THE CRINGE FACTOR

Now that I’ve read James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, I can talk about one particular criticism I have about the book… involving criticism. It’s about how the main character, David, has disdain for particular groups of gay men, basically the groups he is not a part of. Is this the character’s internal homophobia? Is it also the opinion of Baldwin himself? 

 

I mentioned in last week’s post that David considers two older gay men who are central to the plot with disgust. At the beginning of Chapter 2 in Part 1, a more reflective David does confess after the fact, “I understand now that the contempt I felt for [Jacques, one of the older gays] involved my self-contempt.” Somehow I’d forgotten this line. It’s easy to do when the disgust David expresses as the narrator seems so relentless. 

 

Another group gets dissed in a few of David’s asides. The more feminine gay men seem to be despised. The reader is clobbered by David’s hate the moment he walks into a gay bar in Paris:

There were, of course, les folles, always dressed in

the most improbable combinations, screaming like

parrots…Occasionally one would swoop in, quite

late in the evening, to convey the news that he—but

they always called each other “she”—had just

spent time with a celebrated movie star, or boxer.

Then all of the others closed in on this newcomer

and they looked like a peacock garden and 

sounded like a barnyard. I always found it difficult

to believe that they ever went to bed with anybody,

for a man who wanted a woman would certainly

not want one of them. Perhaps, indeed, that was

why they screamed so loud.

 

I would like to think attitudes have changed since the book’s publication seventy years ago. Sadly, I think as long as there have been gay bars, the more effeminate have been savagely mocked by those who have some need to distinguish themselves as not one of them. Not having spent much time in gay bars—or queer spaces—in the last decade, I’d like to think the community is less divisive and, indeed, less inclined to criticize more effeminate gays. I’ve said it before in this blog and it should be obvious but it’s worth repeating. The gays who did not have the luxury of “passing” as straight have often been outed earlier because they never had an opportunity to linger in the closet while trying to figure things out about their identity. Without any choice in the matter, the more effeminate are often the first among us to be fully out. They have been the trailblazers who made things easier for the rest of us. (Personally, I believe that most of my peers suspected I was gay when I was a teen on account of my higher voice and the way I talked with my hands but only a few of them called me a gay or a faggot. There was just the slightest doubt about my gayness that offered me some extra time to figure out my identity.)

 

Immediately after David bashes more effeminate gays, he casts even harsher criticism toward a person in drag:

There was the boy who…came out at night wearing

makeup and earrings and with his heavy blond 

hair piled high. Sometimes he actually wore a

skirt and high heels. He usually stood alone

unless Guillaume walked over to tease him.

People said that he was very nice, but I confess

that his utter grotesqueness made me uneasy;

perhaps in the same way that the sight of 

monkeys eating their own excrement turns

some people’s stomachs. They might not mind

so much if monkeys did not—so grotesquely— 

resemble human beings. 

 

Okay, beyond harsh. Disturbing. 1956, I remind myself. With RuPaul, drag brunches and such, I have to think we’ve changed in this regard. Especially gay men’s attitudes regarding drag.

 

David—and Baldwin—aren’t any kinder to women. Again, 1956. The woman is subservient to the man. At one point, David thinks he’d like to get married someday and have his wife put the kids to bed. [Sorry, Daddy’s busy smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper.] There is only one significant female character in Giovanni’s Room, Hella, David’s girlfriend. Yes, David tries to have it both ways. His elder, Jacques, tells him that a gay connection can be more than sex—love, even—but it cannot endure. “And how long, at best, can it last? Since you are both men and still have everywhere to go? Only five minutes, I assure you, only five minutes, and most of that…in the dark.”

 

Okay, sad…

 

Back to Hella. It is noteworthy that she is absent for most of the story. She is an American who is traveling by herself in Spain for an extended period. She comes across as a strong woman and yet she still buys into the times. “[I]f women are supposed to be led by men and there aren’t any men to lead them, what happens then? What happens then?” Immediately thereafter, Hella reaches for her purse, pulls out her compact and applies lipstick. So much for strength and that European independence.

