THE BATTLE OF THE BANKS: WHO’S PROUDEST?

 

Can the world have too many rainbows? 

 

There was a time when, if a business stuck a rainbow sticker in the corner of its storefront window, it said something. I remember in the ’90s, walking by or strolling in and stopping to make eye contact with a friend or boyfriend, either of us nodding at the statement. 

 

Back then, the rainbow sticker was as rare as a rainbow in the sky. There was a sense that the owner was taking a business risk. Homophobia was more open then. Gay rights didn’t exist in many areas. A lot of people still lumped gays in with pedophiles and generally reviled deviants. AIDS added elements of fear and disgust. Outside of the gay ghettos, a business owner risked turning away customers who opposed any positive gesture toward the LGBT community. Some couched it in terms of “When I buy antacid, I don’t want your political or cultural views jammed down my throat.” Go on, then. Live with your damn indigestion. 

 

When I’d make one of my occasional appearances at a Pride parade and the follow-up “festival,” my friends and I would be surprised, even elated, to see a Bank of America contingent holding colorful balloons and a large sign saying, “PROUD OF OUR LGBT EMPLOYEES & CUSTOMERS” as they marched behind the corporate banner. Having a large corporate entity show support felt like progress and gave legitimacy to the fact that queer people deserved respect and were worthy of calculated business solicitation. It almost made me think of switching banks. Almost. Such a hassle though.

 

The days of a business entity seeming like a standout in the midst of drag queens, PFLAG, Dykes on Bikes, the Speedo-sporting gay swim team and go-go boys in thongs dancing atop floats are long behind us. Nowadays, it feels like a competition for which business can have the largest parade presence and/or decorate its store space the gayest. As an established practice, it made me cynical. No longer a business risk, it turned into a business decision. Showing Pride means good business. Do they really care?

 

I’ve decided it doesn’t really matter. 

 

Sure, I want to feel welcomed wherever I shop or choose to do business. And, to be clear, I choose NOT to spend money at places that don’t support gay rights or are all-out anti-gay. As a vegetarian, I’ve never opened my wallet at a Chick fil-A, but I’ve informed a lot of my straight friends who have at least had to think twice if they really want a chicken sandwich. It’s also created a permanent rift between my brother and me after I saw my sister-in-law’s Facebook post about joining a long line to support the franchise at the height of the boycott. I objected and he did not respond at all. Moreover, after several years of joining college friends at annual bowl games when my alma mater, TCU, was doing well in football, I refused to attend the Peach Bowl in Atlanta because, due to corporate sponsorship, it became known as The Chick fil-A Peach Bowl. My friends opted out as well in support of me.

In a Red State, corporate participation in Pride events is still a statement but not in a place like California and certainly not in Vancouver, British Columbia. A few yahoos may choose to do business elsewhere, but it’s basically another opportunity for advertising the business name. Let us be your cable supplier, drink our beer, choose me as you real estate agent. Sure, sure, whatever. I’m no more persuaded than I am listening to a TV commercial or one of those pesky YouTube ads. (FYI, I will never ever subscribe to Grammarly.com!) 

 

I know there are queer people who aren’t just cynical about corporate infiltration into Pride event; they are adamantly against it. Why are we allowing bottled water companies to join the parade? It dilutes the focus on true pride, on bringing greater diversity into the event, on highlighting what still needs to be done in terms of trans rights and LGBTQ rights elsewhere in the world. 

 

This is black-and-white thinking. It has to be either-or instead of and. I see this all the time when someone online objects to a government or some other entity spending $ X million on the arts or paving a still-decent road when it could be used to establish housing for the homeless. Yes, more money needs to be spent on all sort of supports to address complex issues related to homelessness. And, true, there are limited pots of money…that whole robbing Peter to pay Paul dilemma. Still, not all money will go toward a single issue. Other things will get funded, some that you or I may agree upon, others to which we don’t. I got my hand slapped once when, as a teacher, I attended a public hearing about proposed educational budget cuts and suggested slashing one expenditure to reduce the number of teaching positions slated to be eliminated. While I still think my suggestion was valid, it upset people whose jobs would then be affected and I had a certain union really pissed at me. What I should have done was focus on the essential value of the positions that needed to be protected and leave it to the school board to make the tougher Peter-Paul decisions.

