"YOU BE YOU"...I MEAN IT.

I have rocks in my head today. It’s a good thing.

 

These rocks are the colorful creations of children’s book writer and illustrator Linda Kranz. She takes flat rocks and paints them so they transform to vibrant fish which remind me of Mexican folk art. The fish illustrate some of her picture books. 

 

As a school principal, I got in the tradition of kicking off each school year by reading a picture book during the first day assembly and then working with staff to create a week’s worth of activities linked to that book. One of those books was Only One You by Kranz. It’s all about celebrating individuality, the lifelong learning journey and make the world a better place. (It makes a great graduation present, a nice complement to the multiple copies the cap and gown wearer receives of Dr. Seuss’s Oh, the Places You’ll Go!)

 

Kranz followed Only One You with a companion picture book, You Be You. It’s sparser in terms of words and more cliché in terms of text. (“Some fish swim up. Some fish swim down. Some fish swim quiet. Some fish swim loud.”) I prefer the former book, but I credit You Be You with helping the title’s familiar message stick. We’re all different and that’s okay. For the past decade, I’ve often heard people spout the sentiment and I’m so glad it’s out there in a world where social media holds up influencers and selfies seem to have morphed from self-expression to a de facto ranking of people’s appearance. Shirtless buff guy gets thousands of likes while “Average” Joe gets seven with shirt on, three without.

 

The book gives me a visual image to go with the expression. Somehow painted fish make it real. I can say that “you be you” has done wonders for my outlook. Partly on account of my personality and partly due to the time when I came out as gay, I grew up extraordinarily critical of not just myself but others as well. I beat myself up over every one of my perceived flaws…and I perceived so many! It may have been a dysfunctional self-defense mechanism. To quote Taylor Swift’s song “Mean:”

You have pointed out all my flaws again

As if I don’t already see them.

 

Stick and stones couldn’t hurt me if I hurt myself first. I think so many gay men of my age bracket grew up with loads of self-hate and crap absorbed from all the haters we encountered in school, on playgrounds and sometimes even in our own families. Ideally, we would have lifted ourselves up, individually and as a community. Isn’t that the basis of Pride? But what I observed in gay bars, which seemed to be ground zero for all-things gay, was gays putting down gays. Just like our high school nemeses, we lifted ourselves up by putting others down. It was survival of the cutest/hottest/buffest.

 

Putdowns were woven into our campy humor. Long before “RuPaul’s Drag Race,” we were reading each other in jokes told at some unsuspecting patron’s expense.

“Oh, check out that tired, old queen.”

“Eww. Look at the twink over there.”

“She’s just a big, ol’ bottom.”

“That one shouldn’t wear a tank top. Her best hope is covering up…everything.”

 

Yuk, yuk.

 

Yuck.

 

Don’t believe me? Watch any version of “The Boys in the Band.” The characters are insufferable. Even listen to the banter between Will and Jack on “Will & Grace.” I love the show, but there was a running joke over Will being overweight. I may have been overly sensitive as someone with anorexia but there was no basis in fact for the putdown. That was the point. It reflected how harsh gays were in assessing their bodies and, yes, the bodies of their peers. 

 

I mastered this kind of “humor.” Sometimes I relied on it. If I could dismiss a handful of gay men in the bar, I might feel I belonged. I might have felt worthy (or worthier than them at least), despite the fact the models/actors/caterers of West Hollywood looked right through me. 

 

Critiquing others carried over to other places in my life. While my car idled at a stoplight, I might glance at someone in the crosswalk or popping out of Starbucks and I’d think something harsh about a mistaken mascara application, a misstep in choice of footwear or a hairstyle from the “wrong” decade. The assessments came easily. Joan Rivers, the “fashion police” and “Ab Fab” were also part of my pre- and prime gay years. 

 

It was a psychiatrist who made note—repeatedly—of how harsh I was about myself. My self-hate was deep, intense, unwavering. I couldn’t shift my frame of mind. What I felt was real and indisputable. 

 

A medical diagnosis paved the way for a shift from pervasive negativity. After a decades-long battle with what I thought was an eating disorder, I was finally diagnosed in late 2017. It came as a relief. The assessment meant access to supports and I spent all of 2018 and 2019 pursuing and receiving treatment. The interventions came too late. My behaviors are entrenched. As of 2023, things are status quo. I’m a functioning anorexic. 

