IT'S OKAY IF YOUR SOFA ISN'T GAY

I’m not rushing to IKEA. I have a generalized liking of the company because it’s Swedish and all things Swedish make me smile. As well, one of their commercials always amuses me and I regularly use its catchphrase, much to the puzzlement of my friends. Still, my days of shopping for some-assembly-required furniture are in the past for several reasons. I once put together an IKEA armoire that did a spot-on Leaning Tower of Pisa impression. I don’t wish to park my car in the far reaches of the parking lot which may technically have me across the U.S. border, if not Mexico. And I don’t want to carry around one of those ridiculously large yellow or blue shopping bags that whisper nonstop, “Fill me.”

Not even a gay sofa will lure me. 

 

If that’s your thing and it goes with your décor or serves as the inspiration for a redecorating project, go for it. I don’t have any objection to an LGBTQ sofa in any of its news-making incarnations. I just don’t have the need for one. My charcoal-colored sofa is comfy enough, even if the accessorizing pillows are looking a little dated.

 

When I consider building up The Pride Inside, I’m thinking about within my mind and soul, not my living room. I’m not sure that any item in my entire apartment screams gay, but I’m okay with that. Trying to make a statement with a gay shower curtain or nightstand or spatula would be much ado about nothing. I already know I’m gay. My gay spatula isn’t going to out me or showcase how important queerness is as part of my identity. I don’t cook that often and, if someone came over, we’d definitely be ordering takeout. Call it a hunch, but my not-so-famous soggy nachos and overcooked fettuccini with vodka-infused Prego sauce are for my taste buds only. 

 

I don't know...If this sofa were really 

gay, I think it would be tastefully edited.

Too garish.

Truthfully, no one would even chance upon my gay spatula while rummaging through my kitchen drawers as I head down to the lobby to pick up the aloo gobi and channa masala from the DoorDash guy. (This is my made-up scenario. I’ll order what I want and the fictional guest will happily go along with it. Mmm, aloo gobi! Whatever that is.) I’ve had no one over in the past year. I could say that it’s on account of COVID so it doesn’t sound so sad but, truthfully, I’ve never been keen on hosting. In my five years in my prior home, I didn’t have a single party…not a dinner for four and most certainly not some raver celebration that gets shut down by the police. I don’t even have a dining room or a table. If IKEA comes out with gay dining room tables…Nah. Still not a statement. I’m not going to suddenly say to the barista who only knows me as 20-ounce Oat Milk Latte, “Hey, want to come over and watch Netflix when your shift’s over? I have a brand-new dining table. It’s gay, by the way.” 

 

I confess, I was just looking

for a strictly professional

reason to do a Google Image

search of Nate. 

Can you blame me?  

Sure, some boyfriends saw my last place, but I didn’t feel any sense of regret that, in giving them a tour of my teensy space, I couldn’t say, “And here’s my gay lamp. Don’t you think Nate Berkus would love it?” The light even had an environmentally responsible LED bulb. Not that I had a yearning to highlight that either. Sometimes a lamp is just a lamp. Let it help me read at night, let it soften the bags under my eyes if I should decide to take a selfie. Perfectly functional, perfectly fine.

 

There was an episode of “Queer Eye” when they focused on Skyler Jay, a young trans man. I recall him having a big rainbow flag hanging in his living room and the QE team taking it down during the makeover. I don’t recall their reasoning, but it was probably something like too college dorm-ish or Your living room has a big window with southern exposure. You know flags fade, right? 

 

Even if I were in the market for a new couch, I wouldn’t head to IKEA to purchase one that’s just celebrated its coming out in a big way. If sofas could talk, this one would say, “Yep. I’m gay.” (If your sofa actually does talk, you might want to see someone about that.) I’m pretty sure that, even after the deepest night’s sleep, I’m not going to crawl out of bed at ten in the morning, step into the living room, glance at my sofa and think, Oh, yeah. I’m gay. Thanks for the reminder. Now…must have coffee.

 

If I were still passionate about letting the world know I’m queer, there’s not a thing I could do in my condo that would convey the message. Not even if I bought three gay spatulas. It’s no bolder than all those overwrought journal entries from my adolescence that always ended with the same sentence in all-caps: I THINK I’M A HOMOSEXUAL. No one ever read my diary. Not even my mother was that curious.

 

So magnet-worthy, don't you think?

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to buy a gay fridge magnet, one with the AIDS ribbon or a highbrow literary nod to James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room which I haven’t read but is always near the top of my reading list. (The magnet might work better than a Post-it to nag me into finally checking it out. When you commemorate something on a magnet, it’s serious.) Maybe I can just get someone on Etsy to make me a shirtless Matt Bomer magnet. I’m not really all that highbrow.

 

If I want to show my Pride in any meaningful way, someone else has to see it. I can walk into the grocery store with my rainbow face mask. (Yep, I’ve got one. The only person who’s ever commented on it is a young, overly caffeinated female barista at another café who knows me as Large Nitro Cold Brew.) I can also put on my rainbow Converse shoes which still haven’t been broken in. Another option is to carry around a softball and say to random strangers, “Hey, you wanna play catch?” If they shrug and say okay, I could then miss every ball. Oh! they’d say. He’s gay. (I’m the reason the stereotype still exists.)

 

As far as my living space, I could buy some art by a local gay artist (because I’m pretty sure I can’t buy a Mapplethorpe or a Hockney). A painting by Joe Average or John Ferrie perhaps. I’d rather my money go to someone who’s gay than to a large corporation that makes clearly faulty armoires. 

