IN TONGUES (Book Review)

By Thomas Grattan

 

(Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2024) 

 

 

There’s a lot that’s right about this novel. The voice is distinct, the writing very good and yet there still seems to be something off. 

 

I suspect it’s by design. It’s the main character, after all, whom I did not come to embrace. Hard to like a book when you never connect to the central character.

 

It’s 2001 and Gordon moves from Minnesota to New York City, staying in a rundown area of Brooklyn, looking for sex in parks while working as a stocker at a grocery store. The sex in parks scenario feels like a gay novel cliché, the character partaking always getting it easily and often. Another gay cliché in the book involves how a young gay man (Gordon is mid-twenties) is a lure for rich older gays. (Do NOT read Edmund White’s most recent book, The Humble Lover, about a rich old man obsessed over a young, self-absorbed ballet dancer.) 

 

Gordon feels aimless and passive throughout the story. Things just happen to him. Jobs fall in his lap. Men may seem disinterested but, no, they always want him. He’s not particularly considerate with his bestie, Janice, nor to his parents, nor to Philip, Gordon’s de facto benefactor. To be fair, Philip is rather aloof when he isn’t being direct and/or mildly cranky.

 

The relationship between rich, seventy-something Philip and Gordon is supposed to be the heart of the story, but there is very little heart in it. There are two scenes in which Gordon steps up as a caretaker, perhaps more, for Philip but the relationship generally has a stilted coldness to it that kept me from caring.

 

Moreover, Gordon has a loafer mentality and he does things that made me cringe. That’s not going to end well, I’d often tell myself as I read. It’s painful to watch a character do stupid things. In the end, we’re supposed to see growth in Gordon. He has a steady, reputable job. He does another dumb thing but then makes a correction…only after an acquaintance points out the potential implications. 

 

As an aside, I feel I may have developed lung cancer from second-hand smoke from all the times Gordon smokes cigarettes in the novel. Maybe all the resulting puffy clouds are supposed to represent the greyness of the novel’s tone. Is that something to strive for?  

 

I suppose my disconnect with the book comes with never really understanding what Gordon cares about. So often in scenes, he seems present rather than passionate. He’s just as aloof as the people around him. People come and go and it doesn’t matter all that much. 

 

I don’t regret reading In Tongues. My response is, however, consistent with what Gordon’s would be: a shrug before moving on.

 

 

  

BEYOND THE VOTE: MAKE A DIFFERENCE, Part I—RECOVER

I am Canadian, not American. Dismiss what I write if you feel I’m too far removed. But sometimes a bit of distance helps to see things clearer. 

 

Trump will again be president and both houses are likely to be led by Republicans. They will be able to push through much of their agenda. Of course, this is terrible news. It’s disheartening. It feels devastating. 

 

This is a clear loss. And with a loss comes mourning. 

 

I tend to be very invested in politics. Election nights in Canada and in the U.S. have always meant for prime viewing as I watch results come in, listen to the analysis from various sources, take in the pleasant surprises and try to process the disappointments. Early on last Tuesday evening, it didn’t look good. I didn’t do a Déjà-Vu à la 2016, hanging on and watching shocked CNN pundits desperately cling to hope, believing that big city results were still coming in, thinking that the Trump lead in the Electoral College would tip back toward Hillary, making everything right in the end. I remember going to work the next day, being unfocused, witnessing other colleagues express their shock through tears and anger. 

 

2016 prepared me for 2024. I closed my laptop sooner than later. I did a New York Times crossword I’d saved from Sunday. It distracted and brought me silly little triumphs. Yes, 84 Across, I got you! I watched an episode of Heartstopper, lite-fare, heartwarming, a lovely pretend world where every kind of queer is ultimately accepted. Ahead of its time perhaps.

 

I checked the results in the morning. Ten minutes of scanning and skimming, tops. Why punish myself? I couldn’t change the numbers. I loaded my bike in the back of my Mini Cooper, packed a few things and went on a day trip to Fort Langley, a quaint village forty minutes from Vancouver. I wrote, meandered, rode my bike and did not look at any news for seven hours. 

 

It's not that I blocked out the election results. No, I thought about them quite a lot. But I didn’t expose myself to news sites and social media that would stoke feelings of despair or outrage. I had no raw conversations with friends where our disappointment would build off one another. It was a slower, gentler process of acceptance of a harsh, worst-case reality.