 

The one silver lining from all the time I spent in programs was that one course I took was called “Self-Compassion.” On the first day, I was not impressed. My critical brain dismissed and tore up everything the facilitators said, every activity we did and every response from others in the program. It felt too woo-woo, too Oprah. And yet, I found myself relenting each passing week. I went from going through the motions as I’d done with every other group and individual intervention to relenting and coming to find purpose in imagery that calmed my brain and rooted me to positive places and people from my past. I caught some of my negative self-talk and shut it down instead of letting it snowball.

 

A law school classmate once said to me during a mixer our first year, “You have a lot of quirks.” He didn’t mean it as a compliment. I got the impression our ten-minute conversation exhausted him. He excused himself—more alcohol, a much-needed escape—and we never had another conversation during our three years of study. All the ways I’m different used to be handicaps, things that gave me a permanent home on the Island of the Misfit Toys. Now I think of them and roll my eyes, sometimes even smile. “You be you.” Sometimes that “pride” concept feels real. 

 

I’m prouder still that I’ve shaken off that tendency to critique passersby. Whatever the body, the clothing, the hairstyle, I let it be…as I should have done all along. If I catch myself leaning toward throwing shade (in my head), I cut myself off and mentally nod to the person in orange Crocs: “You be you.” 

 

To be sure, I have lapses. Facial tattoos and Botoxed lips are particularly challenging. (You be less you?) I continue to be a work in progress. I hope “reading” people fades from gay culture. It’s the opposite of flattering. Considering so many of us felt rejected and disconnected at times in our lives when we yearned to be accepted and loved for all that we are, “You Be You” should be embraced and practiced in our community as much or more than waving the rainbow flag and revering our divas du jour. I’m always going to be TeamOlivia but I have no problem with queers who are TeamMadonna, TeamGaga, TeamKylie or TeamSam. It’s all good. You be you.

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.    

SWISS AMISS

Nothing against Switzerland. It’s beautiful in pictures. Someday I hope to visit. But, beyond its alpine imagery, the country sticks out in my mind as being a peaceful nation that maintained its neutrality in time of war. Yes, that is a good thing. I think I came out of the womb as a pacifist. Not that I was angelic. Didn’t see the point of a water pistol when a bucket of water had a greater impact. Never found the slightest fascination in any kind of weaponry, any movies with violence or drab military uniforms. While being peaceful is a noble ideal, being neutral sometimes isn’t. Okay, here’s where I need to leave Switzerland alone and focus in on gay and lesbian subject matter. I attended a wonderful conference a few weeks ago and a counselor spoke to a group of thirty of us for two extended sessions. Her talk had many important insights that I have used at work, but what lingers more is the way she spoke of her family. There were wonderful stories about her aging, pie-baking mother in Nova Scotia and a few relatable anecdotes about her Twitter/text-obsessed teen stepson and stepdaughter. And then there was her “partner”. Always referred to as such. Never he or she, never husband, wife, girlfriend, boyfriend. The only pronoun used was “we”. It was masterful maneuvering, the kind of gender neutrality that takes constant self-monitoring. I’ve done it before, though not nearly as smoothly. As effortless as she made it seem, it became a distraction for me. This lovely, self-effacing, empathic woman who spoke passionately about accepting and embracing people neutered the most important person in her life. On my gaydar checklist, she had all the stereotypical lesbian traits. It wasn’t as though she was desperately trying to be straight-acting, yet she adopted a stance I have taken many times in my life: You can figure it out for yourself. Why should I have to make a proclamation? As the day went on, I kept waiting for her to get comfortable for the big reveal. Yes, she relaxed enough to throw out a couple of expletives that had proper context and made her stories more realistic. She made multiple references to her golf game. She shared many of her own flaws, some deeply personal. But The Partner remained a genderless enigma. Being single and chronically dating-challenged, I tell myself there isn’t much harm in my closed/closeted stance. No one suffers. I do not have a “partner” who has been slighted/neutered/erased. I am an introvert. I do not need to share that I am gay, just like I do not need to share that I am a vegetarian or a lover of old episodes of “The Mary Tyler Moore” show (and, particularly, its oh so empowering theme song, the lyrics markedly more positive after Season One). I do not like calling attention to myself. No need when others crave the stage. Despite the fact I could relate to Neuter Syndrome, I remain bothered by the countless references to The Partner over the course of the day. I may not have gone with any family references and stuck to stories about my dog. Heck, I can connect everything in life to my dog. Or “The Mary Tyler Moore Show”. But this respected speaker who spoke so eloquently about creating genuine relationships could not be fully honest with us. We have made progress over the past four decades since Stonewall, but we have a long way to go in terms of self-acceptance and societal acceptance. Locking ourselves in a gondola in Switzerland is safe, sometimes even restorative, but neutrality that amounts to neutering can be harmful.