 

For now, I’m going to spend the rest of the day shopping online for new pillows.

BASHED, BUT UNABASHED

I suppose I just got verbally gay bashed. It wasn’t right, but I’m okay. Better than that even. It affirmed a sense a pride in the years I spent working through a critical part of my identity.

 

Since COVID, I’ve had to be more creative in how I exercise. Three-hour gym workouts are not possible. (Only an hour when gyms facilities have been open at all.) I do lots of running, cycling and hiking (I miss swimming laps), but I have added long walks to my schedule as well. I’ve seen Vancouver neighborhoods in different ways, always ready to snap a photo of something I never noticed or took for granted. 

 

I was walking through a historic section known as Gastown when the incident occurred. It was early morning, when it’s light, but most of the city is still asleep. It’s always me and a few avid runners, some dog walkers yawning as they stare at their phones and people who spend most of their time on the street, some homeless, others staying in SROs (single room occupancy housing).

 

I spent five years living in a condominium that was a couple of blocks from Gastown and Chinatown, both areas that can be very sketchy with people addicted to drugs (used needles dot the sidewalks), people experiencing mostly untreated mental health disorders and people who for whatever reason are considered “down and out.” It was this way when I first visited Vancouver in 1992 and, if anything, it’s gotten worse. Long-term solutions require complex strategies and supports that I don’t think the city has the will or the allotted, focused resources to carry through. I could go on at length about this, but not now. (You can read related posts here and here.) I’ll just add that, while the area shocked my sheltered self in 1992, I don’t feel the least bit threatened there now.

 

As you might have guessed, it was a gentleman who appeared to be spending a lot of time out of any kind of shelter who took exception to my presence. We were walking in different directions on the same side of the street. No big deal. I was checking to see if a café was open yet because it had been a long time since I’d bought a loaf of their amazing sourdough bread. (No, I’m not one of those people who learned how to bake it on my own during the pandemic. That would be dangerous skill for me to acquire!) The place was closed so I turned back to take a photo of a vintage hotel sign. The man had, for whatever reason, turned back from wherever he was going, too. 

 

Another crossing of paths. This triggered him. He began yelling, “Stop following me, faggot! Get away from me, faggot! Fucking faggot! Don’t look at me, faggot!” Basically, it was a stream of thoughts, each punctuated by the same epithet. 

 

An appropriate response might have been no response or some sage words to deescalate the situation, but I said, “Oh, shut up.” There’s a reflex to defend oneself, to not be a pushover. My comment didn’t worsen things. I sensed it wouldn’t. People often express hateful rants at high volume in this area, but that’s it in terms of outward agitation. Most often, a diatribe is directed at no one that is physically present (an example of which I’d observed minutes earlier, crossing paths with a woman who paused her tirade as we passed, only to start up again). 

 

I turned my back to take my picture, he moved on—a few more parting remarks—and I continued with my walk. Was I bothered? Honestly, a little. It was mostly my response that I reflected on. That was, after all, the part within my control. Was it a show of self-respect to say something as a mild form of defense? What could I have said that would have been more respectful? Why wasn’t I more offended? More shaken? I didn’t like that there was a consider the source message that popped in my head to minimize this man’s attack. When I was in an abusive relationship, I learned to tell myself, This is not my problem. This is his problem. It took time for me to get to that point instead of questioning what I’d done wrong and internalizing all the putdowns. Once I got there, however, I realized how well it worked. No more piling on my partner’s scorn to my own self-hate. I suppose I’d forgotten it or, more accurately, I’d let it go when I finally freed myself from that relationship. 

 

If I’d had the wherewithal in the moment on the street in Gastown, that’s how I would have processed it instead of disrespecting his status as a human being. This is his problem would be in terms of any homophobia he had rather than in terms of his present circumstances. In general, I have seen the humanity in people who are struggling. I admire their social connections. I see a vibrancy in this community even while wanting so much for there to be real change. When accosted, I wasn’t my best self. Life remains a work in progress. (That’s the beauty of it.)

 

I considered his choice word as I continued my walk. Not long ago, I would have mortified, worried about how I came across in public. Do people see me as gay?! I would have been embarrassed that the three or four people who could see and hear the encounter would think of me as gay out cruising this other guy. (I did not need them to come to my defense, which none of them did.) So many of us have spent so much time trying to pass as straight. We kept our social circles to other gay men, a few lesbians and other women. Safety. Comfort to be who we truly are. I could be OUT & PROUD where there was little to no threat. That was all good in helping me grow into accepting myself. Don’t we all want to immerse ourselves in supportive environments?

 

There is a world beyond, of course. Partly due to age, partly due to increased LGBTQ visibility and acceptance and, yes, partly due to my own work on self-acceptance, I care so much less about what other people think, my sexuality included. 

 

I am who I am.

 

Not even a block away from the incident, I had another reaction. I was happy. I felt free. It’s shallow, but I liked how looked as I’d headed out for my walk—fresh haircut the day before to tame what had become my ode to Einstein, a hoodie that perfectly matched my shoes and complemented my jeans. Lots of people on the street might have looked at me and formed as a first impression, “That’s so gay.” Not as a putdown, but more of a comment on how people might stereotype a put-together men’s look. My basher may have had an in-tune gaydar.

 

Okay, then. I’m a faggot. I prefer gay. I prefer whatever the term not to be expressed with contempt. Still, for me to go so quickly in proudly thinking of that cover headline from when Ellen DeGeneres came out in Time magazine—Yep, I’m Gay—kinda sorta made my day. Someone else’s hate will not bring me down.