 

After so many years of therapy and support groups, I actually put into practice a little self-care. That was my own victory.

 

I was ready to take in more Wednesday night. On social media, I saw many people using the F-word to express themselves. I get it. They were mad. The F-word says so. I saw naïve folks claiming that the F-spewers were falling into the hateful rhetoric they professed to hate. It certainly didn’t advance anything but that wasn’t the point. People let off steam in different ways.

 

It was more than grief. Abject sadness. Some people said they were stepping away from social media for a while—too much of what, in the moment, was a very bad thing. Sometimes connection is helpful in times of shock and disappointment. Let it out. Let it all out. Sometimes, however, it’s better to postpone what is too hard to process in the moment. 

 

It may feel good to pick a fight with Uncle Bubba or an agitator on Twitter. I can’t see it myself. They’re going to want to boast right now. They’re going to want to pull you in so they can counter all your logic and emotion with one basic sentiment: “Loser!” Sure, sure, names will never hurt you. Maybe you have thicker skin than me.     

 

I truly believe stepping away is a better option. If you can’t take a day trip as I was privileged to do, cut down on your exposure to whatever is going to stoke negative thoughts and emotions over the next weeks. Cut social media down to X minutes per day. (Truly, do you really require more than fifteen minutes? How about ten?) Skim headlines, if you must, but maybe leave it at that. Long ago, I stopped reading articles about murders and crimes I couldn’t do anything about. How would reading do anything but upset me? Was there really anything I could do about a terrible crime that happened in another state or province…or even in my own city? I am better off being less informed in some areas. That may sound awful but having my head in the sand sometimes is an effective coping mechanism. 

 

I think some of those lite, fluffy Christmas movies are already streaming. Make some popcorn and watch one. (Or re-watch episodes of Heartstopper. Seriously.)

 

I laughed steadily throughout Ellen’s stand-up special on Netflix. Channel into a comedian who makes you laugh. It’s such a great release of stress.

 

People need to recover because, while the election results are in, the fight is far from over. A vote is a right and a privilege, but there are so many other ways to actively participate in constructive ways to affect change.  

 

While some recover, others are already taking time to reflect and rebuild. More of that, plus direct actions are to come. 

 

Please take care of yourself for now. Get yourself in a better space. Avoid Uncle Bubba. (You won’t change him; he won’t change you.) When you’re ready, there will be next steps. Your voice and your presence will be needed and valued. 

 

For now, let Mr. Bean amuse you; allow cat (or puppy) videos to tug at your heart; listen to a rage song on your headphones as you take it up an extra level on an exercise bike; ask a friend for a hug; jump in a pile of leaves; take a silly selfie; make chocolate chip cookies (and save some dough for an ice cream add-in); close the blinds and do a geeky dance to an extended play of a disco song; get a temporary tattoo of something that will look passé by next week; pay the two bucks for guac in your Chipotle burrito; buy an adult coloring book and complete a page, maybe even going outside the lines; clean your oven (it’s never a good time, but you’ll feel good when it’s done); knit a scarf or just a blob with weird holes in it; contact that friend you’ve been saying you should message for six months now; get a facial; buy a new plant, name it and apologize in advance in case you kill it (but don’t); sweat it out in the sauna; do a cold plunge (not really); read a favorite comic from childhood; listen to a couple of Grammy-nominated songs you’ve never heard of; sit on a park bench and people watch (without being creepy); and go to bed early. 

 

Recovery is good for you.

 

 

JUST VOTE

I lived in the U.S. for sixteen years and never voted. 

 

Sure, I was underaged for the first several years, having moved from Ontario, Canada to East Texas when I was thirteen. But then came the years from eighteen to twenty-nine where I couldn’t vote because I was a legal immigrant—a permanent resident—but not a citizen. The rest of my family became citizens and I know they all vote (three Republican voters, one Independent). I had no say in Presidents Reagan, Bush or Clinton getting elected. 

 

I would have loved to have voted, but I had moved kicking and screaming from Ontario. I was proudly Canadian. It was the one part of my identity that seemed fixed as I struggled to figure out and then live according to my sexual orientation.