 

Let businesses jump on the Pride bandwagon. Regardless of how deep or shallow their belief in LGBTQ rights may be, their flags, banners and decorations expand the awareness and acceptance of Pride. Yes, it’s advertising for themselves, but they’re also advertising Pride.

 

Official Pride celebrations have gone from a day to a week to a whole month. (Plus, some places like Vancouver and Ottawa wait and have their many Pride events in August. When travel opens up again, you can have a Pride summer!) 

 

Pride has also extended in terms of people who participate, particularly in attending the parade. I’ve heard some complaining, but Pride has become a summer event. A couple of summers ago, I was immersed with a bunch of straight twenty-somethings and they were all excited to track down what they were going to wear for the parade. They spent a great deal of time planning for it. When I attended my first parade in L.A. in 1990, none of my law school classmates (almost all in their twenties) knew it was happening. A few may have learned about it after the fact by seeing drag queens—then considered way too Out There—in a polarizing lead story on the 11:00 news.

 

As I’ve been walking around the traditionally queer center of Vancouver this month, lots of businesses have rainbow flags hanging. The banks, in particular, seem to be in competition with one another. 

 

We’re the most pro-gay! 

 

No, we are!  

 

Early one morning, I walked by one financial institution that had not yet opened for the day. It had covered its entire façade with rainbow stripes. Alas, it was done with some sort of stick-on material and the sticking hadn’t stuck. The entire building looked like a giant child had hastily unwrapped it, with torn strips all over the ground. A week later, the rainbow décor was comparatively understated, only framing the windows. We’re pro-gay, but we don’t have their decorating know-how.  

 

At Halloween or Christmas, I don’t question businesses over how much they truly believe in, say, The Great Pumpkin or baby Jesus in a manger or a once-bullied reindeer flying Santa around the world in a sled in a single evening. I may curse them for creating an entire Valentine’s aisle on January 2^nd every year, but there are people who love all that love. Not a year goes by when I could possibly forget Easter—do these businesses have deep religious beliefs or do they just like bunnies…and chocolate? I’m a smidge Irish and I have no objection to other people without any trace of Irish blood wearing green and drinking beer while businesses hang shamrocks in their windows.

 

Businesses will always be first and foremost about the bottom line. It’s their raison d’être. If they want to decorate during the holidays, let them. All those years ago, back in the ‘90s, I’d have never guessed that Pride would be penned in on their holiday calendar.

  

THE TRANS GOAL: "BEING" INSTEAD OF "BEING BRAVE"

I’ve been striving to learn more about the lives of people who identify as transgender. I’m greatly concerned about conservatives in the U.S. (Republicans and many church-going folk) going back to the LGBTQ well to instill fear, indignation and repulsion in a large section of the population, especially in Red states, to rally people against a minority. 

 

Suppress them. 

Vilify them. 

Make them the enemy. 

Reject them. 

 

Many politicians thrive on uniting people through hate and ignorance. Turning trans non-issues issues into issues makes a rabid constituency froth at the mouth. Republican politicians can solidify support, manifesting in increased campaign coffers and more votes, by bringing a galvanizing issue to the forefront. To them, picking on transgender people is a no-brainer. People in general—not just Americans—have a hard time understanding and accepting differences. The more different, the more difficult. 

 

Creating fear and hating on trans people has been going on in the U.S. for a while now. Public bathrooms served as ground zero for making the public squirmy. 

 

Sample of suggestive thinking: A guy with a penis can put on a wig and walk into the women’s restroom?! Where’s my privacy? Doesn’t this pave the way for sexual offenders to walk in and rape me?

 

Politician’s thinking: Are you scared? Good! Donate to us. Vote for us. It’s the only way you can stay safe.

 

In recent years, transgender rights have gained more media attention. Much of the coverage has tried to introduce the public to actual trans people to counter fictionalized, demonized versions. Trans lives have been portrayed more on television and in movies. Celebrities, politicians and regular Joes and Jills are in public view. This is a good thing, of course, but it also ups the fear factor.

