DOLLAR DAYS

For the past six weeks, I’ve sat on the news that Canada will debut a gay dollar coin this year. To blog or not to blog. My first reaction: “Hmm,...the coin seems a bit much. Is it really necessary?” And so I kept the article as an open tab on my laptop and mostly ignored it.

But as time has passed, I’m seeing greater significance in this coin and I’m looking forward to seeing what it looks like, to holding it, to stashing one or two in my odds-and-ends drawer, in time sinking to the bottom below dog-bone-shaped paper clips, an old photo of an ex and an incriminating pack of matches from Chaps Lounge.

My humble, don’t-cause-a-ruckus present-day self saw the new coin as governmental silliness, like when the United States Post Office held a vote for the Elvis stamp—fatter, older Elvis versus suave, hip-shaking younger Elvis. (I voted for the pelvic thrust.) But being blase started to feel being ungrateful.

The coin marks a fifty-year anniversary of the decriminalization of homosexuality in Canada in 1969 and, considering how relatively short that span is, the changes have been absolutely astounding. Born in 1964, I’ve lived through the entire process. And, because my life has been irrevocably shaped by prohibitions and seeming impossibilities during that time, I’ve come to regard a simple coin as the least that can be done to commemorate darker times and the gains the LBGTQ community has realized.

There was a time at the peak of the AIDS crisis when my friends and I made our own gay money. Once a month, I’d meet with a small group of volunteers who buddied up with persons with AIDS in Los Angeles, sharing struggles and the emotional toll. During a break, we’d take all our bills out of our wallets and one of the guys would stamp them with a pink triangle and the words “Gay Dollar”. This was before debit cards and credit cards were so ubiquitous and there were times I was too embarrassed to pay with my stamped money so I’d write a check.

Over time, I felt more empowered and grew to be as “in your face” as my meek self could ever be. I got my ear pierced, slapped a pink triangle sticker on the bumper of my Honda Accord and occasionally donned one of a couple of gay t-shirts.

I’m sort of here,

I’m queer,

Get used to it (please, if that’s all right with you).

Like many who grew up during the time AIDS was a death sentence, my awakening arose from anger at the sense gays were dispensable. By this time. I was living in the U.S. and had endured a stint of time in Texas, deep in the Bible Belt, before fleeing to California. I’d already thrown up my arms over the oft-stated notion that gays were perverts and degenerates. How do you argue with people who so freely fuel hate with ignorance? What truly maddened me was seeing a creative, vibrant loving group in society getting decimated while officials fretted over toilet seats, plastic gloves and “family values”. As incensed as I got thirty years ago—even participating in protests—the “faggot” taunts and that condescending “Love the sinner, hate the sin” mantra still fester deep inside me. I grew up feeling defective and less than. Sadly, that doesn’t change with enlightened legislation.

I never envisioned marrying a man. I never heard any discussion on the topic during my formative gay years. AIDS overshadowed all else. Even now, gay marriage feels like a right for others, not me. While I see elderly men publishing wedding announcements in the “Vows” section of The New York Times and silently cheer their special day, gay marriage seems like something that’s more for a younger generation, people who are growing up with it as a right.

I spent almost all of my career in the closet, even if it seemed the door was wide open most of the time. It felt like an open secret but having my homosexuality as any kind of secret still proved damaging. As a teacher, I feared I would lose my job. I began work in a Catholic school in Texas, with nuns by my side. I felt certain I’d be fired if they ever found out. During this same time my sister asked for me to be her daughter’s godfather but then rescinded the offer when I told her I was gay and her Catholic priest told her the Church would not recognize me as a godfather.

I grew up hearing that gays were pedophiles. I feared false accusations if I were out and a student didn’t like a low grade on a major project. I envisioned parents protesting me as their child’s teacher. (It happened once, at the only school where I was out to staff at least. One parent had her daughter transferred to another classroom, the principal opting for appeasement rather than standing up to prejudice.) When I became a principal, I didn’t care much anymore, but I didn’t want my gay identity to be a distraction. (Yes, I hear the internalized homophobia in that statement.) Growing up in a society where gays were hated, shunned, even condemned has done long-term damage.

I also never adopted a child despite a yearning to do so, beginning with my early work with persons with developmental disabilities. Several children I worked with were wards of the State of Texas, their parents having relinquished all rights either due to egregious acts of abuse or a lack of desire to raise someone with so many needs. The inkling began when I was eighteen and I supported persons with special needs at both a parks program and in two group homes. Sammy, a sixteen-year-old Mexican American with burns over much of his body due to abuse from his father, communicated in simple sentences, albeit with significant speech difficulties. He could print his name and a few basic words. He was gifted, relatively speaking, in terms of athletics, especially swimming and running, and his initial withdrawn nature gave way to an exuberant personality with a robust laugh. Sammy deserved a better life yet I presumed courts wouldn’t approve placing him in an eighteen-year-old’s care.

My most intense work with persons with special needs occurred after finishing university, when I was between twenty and twenty-four years old. Like many in the field, there were days when I felt, If I could just take you home and raise you... Yes, many deserved better lives. I knew there was a need for adopting persons with special needs but my own internalized homophobia got in the way yet again. Despite what is probably my own gift in working with children, I never felt worthy enough to be a parent. I always felt that if I were a gay dad it would create more of a liability for the child.

To be sure, not having children is my greatest regret. I acknowledge that some of it was my own doing but society’s view of homosexuals and its opinions regarding gay adoptions also played a major part.