 

To teach in U.S. public schools, I had to declare an intention to become a citizen. I had to show that things were in-process. That declaration gave me a year of using my Texas university degree to teach in a public elementary school. But I’d done nothing to move things forward during that time. I didn’t want citizenship to be about my job; I felt it needed to be a bigger, deeper decision.

 

I don’t recall that anyone was awaiting proof I’d taken a step forward, but I began to look for other options as I prepared to give up teaching. I moved to Malibu and went to law school, an excellent step for coming out at least. (Hello, West Hollywood!) There was much to like about California, a place where I connected far more than in Texas. I knew after the first year of law school that practicing law would not be my lifelong career, but I stuck it out (mostly because I didn’t have a Plan B), got the degree and worked for a couple of years as a lawyer. 

 

I might have stayed in L.A., might have tried to get an entry-level position in the entertainment industry after touching base with a key contact, but the city wore me down. First, the Rodney King riots in April-May 1992 (during which I got shot at), killing sixty-three and then the Northridge earthquake of January 1994, killing fifty-seven. These events plus the general dog-eat-dog tone I felt in the city wore me down. I quit both L.A. and law. I moved to Canada, settling in Vancouver. 

 

Youth won.
(The one on the left.)

The only national election I participated in was the U.S. Post Office’s 1992 presentation of two options for an Elvis Presley stamp—either a classic hip-shaking, thinner, younger Elvis or a slightly fuller-faced image of Elvis from later in his career. I can’t even recall which one I voted for. The stakes just weren’t that great. 

 

Not like now. Not like this election, not just for president but for Senate and House seats, for governor positions and for all sorts of state and local posts.

 

I could say—and you could too—that, as a Canadian, it’s none of my business. It’s America’s decision. But it matters in Canada. We often dissociate ourselves from American matters, but they impact us on a daily basis. Canadian culture is not that different. We are influenced. Our neighbor to the south (along with the state of Alaska) has a population nine times greater than us. In many ways, the U.S. overshadows us. 

 

Politically, there’s some copycat business happening based on Republican politics and the larger-than-life, can’t-mute-him Donald Trump. The province of Alberta seems to desperately want to be Texas’ cousin. The leader of the Conservative Party of Canada, Pierre Poilievre, has adopted hateful, smarmy soundbites that seem to come straight from Trump’s playbook (if Trump actually has a playbook). Trump and the MAGA movement have impacted not just the U.S. for the worse in terms of political discourse and basic civility, they’ve gained a whole lot of followers in Canada. Attention-seekers, I feel. People who like their politics to have an entertainment element akin to WWE wrestling.

 

I am exhausted from the lead-up to this election. Frankly, I’ve been worn down from Trump being Trump since 2015 when the media started seeing value in reporting every outrageous comment he made—increased sales, viewers and click-bait. The lies, the hate and the crassness should have led to a quick dismissal of the candidate but his brand of politicking has only become more popular. We are devaluing society while seemingly embracing the don’t-give-a-fuck mindset. Let the cesspool bubble at the top. 

 

I’ve begged my saner Republican friends and relatives in the U.S. to back off the Trump vote. I realize the Harris campaign has rallied to get Republicans to vote for the Democratic candidate just this once—for the sake of sending a message about civility, for holding up the basic principles of American democracy—and, yes, I hope many people do this. It’s the right kind of message to send to Trump, MAGA and Trump copycats (yes, you, Mr. Poilievre). 

 

But there is another viable option. Longtime Republicans can leave the choice for president blank. This is for people who can’t stomach Trump but also can’t espouse the Democrats’ platform. Let a vote Trump counted on be denied. 

 

Of course, it would be a rare Republican to read my blog and heed my advice. (Heed it, please.)

 

If any Americans read this, a weekly post on Aging Gayly, it’s far more likely to be someone who is centrist or left-leaning. Nine hundred words into this essay, I’ll repeat the one thing you should take away from this: VOTE!

 

If you’ve done so, encourage those fence-sitters who don’t think it matters, don’t want to sacrifice precious time in their day and/or don’t feel Harris will be progressive enough. Surely, her positions come hella closer than Trump’s. (I’m being generous in saying Trump has positions other than using the office as a revenge pulpit.) 

 

I’m still not American and still I care. This is me, doing my part.

 

VOTE.