 

When people see a minority gaining ground, many feel more threatened. The urge to suppress increases. Otherwise, Life as We Know It will surely crumble. And here we are in 2021 with Trumped-up efforts to hold transgendered people down. 

 

This is a time to increase understanding of trans lives. They have the attention of some of the media at least. It is a burden. For someone who is trans, the journey to understand one’s identity is a deeply personal process that takes years, if not decades to come to terms with. There are also interpersonal issues in dealing with acceptance and rejection from friends and family. Housing and employment issues come into play as well. A trans person has plenty on their plate as it is. Going before the press to be a spokesperson, to answer questions they are tired of answering about parts of their life that other people don’t have to explain takes great fortitude. There is no obligation to do so, but some must come forward in the name of the greater cause.

 

I am writing this after getting stirred up while watching CNN’s consistently excellent “United Shades of America” with W. Kamau Bell on Sunday, June 13. This particular hour-long episode focused on Black trans women living in Dallas, Texas. It’s funny, heartbreaking, tragic, empowering, inspiring, poignant and maddening. Yes…all that. If it isn’t obvious, let me say I HIGHLY RECOMMEND watching it. (Click on the hyperlink at the beginning of this paragraph.) The people who are featured are strong, intelligent and they aren’t afraid to push back to make Kamau go beyond platitudes of acceptance. As I tweeted during the show, I love, love, love these women.

 

I want to highlight what, for me, was the most compelling moment of the “Shades of America” episode. Trans women, and even more so, trans women of color, are subject to a greater risk of violence and trauma. There is cause for a Black trans woman to be alert and guarded about where they are and who is around them. I’ve read many times that the average life expectancy in the United States for a trans woman of color is thirty-five years old. Shocking…and not true. I’m only repeating it to cite an article refuting this statistic. (The article doesn’t come from the most highly regarded source, but it is well laid out.) More accurate stats are not available, at least to my knowledge. Black trans women do live, on average, longer than that oft-stated age of thirty-five, but that doesn’t negate the fact they face significant risks in terms of violence and even murder. The statistic of a life expectancy of thirty-five is so frequently given—it reminds me of the Kinsey-based 1 in 10 figure I heard regarding gays and lesbians that always mystified me—that there comes a point when a trans woman of color believes it. In becoming my true self, I can live my life but expect it to end when I’m thirty-five.

 

Sobering.

And, for me, heartbreaking.

 

When one of the women, Pocahontas, says, “I made it to thirty-six years old,” it’s as though this is a personal victory, defying the odds. Imagine having to always be vigilant and having the shadow of an ominous, if untrue, statistic hanging over you. The media, including GLAAD, The Advocate and The Guardian have repeated this state without tracking down a primary source, perhaps in part because it’s a shocking “fact” to rally LGBT allies, but also perhaps because, given all the reports of violence, it may seem like such a plausible figure that it isn’t being fact-checked.  

 

What I took away from watching this show and listening to these women—was a greater sense that we must jump aboard the fight for trans rights. We need LGBTQ allies to act, but it needs to be expressly said that the rest of the LGBTQ community needs to get on board. They’ve been with us all along the way in seeking equal rights. In recent years, there’s been more awareness of the role of drag queens and transgendered people in fighting back against the police at Stonewall, names like Marsha Johnson, Syvia Rivera and Maria Ritter figuring into the narrative. As noted at the beginning of this post, people who identify as transgender are only the latest focus in a long history of hate and discrimination against queer people. The fight on the right has been lost with respect to marriage equality, adoption, (to some extent) HIV stigma and many areas regarding housing and employment.

 

At pro-trans rallies, there are often signs and banners that rightly declare, Trans rights are human rights. For those of us in the gay community, it’s important to personalize this more: Trans rights are LGBTQ rights. By achieving rights and protections for trans people, we strengthen acceptance and legal safeguards for ALL of us under the LGBTQ umbrella. Still, in the gay rights movement, it feels like, along the way, the transgendered community got left behind to some degree. Back in the ’90s, I remember some politically minded gay men wanting to dissociate from trans people, saying the public would get sidetracked if we were all lumped together. Trans people come off as even more different than us. To put it more bluntly, the thinking was that including transgendered people in the fight for equal rights would hold gays back. Yep, our “community” has always been more than a bit of a mess. Now is yet another time we need to come together. 