 

Giovanni’s Room. A classic, they say. A reflection of the times, I suppose. But so much disparagement. To be fair, Baldwin isn’t so kind to one—perhaps both—of his main characters, as well. A readable book, but a gloomy, severe outlook nonetheless. 

MINDING MY MANNERS

It’s at least once daily that I catch myself. A surge of self-correction surfaces. This morning it had to do with how I held my laptop case as I walked to a café to write. I carried it with my elbow bent, the case tucked into my chest. It brought back an admonition of old: This is how a schoolgirl carries her books. Stop that! And so I did. I extended my left arm downward so the case was in line with my shorts. A manly pose. Or my attempt at such a thing. 

 

I stepped into a café and hesitated. Most of the indoor seats were taken. A large fan hummed but did little to address the heat that had already seeped in by ten o’clock. There were a few seats outside in full sun, not an option for me since I long ago battled melanoma and have no desire to get more chunks of skin cut out of my body. Scars don’t have the sex appeal of tattoos. 

 

I walked on, taking a shaded alley to another nearby café. But I found myself resuming the schoolgirl stance again. Another correction. Silly. The alley was empty. Any intonation I was acting girly was 100% self-imposed. Really though, that was a technicality, a literal reading of the scene. Others had gifted me this “girly” designation. I went through childhood, adolescence and even my twenties being ridiculed by schoolmates and strangers as a sissy, a fag, a Nancy. Back then, being gender-nonconforming wasn’t an option that came with a nod of approval or a mere shrug. It got noticed as fodder for taunting. 

 

In general, I got off easy. I had feminine behaviors, but others were easier targets. For them, self-correction wasn’t even an option. Their glorious selves were naturally effeminate. In some ways, I was grateful for them, just as I might be while assessing my chances of survival when encountering a grizzly on a group hike: as long as I could outrun one person, my chances of being attacked would be less. People like Jay, my first gay friend after coming out, must have had a brutal childhood. Still, if ridicule from others was less for me—and, surely, it was—I filled in the gaps, berating myself upon every effeminate posture, pose or voice inflection…at least when I noticed. There was no carrot for changing my behavior; it was all stick. This was about survival. I had to whip myself into a more masculine persona.

 

Masculine? 

 

Me?!

 

So laughable…and tragic. It was as futile a goal as virtually every New Year’s resolution I’ve ever attempted. My pinky has always been averse to making contact with a glass or mug. What was the point of ordering a bottle of Bud—in my mind, a manly grog—when my tiniest finger was always sticking out? I’m also seriously challenged with keeping my legs apart, both feet flat on the ground, while sitting. Inevitably, one leg yearns to cross over. I have no idea why. Even telling myself, This is how you get varicose veins, hasn’t been enough of a deterrent. I heard this once as a kid and I refuse to learn otherwise from a quick Google. I continue to do a seated dance—cross, uncross, repeat ad infinitum. (At fifty-seven, my leg veins appear unnoteworthy. Whew!)

 

As much as I bemoan the fact you can’t call up a friend anymore—alas, it’s text, reply, text, wait hours for another reply—there is one silver lining. I don’t get called ma’am as much. Most telemarketer calls I get now are automated and in Chinese. Still, whenever I do have to call a business or customer support, there’s a fifty-fifty shot I’ll be immediately misidentified as she/her. Back when calls were a regular part of life, I tried to have a Ted Baxter newscaster voice at the ready for phone calls. It was futile. I’d still get salespeople asking, “Are you the woman of the house?” It made hanging up on the caller slightly less guilt-inducing. Bad manners, but I hadn’t asked for the intrusion or the gender blundering in the first place. 

 

Such a stylish statement!

Once a sissy, always a sissy. At least, that seems to be my mindset. It’s utter nonsense that I continue to fret over my mannerisms. Every day, I see people who have no regard for gender norms. It’s glorious! The Jays of the world can just be. More than that, they can celebrate what diverges from tired gender-role expectations. Effeminate behaviors appear unbridled. Hear me roar (or scream)! Watch me flutter! Swathe me in bold florals! I assume every action comes with an exclamation mark and a desire to stand out. They want to be seen when all I wanted in my youth was to be unseen. I survived but now they thrive.

