else who identifies as any other rainbow/Pride label threatens lesbians, gays and bisexuals anew. It’s like all these “new” sex and gender identities are mucking things up and, well, hello resentment.

 

Much of what people do who go out of their way to identify as “LGB” with nothing else allowed to tag along is argue about how lesbians, gays and bisexuals are DIFFERENT from all the other labels. It’s sexual identity versus gender identity, as if those lines can be so clearly delineated. To them it’s clear, long-established labels versus new gobbledygook.

 

I view their position as conveniently limited and either overtly hateful or implicitly so by means of its intentional efforts to set themselves apart. You can define yourself as narrowly as you want so it’s all about you and you don’t have to advocate for anyone else. Indeed, there has been a backlash against white cisgender gay men based on the fact many gay bars of the past glory days were dominated by them, any racial differences either shunned or fetishized. But it went beyond that. White cisgender gay men was too large a group. There was a sorting system in which “fats and femmes” were funneled out and tops were higher esteemed than bottoms. Basically, gay men, who’d been discriminated against and bullied by straight men, perpetuated the ideals of masculinity even when in spaces free of straight men. We weren’t as “free” as we purported to be when we were in our own bars. 

 

I’ve heard groans of older white gay men. They don’t like the rainbow flag getting “cluttered” with BIPOC and trans representation. No, please go back to being quiet. We see you well enough. You’re equal as long as you’re quiet. 

 

Yeah, I get why that’s a hard sell.

 

I’ll say it again: terminology will continue to change. It’s expanded the numbers in our “community” to a degree but many in younger generations who might have come out as “gay” or “lesbian” in our day are finding more specific labels better represent them. How is that a bad thing? How is being clearer about your identity an affront to those of us who went with what were the only labels available to us. A younger First Nations person today might identify as gay or lesbian but might find that 2-Spirit better embeds a cultural connotation woven into gender and sexuality. 

 

One of the first “break-off” labels was queer. When I first started hearing it, I was uncomfortable. There was something abrasive about it. It wasn’t the conventional, gym-going, bar-hopping, dance-the-night-away gays who were calling themselves queer. Instead, it seemed to be some of the outliers who didn’t fit the mold as a status gay hottie or as something passable. It seemed to be a more politically active group. People more inclined to align during the AIDS crisis with ACT UP instead of the Gay Men’s Health Crisis or AIDS Project Los Angeles.

 

“Queer” was antagonistic. It brought on negative attention. It felt like calling yourself a fag. Why embrace a term of hate and repeat it? I wanted to work within systems rather than against or around them. Of course, I grew up repressed and, despite often describing myself as hating or ignoring rules, I was a conformist. 

 

Obviously, I get what “queer” people from thirty-five years ago were doing. I thank them. I don’t see the word as having any negative association whatsoever anymore. I prefer “queer” to “gay,” which was once the all-encompassing term, often consuming lesbians when used in a broader context. Saying “gay” was less of a mouthful than always saying “gay and lesbian” and maybe tagging on “bisexual” when feeling both generous and verbose. But “gay” meant a male-oriented word was the default term in accordance with more general societal practices. In writing classes, I often wrote “he/she” when speaking of a hypothetical person but it was discouraged by instructors. When unknown, it was a he/him world. So, it’s not just the “gay community” that’s become more nuanced.

 

For many, pansexual better represents sexual orientation than the technically gender-rigid bisexuality. Take your pick. Go for it! To stick to “LGB” and put one’s head in the sand is an obstinate way of saying, “It was good enough for me so…” 

 

Somewhere in that same dinner conversation, I’d expect to also hear any or all of the following sentence starters: “In my day and time…”; “When I was young…”, and “Back in the day.” Yes, things were different. Life twenty years ago is not the same as now. Thirty years ago, perhaps more different. Fifty…you get the point. Some things come back into fashion, but other things just evolve, for better or for worse. 

 

I could go on and on. I love the label “Questioning.” Maybe it feels safer, but it also recognizes there can be an evolution or fluidity in one’s own identity in terms of sexuality and/or gender. Welcome! May some of the older members of the “community” be looked to as mentors instead of scoffers who use words like “rubbish” and “hogwash.” 