 

Let me repeat, Trans rights are LGBTQ rights.

 

Once again, I encourage you to watch the “Shades of America” episode. I hope it will inspire you and provide more insight into the struggles and successes of Black trans women. 

 

The “T” in LGBTQ is the new frontier for attack. During this month of Pride, let us learn about what it’s like to live as a transgendered person and figure out what we can do to add our voices, our money and our solidarity.

 

DATING INDIFFERENCE

At the very beginning of 2020, before the Great Lockdown, I snoozed my profiles on traditional online dating sites. I was moving. I most certainly did not want to start a relationship with someone in Vancouver. In a post from that time, I’d explained that I wanted to do some sowing of my wild oats which I never did in my teens or twenties. When I came out in my mid-twenties, AIDS seemed to be wiping out the gay population and I didn’t think sex with a stranger was worth it. I had enough fear about being gay in the first place—possible bashing, losing my job (I worked with nuns), losing friends, being disowned by family (which, in retrospect, might not have been so bad). Back in the ’80s, “out and proud” was perhaps an aspiration for others, but I was just looking to survive. I never was one for setting lofty goals.

 

Okay, so back to 2020. MY mission: makeup sex, in the sense of experiencing a little of what I missed. I opened a profile on a hookup site and wound up meeting one guy who wasn’t a hook up at all. We dated for five months. It was nice as a casual yet close connection. When lockdown forced me to postpone or abandon travel and moving plans, I suppose the stakes became higher. I had to assess whether this guy, who was comfortable to be around, was long-term partner material. He wasn’t. Nice guy, but we had some fundamental differences in terms of values. 

 

I’ve been single for a full year and off all online sites for seventeen months—I closed down my profile on the hookup site when I the supposedly casual five-month relationship began. (I’m even worse at juggling than I am at setting lofty goals.) To say it’s been good to be single and off the dating scene is an understatement. 

 

So many of us who are single spend too much time thinking about relationship possibilities. We pine. We whine. We flirt. We get hurt. (Okay, my flirting is infinitely worse than my juggling or my goal setting. Call it nonexistent. But others, I’m told, flirt.) Our friends, particularly those who are coupled, say well-intended, but unhelpful things like: It’ll happen when you stop looking. Don’t try so hard; Maybe you’re being too picky. (Um, so are you saying I should lower my standards? Hello, rock. Wanna go out?); and You need to put yourself out there more. (Sure, let me simply turn off my lifelong INTROVERT button and suddenly become a different personality.) 

 

I can be quick to put myself down, but I know I did a lot of things right when I was on the dating scene. I had many odd or bad coffee dates that made for good blog posts, but I also had many occasions where the conversation flowed and things extended to a walk or dinner before I got told I was a really nice guy, but I didn’t set off any fireworks. (My fireworks skills? You guessed it. Not even worth buying bottle rockets or Roman candles. I’ve been afraid of fire ever since a sparkler boo-boo when I was five. Can’t even light a match. I will not be putting on a fireworks show for anyone.) I suspect some of this fireworks nonsense may have been on account I didn’t give off any pressing Let’s Have Sex vibes. I’m the quintessential guy next door. 

 

When you have a lot of WTF go-nowhere dates, you can either torture yourself with What’s Wrong with Me thinking, adopt a Screw You All, Shallow Gay Men stance or just wave a white flag and choose to knit an afghan or set off in search of a rare Light-footed Clapper Rail. (That’s a bird. Frankly, if I were a bird and I knew humans called me a Light-footed Clapper Rail, I’d go into hiding, too. Because clearly humans are weird.) I’ve swum in the What’s Wrong and the Screw You sewers more than a time or two, but I’ve yet to take up knitting or birdwatching. (I can only imagine the dangers that would come with me holding knitting needles and binoculars just bug my eyes. Hmm…I’m beginning to see why guys might quickly decide I’m not such a catch.)