I’ve grown up surrounded by homophobia. While I found circles of people who embraced and accepted me, reports of hate crimes and discrimination took their toll on me in subtle ways. There are times when I still feel ashamed—even a pariah—as a gay man. The past fifty years has been a period of remarkable, “swift” change in terms of LGBT acceptance but it represents my entire existence—a life lived against a backdrop of hate and resistance. Despite the gains, I continue to see the hate in the comments section below articles like the one announcing the gay Canadian dollar. The objections are couched in tired old phrases like “special rights” and “political correctness”.

I’ve now come to the point where I believe a limited edition gay Canadian coin has great meaning symbolically. The changes over the past fifty years mean that today’s LGBTQ youth have a better chance at a healthier self-identification. They have an opportunity for more social acceptance and for people around them to help stand up to the haters. Moreover, they have more legal rights in terms of marriage, parenting, housing and employment. They are in a position to expect these things rather than hope for a few rights and never even dream of others.

I look forward to holding my first government-approved gay money. No doubt, I will shed some tears—part hope, part regret. I don’t care if the indulged majority who never had to question marriage, raising children or being secure in a job may feel the coin is frivolous. The coin isn’t for them in the first place. It’s an acknowledgement for those of us who repressed our true selves and felt oppressed. It is for gays who never lived to see rights and protections enshrined in law. It is for younger LGBT people to learn more about of how far we’ve come and to gain a deeper sense of gay pride. For these reasons, the coin has value so much greater than any monetary designation. The coin represents both empowerment and normalization.

Come on, Canada. Show me the money!

PLAYING DADDY

“I think when I’m a father I’m going to be the cool dad.” And then ten seconds later, he passes his phone to his coworker: “This is the guy I was talking to you about!” Oh, to have a crush! But the bigger reaction comes from merging the two utterances. Same person, almost in the same breath. A young barista with dreams.

Yes, how far we’ve come. There have always been gay boys pining for love. (How many truly want it, I’ve always questioned.) But it’s the casual mention of being a dad that I find remarkable. Like it’s in the cards if he wants it to be. And why shouldn’t it?

At least once a day, I marvel at the progress. At 53, I’ve become one of the old-timers, someone who can remember when what so many younger gay men take for granted was unimaginable.

I wanted to be a dad. But I knew marrying a woman so I could have kids was both dishonest and selfish. Even when I was closeted, I wasn’t so delusional to think maybe, with a little effort and a lot of denial, I could live a straight life—wife, two kids, a dog and one of those dreaded Disney family cruises. (All those little girls running around as Belle and Mulan would just make me Grumpy.) I was messed up and I didn’t want to mess up anyone else.

Had I had the chance, I wouldn’t have always been the cool dad. I’d have been positively fuddy-duddy at times. No princess costume till you put away your Tonka trucks. No Pokemon anything—I don’t ever want to understand that world. (“Dad! No! That’s Digimon.” Ugh.) And no becoming a teenager. Ever.

Fuddy-duddiness notwithstanding, I’d have been a decent dad. A great one even. I’ve worked with kids my whole life. We connect. I can easily get in the head of a child—or even an adolescent—and understand and appreciate what he or she is thinking even if it is expressed in a problematic manner. Kids relax with me because they learn quickly that I get them. I listen, I commiserate, I do my best to help coach them to their own way out of a problem. It’s a process that takes more time than spouting directives and a string of should’ves, but I see it as a wise investment in someone’s future. I’m proud of the fact that, even in the most difficult and shocking situations, I’ve made sure the younger person’s dignity has remained intact.

To be sure, as a dad, I would have had to grow thicker skin. No matter how hard I’d try, I’d still get my share—and then some—of eye rolls, moody mumbles and all-out shutdowns. Because, despite how hard I’d work to understand, my child(ren) would find it easier at times to pretend I just don’t get it. Yep, the teenage years would come against my orders. Dang it.

But being a dad would have still been worth it.

Alas. It wasn’t to be. Wrong time. It’s a missing piece I’ve done a respectable job pretending I don’t miss.

I’ve made it through the Facebook posting years whereby my old college friends share photos and videos of piano recitals, horseback riding lessons and soccer trophies. I’ve duly pressed the Like button and acknowledged their proud parenting while cynically wondering about the moments that would never be Facebooked.

I’d like to think I’d have shielded my child(ren)’s images from Facebook. Sure, emailing the grandparents and aunts and uncles may be practically prehistoric, but I know I wouldn’t have wanted my parents posting photos of me to their high school buddies now living in Iowa. I hope I’d have been more selective in channeling my pride instead of using my kids for Likes. But, who knows, it’s easy to speculate when I’ve never been on that hamster treadmill known as parenthood. Maybe I’d have needed that external validation of my carefully curated family life.

Before I was twenty, I thought of adopting. There were a couple of teenagers with developmental disabilities who’d been given up by or taken away from their parents. Two or three years younger than me. Impractical. The heart was there, but I knew my noble intentions would have led to failure.

In my thirties, my partner at the time would often raise the issue of parenting and I would skilfully bat the idea away or change the subject. Thank god, he had a short attention span. In truth, I was stuck in an abusive relationship. It was too much for me, even as I couldn’t seem to find the emergency exit. Still, I had enough sense and inner strength to know that I would never bring a child into that dynamic.

Free again in my forties, I felt the clock ticking and stalled nonetheless. Technically, where I lived, it was possible to adopt as a single gay man, but I think all those years of society screaming no had seeped into my psyche. How could I be good enough? What if my desire to be a dad shortchanged my child of a second parent? What if parenting was still a selfish act?

And so the time ticked on. I hit fifty and had enough sense to know that the age gap was too great. I didn’t want my son to be asked about his “grandfather” holding the handmade, purple painted “Seth #1!” sign at the high school swim meet. (The fact that I wanted a child named Seth—or Timothy—may have abruptly ended adoption proceedings anyway.)

How cool or uncool would I have been as a dad? I’ll never know.