 

But trans is still the biggest sticking point. That’s the group that people who put themselves in a “LGB” compound take most offense to. So many straight people they can align with! New mixers to attend! Look at all of us. We are not alone! Maybe “LGB” is itself a nuanced offshoot. The Log Cabin Republicans of old come to mind. If you’re mainstream lesbian, gay or bisexual enough, you can fit right in. Let all the others whose sexual and gender identities are less conforming be damned. 

 

It's the age-old sort of intolerance I saw directed to other groups when I was a kid. Why do you have to be so different?

 

Not everyone fits so neatly. That’s a foundational aspect of the rainbow symbol and its permutations. I suspect that many of the people who make a conscious decision to refer to LGB instead of LGBT or LGBTQ+ fit more comfortably and, to themselves, more clearly in the L, the G or the B. Sexual orientation was the only issue. They felt 100% cisgender. That’s why they are able to so conveniently say that T is about gender so it doesn’t belong with LGB. 

 

I want to harken Dana Carvey’s Church Lady (a drag character, incidentally) and say, “Well, isn’t that special?!” 

 

For me and for many, sexuality and gender blur together. Rejection has come from both. The kinds of discrimination, the forms of hate, the official planbooks against varied sexual orientation and gender are the same. Freaks. Perverts. Out to get your children.

 

Gays and lesbians have seen this played out fully for decades. We’ve seen how being more open and fighting back changes minds. Not the minds that are too entrenched. For them, the fighting back itself is mocked. Oh, look at the gays getting all rattled up. 

 

Again, the parallels are many. Why wouldn’t we want to unite? Why wouldn’t we join what some in the “community” may see as a broadened battle? It sickens me that a gay man or a lesbian would think, Well, I got my rights. I’m done. It sickens me more that they might think, Those trans folks and those who are diddling with gender pronouns are bringing us down with them. Yes, that’s happening but the blame goes to the haters on the right. Breeding hate in our “community” is not what I ever expected when politicians and school moms went after transgender people.

 

“I’m not like them” just doesn’t work for me as a reason to hate.

 

Again, I chose to come out as gay because I had a man’s body, I was sexually attracted to men and not to women. In truth,  I struggled from my earliest years about having been born a boy. Penis? Present. But I never ever felt like a boy. I couldn’t tell anyone and there were no public figures I could look to in order to process my frustration and confusion, but I had a strong sense I’d been born with the wrong body. I felt I was a girl in every way. I felt my life would have been so much easier as a girl. There wasn’t any part of me that aligned with boy thinking, boy feeling, boy being.

 

If I were a young person today, I would identify as nonbinary or, more likely, trans. I would make the medical decision that I chose, rather than that society expected, to live trans. Hormones, yes. Surgery, I’m not so sure. I’m extremely medically squeamish. I view most medical procedures as invasive, including last week’s blood test. (Didn’t faint—though I have in the past. My anxiety was obvious to both the attendant and myself.) Any change would have had to happen when I was much younger, when my conviction was greater, when I had more time to work through a change in gender identity.

 

It’s never too late? Oh, for me it is. And I’m okay with that. I did the best I could, getting through my younger decades with what I knew at the time. I’m mulling over pronouns and whether I want to label myself as nonbinary. Those changes make more sense, but I’m still on the fence. What I do know, however, is that gender and sexuality have always been intertwined with me. The LGBTQ+ umbrella makes perfect sense to me. There are spectrums for everything. There are grays between blacks and whites. The grays actually make life clearer than the absolutism of black and white.

 

So, I’ll restate what I thought was the obvious: LGB with the T.

 

LGBTQ+. Differences within and among, yes, as it should be, but let’s work on building that community into something authentic and affirming.

 

 

 

 

 

A "COMMUNITY" FORUM

I’ve been avoiding writing this post for a year. The topic felt like a downer…even for me. I sensed that, if I delved into the subject, I’d get riled up. I’d feel anger and shame toward part of my “community” which went against the much-hyped marketing machine promoting all the love and joy of #Pride. 

 

Truthfully, I’ve always felt “community” was a generous, aspirational term, perhaps even nothing more than The Emperor’s New Clothes…nothing at all. 