 

For a year now, the self-criticism has been next to nil. Whining and pining? Wasted time. (Ryan Reynolds doesn’t count. I’m abundantly aware that he is still solidly straight…and married.) 

 

Lockdown and a global pandemic have made it a no-brainer to forgo dating. (Yes, this generously assumes I have much of a say in the prospect of dating.) I’d read how one of Canada’s top doctors encouraged sex with masks, but I was having enough challenges just putting on a mask so it didn’t cover up my eyes. (I know, I know. Such a catch!) I couldn’t get my head around the thought that the sweatiness under my mask would complement the sweatiness of sex. Different things. I’d also read a New York Times article about casual sex during coronavirus, but it just made me think people had their priorities out of whack. Perhaps I defaulted to some version of AIDS-era sense of caution. I wasn’t terribly fearful of getting COVID, but I didn’t want to be the one to pass on the virus or have it passed on to me and then to have it get passed on to someone far more vulnerable. For me at least, any personal agenda needed to be put on hold to give that “We’re All in This Together” mantra some weight instead of merely being a sign people post in windows.

 

I’ve come to realize I am happy being single. I’ve always known I enjoy time on my own but, just like 98% of us, I was raised to believe that becoming a couple was one of the milestones that made your life well-lived. As a man, bachelor has never sounded as judgemental as how women are labeled: spinster or cat lady. Still, this bachelor wasn’t ever going to be called a playboy and I’d had my wedding song picked when I was six. (“We’ve Only Just Begun” by The Carpenters, natch.) 

 

Being on my own does not make me a Have Not. I don’t need to be defensive about it just because others may project a void in my life. We have different life paths. One is not necessarily better than another. It’s what you make of the path you’re on. That’s as Oprah as I’ve ever sounded, but all this quiet time has allowed me to get more comfortable with where I’m at. The quiet has also reduced any tendency to compare myself with others I see going about their daily business since there was less of that going on in public. I stopped inferring some sense of happiness in couples I passed on the sidewalk (instead begrudging the fact they rarely walked single file for two seconds to allow more space as we came upon one another). I didn’t have opportunities to view a person having dinner alone in a restaurant as someone warranting pity. I have done this. I have felt this. I know I’m not the only one.

 

Things are opening back up again. For now. Who knows what may or may not happen when winter approaches. I’ve had both my vaccination shots. I know I can reactivate my dating profiles. It’s crossed my mind a few times over the past couple of weeks. It goes on my to-do list, but I don’t do it. It stays there along with Fix Closet Door and Clean Car Interior (so much coffee spillage).     

 

Yes, I can date again. Chat over coffee. Walk away with a funny or a maddening anecdote. Maybe even experience a firework-free spark. Maybe more. All I have to do is press one button on a dating site to make my profile public again. I can easily update things with some recent, acceptable photos of me looking smiley and sporty. It’s painless. The problem is, I haven’t figured out why. What do I want now, if anything? Is diving back into dating—or the possibility of it, at least—just a fallback habit? Gosh, it’s what I’ve always done. It’s what I’m supposed to do to “fix” this “problem” of being a single guy. 

 

I’ve had a good thing going for the past year. As an example, I just had a great weekend that had me smiling as I retired to bed Sunday night. When. I thought back on it, I realized I’d spent it entirely alone. I’d exchanged texts with some friends, three in Vancouver, one in Boston. I’d gone on a ten-hour solo hike, ascending two mountain peaks, I’d started my Sunday walking three hours in the rain and seeing how much an old neighborhood where I’d lived had changed. I read, I wrote, I watched a movie. I felt content the entire time. Not once did I think something was missing.

 

I don’t think this dating ambivalence arises from a sense of safety and I know it’s not fear that’s holding me back. Without the slightest bit of bitterness or drama, I wonder if I might just be done. I’ll give it some more thought, but I know that, for now at least, I’m happy being single. That’s a pretty wonderful takeaway from one odd year.