 

It's a simplistic view. I know people who don’t conform to expected gender mannerisms—and, yes, expectations remain, at least to many in society—are subject to putdowns and snarky laughs. But now there are allies, defenders and others who flaunt their true selves. (Imagine!) I’d love to let my pinky finger do whatever the hell it wants, my voice nest a half register higher and my legs flirt aggressively with the prospect of varicose veins. Maybe one day I’ll allow myself to just be. Maybe I’ll even paint my nails as half the guys under thirty seem to be doing. So brazen!

 

On the way home, I found myself walking with the laptop case tucked in high, up to my armpit, as one might carry a purse. Leave it, I told myself. And I did. For perhaps ten paces. Then, another self-correction. Times have changed, but I can’t seem to.

 

TOTALLY JOE

By James Howe

(Atheneum, 2005)

If only there had been a Joe (aka JoDan) Bunch in my class in grade seven or eight.  I’m thinking selfishly here.  Poor Joe would have been brutalized by peers who would taunt him for painting one fingernail, streaking his hair and just being, well, as the title says, totally Joe.  But I would have had someone to set the gay standard.

Some people have their identities whispering at them in sometimes conflicting inner voices.  Not Joe.  His identity loudly came into being at a young age, back when he was a four-year-old, walking the neighborhood in a dress and playing with his collection of seven Barbies.

If only I had had parents who were as enlightened, who did not fear what their inner voices told them about their young son, their Great Hope to become a doctor, the Prime Minister or a Right Winger on the Montreal Canadiens.

I thank author James Howe for introducing a younger generation to a memorable character with an irrepressible personality.   

I can’t recall any Joes from my childhood.  As far as I could tell, I was as Joe-y as it got.  I came to know several Joes in my twenties, once I left Texas where even The Irrepressibles might have found a way to repress, given the unchecked speeches about eternal damnation and the occasional article about gun-toting good ol’ boys hunting for gays.  In Los Angeles, I met Mason, an affectionate, often obnoxious force who learned to dish it out as a means to survive.  I dated Evan, a makeup artist who scared me off with too much talk about my dire need for skin moisturizer.  Sadly, Joes struggle for acceptance, even in gay circles.

Totally Joe is structured as a class writing assignment, an alphabetical autobiography, a year-long journal with Joe’s entries ranging from Addie, his strong-willed best friend, to Zachary, his newest friend who may or may not be gay.  The alphabet is not just a listing of names—L is for Leftovers, P is for Popular (Not).

Joe survives school by hanging out as one of The Gang of Five (which then and always consisted of only four).  It’s hard not to be envious, reading how Joe is completely accepted as he is by this close co-ed group.  Although Joe only comes out midway through the book, fully encouraged and supported by an amazing Aunt Pam, he never strives to pass as straight.

Yes, there are nemeses—namely, a hateful classmate named Kevin Hennessey and his sidekick, Jimmy Lemon.  And then there is Kevin’s mother who leads the cause against establishing a gay-straight alliance at Joe’s school.  This is just the plot point to prompt Joe’s (and Addie’s) parents to step up.  Again, I thought, If only...

Howe’s first-person narrative is zippy, often amusing and totally entertaining.  At times, it’s poignant without being preachy.  Here’s an excerpt wherein Joe recalls an early obsession:

                                My mom says that I played wedding for about a year and that

                                I kept asking everybody if they would marry me.  Even Jeff

                                [Joe’s brother].  (That was the only time anyone can

                                remember Jeff threatening to clobber me on a regular

                                basis.)  I had my Lainy doll marry my Ken doll.  I also had

                                her marry some of my Barbies.  And G.I. Joe.  (I hated that

                                the soldier doll had my name.  I mean, please.  I didn’t play

                                with him much.  He was another Christmas present from my

                                clueless grandparents.  One time when they were visiting,

                                my grandpa asked me if G.I. Joe had been in any wars lately.

                                I said, “No, but he and Ken got married last week.”  Every

                                Christmas since then, my grandparents have sent me a

                                check.)

Totally Joe is a quick read that would be a perfect book choice for a gay-straight alliance or, maybe one day, in a regular grade seven classroom.  The Joes—and Not-So-Joes—of this world need the exposure and the understanding.