 

Gimme a “G”

 

When I was coming out in West Hollywood in the early ’90s, I questioned the term as applied to gay men. I rarely felt any connotative sense of closeness with the other gays packed into Rage or Arena. It seemed more like a competition and I didn’t even register as a contestant. Gay humor of the day was referred to as “camp” and, from what I could tell, it involved invoking names of actresses from old Hollywood movies and putting down every other gay person in the bar, including the “friends” you came with. Barbs were hilarious. The sad gays—the non-contestants—were easy butts of the jokes but so were the hunky men blessed with biceps and bubble butts. They didn’t notice the commoners in the bar so they had to be dissed. Jokes about IQ, penis size and those miserable acting auditions that meant they had to hang on to their catering jobs. 

 

I learned a few semi-snappy lines, but I couldn’t keep up whenever two people in my group got on a roll of tearing someone to shreds, all in good fun. I could see the cleverness, but the tone never sat well with me. So many of us had gone through our entire public school experience being bullied or desperately trying to pass as straight, perhaps proving our vulnerable masculinity by joining in on bashing the girly boys who had no hope of passing.

 

We’d survived, damaged for certain, but the worst was supposed to be behind us, not behind our backs in our “safe” spaces where we could swoon over Janet Jackson’s newly sculpted body and that video of hers with even swoon-worthier Antonio Sabàto Jr, now an unrepentant Trumper.

 

As gay men, our “community” required significant consultation and restructuring. Not that anyone ever asked me.

 

Add the “L”

 

The “community” seemed even more tenuous when factoring in lesbians. The first out person I knew was a lesbian, a roommate and co-worker of mine. She’s still near and dear to me in my heart even if we haven’t seen one another in decades. I never seem to find myself in the Tulsa area, go figure. I met many of her friends and I swore I was meant to be a lesbian. More down to earth, yet somewhat guarded. Like me. I felt safer and more welcome among lesbians than among gays. Part of that, of course, was lesbians weren’t judging—and rejecting—me for my looks. I could just be me and they could be themselves. Life was comfortable.

 

But the more I stepped into a world of gay men, the less that space seemed to include lesbians. Our “community” seemed to mostly operate on parallel paths, supportive in the abstract, but the gays seemed to think the lesbians were too serious, too settled down and, gosh-darn, too outdoorsy. My take: too much substance. Gay men were more into “lite” and fluffy…and six-pack abs. My life would have made much more sense as a lesbian.

 

How ’bout a “B”?

 

Then there was that B of folklore, the bisexual. I didn’t feel a sexual attraction to women, but I loved the idea that someone could fall in love or have sex with either gender. (It was a two-gender world back then. I love the notion of being pansexual even more now.) This was so egalitarian. Love any, love all. This seemed evolved. It just didn’t fit me. 

 

Bs were uniformly mocked by gay men. Worse, there was disdain and resentment. We gays had done the hard work in coming out, but bisexuals were still trying to have it both ways which clearly couldn’t possibly be a thing. It was cowardly. Only “out” when it was convenient. Someone needed to grab them by the ankle and pull that other foot out of the closet. Part of the “community”? Puh-leaze. Come back when you’ve figured it all out. Yeah, the hostility was palpable.

 

Teetering with “T”

 

Ts. Oh, dear. This was the toughest. Trans was about gender more than sexuality. It was a distraction. Bringing them into the “community” made things more complex and gays didn’t like much complexity, nothing more than spirited debates about whether Jack from Will & Grace was TOO gay, whether Ellen was funny and whether it was still okay to ogle Milli Vanilli videos even though they were straight lip-synchers. Gays struggled with accepting the more feminine among us. What a leap to come to terms with gender changes whether FTM or MTF! Couldn’t we all just order another martini and ogle the go-go boy’s thong?

 

It is “LGBT,” right?

 

But we’ve all come around, haven’t we? Surely we’re closer. We’ve gone from a Pride weekend to a whole #PrideMonth. Doesn’t that bring on more familiarity? Doesn’t exposure lead to understanding and acceptance? Isn’t that what Joan Baez or some other beloved sixties icon tells us? Is that what Britney’s “Stronger” is about? (Really, I’m more about that “Oops!...I Did It Again” ditty.) If not Britney, than Gaga with “Born This Way.” How many times did I hear that last month. Surely, it’s sinking in.