THEY WERE LOVED

This post is lengthy, but few of the words are mine. (My intro turned out to be longer than I anticipated, but I wanted to provide context.) I have written many times about AIDS, remembering when it was at a crisis level and continuing to support efforts toward helping persons with HIV and finding a vaccine and a cure for AIDS. I truly believe in a NEVER FORGET approach to recalling the human toll and the brilliant, compassionate individuals who died too soon…the average Joes as well. 

 

There are many people today who were born after the AIDS peak or were too young to know what was going on, blissful days of Power Rangers, “Moesha” and that dang Tickle Me Elmo. Many younger members of the LGBTQ community don’t have a full sense—perhaps even any sense—of the loss and how it spurred increased visibility, formalizing and broadening advocacy while rallying straight allies who had friends and relatives that were affected. These efforts are directly linked to an evolving activism leading to the greater freedoms we now enjoy (but must not take for granted).

 

A couple of months ago, I stumbled on an AIDS Memorial post somewhere online and I discovered that the original source was an Instagram account. I immediately followed the account (theaidsmemorial) and from then on, I’ve read daily tributes to people who have died from AIDS-related illnesses. On any given day, there are three or four posts—thus, I’ve read about two hundred posts so far. There are days when I brace before logging in, when I hope it will be three posts instead of four or, just maybe only two. I get teary when I read the tributes, always so heartfelt, often wrenching. Sometimes the tears flow. I smile every time as well, sometimes even laugh. Sometimes everything hits me at once. That saying, “A picture is worth a thousand words” has never rung so true and when I look closely at the photos or, sometimes, photos, of the person. Most often, I see a sweetness in the individual. I also marvel at the big hair and now-dated fashion so many of us wore back in the day. It brings fond memories. There are some who unabashedly wear outlandish outfits and I think about what a larger-than-life character the person must have been. It may sound weird, but after I read each post, I make a point of winking at the person’s photo and saying his or her name. You are remembered. I honor you. It matters deeply to me.

 

The tributes are for lovers, friends, mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts, sons, daughters, grandparents, cousins, coworkers, teachers and mentors. Many of the tributes are for gay men, but there are others for hemophiliacs, people who struggled with addictions, and people who acquired AIDS from reasons not specified. The people who are honored are from all over the world (though most often from the U.S.). Some posts are glowing, others make no attempt to deify their loved ones, but choose to portray them for the loved, but flawed humans we all are. 

 

I am taken aback by how young almost all of the people were. So few made it to my current age (fifty-six). There are many who died in the ’80s and early ’90s, particularly scary times when the hate was the greatest, when many families disowned them, when treatments seemed as debilitating as the disease and when causes of death were cancer and pneumonia. I am heartbroken when I read about those who died between 1994 and 1996 when we were on the cusp of treating patients with more successful, life-extending drugs. If only they could have held on a little bit longer. If only the disease hadn’t been so savage. I am also surprised by how many died in the twenty-first century, including 2020.

 

Yes, we must continue to make AIDS a health priority.

 

I encourage you to follow the Instagram account. Skip the posts some days if it becomes too much. Maybe just look at the pictures and the name. Check in only occasionally if that makes the most sense for you. There is no prize for who reads the most posts. The point is to understand and humanize the toll that AIDS has taken and to simply remember.

 

What follows are snippets from posts I’ve read, each triggering various emotions and thoughts while also reminding me of things I lived and witnessed. I have pared down comments but none of the writing is edited.

 

REMEMBER ME:

 

Patrick Lamar Taylor (October 8, 1963-December 24, 1994): Around 1982, I first saw a story about gay men dying from a mysterious illness in New York and San Francisco. I don’t think I thought much about it at the time. I never imagined that my best friend from the age of 10 would die from a disease later named AIDS on Christmas Eve, 12 years later…[As kids] Patrick and I became inseparable. We loved all the same things as boys…As we grew older, it became apparent we also shared a love for men…Unfortunately, Patrick’s family was not as accepting as mine. When he was 16, he was shipped off to a mental hospital in Georgia. There he was subjected to conversion therapy and shock treatment…I will forever miss my beautiful friend. I wish I could have been there for him. I wish he could have held on until much better treatments were available. I will always wonder where life would have taken him and where he would be today.