 

But, no. Not for everyone. There are gay men, lesbians and bisexuals who are firmly anti-T. I was coasting along, surviving COVID, avoiding JK Rowling hogwash and openly wondering how many transgender girls—just girls, really—were building trophy cases for all their track meet medals. Apparently, “real” girls would no longer have spots on the softball team, in golf or in the pool. People were changing gender to get a massive collection of high school ribbons. My god, what a coup! 

 

Quite by chance, I came upon a tweet with the hashtag #LGB. It looked funny. A typo. 

 

If only. They publicly claimed to be LGB. The T omission was intentional.

 

I then saw tweets denouncing proponents of “LGB without the T.” Were we really doing this? Were we still fracturing “community”? “LGB” didn’t mesh with rainbows, glitter, acceptance and inclusion. I can tell myself “LGB is a hate group—a rogue faction—not a hate “community.” I need to imagine it smaller, something containable. 

 

It’s time to cut the backbiting and belittling under the rainbow. How do we excommunicate a vial part of the “community”? 

 

And, for the grand finale, cheers to LGBTQQIP2SAA!

 

Let me unpack that: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Questioning, Intersex, Pansexual, Two-Spirit, Androgynous and Asexual. [That’s from one source. I’m not sure about “androgynous.” Is that “A” supposed to be for aromantic instead?] 

 

I saw that…some eyerolls. 

 

Not a good look among mean girls in high school and a worse look among supposedly evolved adults who want their own love and belonging without necessarily adapting to allow others to find a term that facilitates their own sense of identity.

 

There are various versions of the expanded acronym. It’s visually A LOT. That’s to be expected when it comes to diversity. I personally accept “Q” as in queer as the broadest term to refer generally to all of us, but I’m fine with people who cringe at Q or who don’t want to be swallowed up and unseen yet again with a big Q. Same for when LGBTQ or LGBTQ+ is used. It’s a fair point. When our “community” is referred to as capital-Q “Queer,” most people see the gays and lesbians first and foremost. For those who don’t identify as either, Q can have the effect of erasing everyone else, reducing them to “M” for miscellaneous. 

 

Think about that…Nobody wants to be miscellaneous, a word rarely even spelled out. Misc., akin to Etc. That doesn’t feel like accepting a person’s identity.

 

Full disclosure: I don’t have a longer acronym memorized. I will get some of the other letters wrong. I will inadvertently leave something out. The slight to whomever identifies with the forgotten letter will always be unintentional—but it will understandably offend. 

 

I can handle being corrected. 

 

I can even allow for the fact I may not be able to keep up. 

 

I try. I continue to listen and read. I’ve been intentional about seeking and reading books—both fiction and nonfiction—that center on letters for which I have less familiarity. As an introvert, I stick with a few close friends, whether near or far, and, now that I’m not working, the chances of meeting someone with a less common or new-to-me identity are slim. Reading makes my world bigger and, yes, more diverse.

 

I don’t ever want to shut down when it comes to learning about our growing or changing “community.” If I do, let me step out of the way. The world evolves. Change happens. Let it.

 

There are many changes in other realms I don’t know much about. TikTok. What generation is supposedly in its prime now. Bitcoin. That’s okay. I can be uninformed; just don’t let me be misinformed and, if I feel I am, let me have the sense to shut up. 

 

I’d like to hope that #PrideMonth has emboldened younger queers and enlightened more of the older ones. I’d love it if we crossed some bridges together. Let there be less ageism in our “community,” too! Let the younger generations accept us older queers with the labels we selected based on what was on the coming out menu du jour. 

 

I suspect that some who are advocating for greater recognition, respect and rights for people who identify as trans, ace or pansexual may at times come off as strident or obnoxious. For trans people, in particular, they are under attack by politicians, by conservatives and, as noted above, by people who are supposed to be part of their own community. 

 

We are not our best selves when under attack. We may be angrier, less eloquent. For those who are younger, there are also developmental issues of having less tact and having a sense of knowing more than is actually the case. Younger people will always have a tendency to rub older folks the wrong way and, unfortunately, be dismissive of “out of touch” oldsters. Context regarding age, external agitation and the stakes should help the more “mature” among us to see some of that stridence as passion and conviction. There’s no need for it to be a personal affront or to dismiss the core message.

 

The “community” can itself grow, learn from its past (and current) examples of intolerance and become more welcoming. Let the real work behind #Pride continue throughout the year.