 

*

Tommy Pace [no dates provided]: I think of my dear, wickedly funny, brilliant Tommy Pace. Tommy’s malady was the cruelest. It started slowly, with the smallest Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions I first spied in 1984 as he peeled off his gloves after a performance of “Naked Brunch.” It rapidly progressed. 

[Another friend] recalled a time Tommy was taken to a dog show…As a Dalmation pranced in front of him, he whispered with unbearable black humor, “I have spots too.”

He radiated inner turbulence. Conversations became fleeting; he would abruptly terminate the exchange and retreat. The lesions on his arm were soon matched by a single raised purple lesion on his nose. Tommy covered it up with makeup. Until there was a crop of them. The lesions, now swollen to almost double their size, soon covered his whole face, obscuring his once-glistening eyes. Tommy became unrecognizable.

Through the course of the epidemic, I had come to realize the process of death would either bring people to a higher or lower place—bringing out the more elevated spirits or the darkest demons…Tommy, once the sweetest, gentlest soul, became monstrous. We all tried to turn the other cheek and form a support circle around our dear friend…A trip to the movies attracted unwanted attention. No matter how big the hats and oversized Jackie O sunglasses were, or how many scarves he wrapped around his neck, people would point and whisper…And he knew it. When he caught people staring, he would howl in the most guttural, brutish voice, “Don’t look at me, DON’T LOOOOOK AT MEEEEEEEEEE.” It was heartbreaking. 

 

* 

Thomas E. Shields (May 9, 1952-April 3, 1987): Mr. Shields singled me out and treated me like I was his child. And I completely adored him…A favorite memory was when we would make some sort of mistake in class and he’d say out lout (almost singing) “I can’t go for that” and the entire class would respond “No can do!”…I’ve told my children stories about Mr. Shields over and over. I’ve shared with them and now with you…this exceedingly talented, intelligent, kind, generous and gentle man I was sincerely blessed to have known…even for a short while.

 

*

This is my beautiful mom, Catherine Herpfer (April 22, 1959-August 15, 2017)…The effortless hostess…No cancer, no pneumonia, her body just grew tired and stopped working after years of undiagnosed, untreated HIV…My mother was a substance abuse counselor. She was active, ate clean, surfed and paddle boarded any chance she could get near the water…Mom was diagnosed with AIDS on April 30, 2017. She had been unable to walk since Thanksgiving, a complication of the undiagnosed virus that had been in her system. She had been to every kind of doctor to find the cause of her paralysis and when she was finally tested for HIV, the test results never came back to the doctor and he didn’t follow up…I watched my mom waste away from a vibrant, energetic, force of nature to a weak, frail, shadow of herself. I’m still sorting through the broken pieces of my heart…All I know is that I will live the rest of my life honoring the things she held dear, the best qualities she possessed and advocate as best I can. I love you mommy.

 

*

AIDS does not discriminate against anyone. It took a whole generation of men in the hemophilia community. My brother Eric Ryan (Rick) (May 10, 1963-December 18, 1993) was my best friend. My brother William Ryan (Bill) (May 12, 1969-May 26, 1992) had just made his 23^rd birthday. Both were great men as were ALL their wonderful friends that went with them.

 

*

My sister Dorothy (aka Nicole) and her husband Jason both died from AIDS, Jason in 1987 and Dorothy in 1989. They’re very missed.

 

*

Jaime Jesus Jimenez (May 18, 1963-October 27, 1995): That’s us [in the posted photo] in 1990…madly in love. Jaime was the only man I ever fell in love with. He was insanely beautiful, inside and out. The stories are endless but one that I cannot erase is bathing Jaime at his weakest and in the last stages of his illness. That very moment, looking at each other, knowing this was it. I felt something shift in my chest. It was my heart literally aching. Fuck I miss him.

 

*

Marty Donnelly: I accompanied Marty’s casket on the flight from Chicago to Sioux Falls and in the hearse to Cavour…When arriving at a small, local hotel where his family had gathered, an uncle, sort of the family patriarch said, “I understand Marty died from cancer, ah?” I froze. Even in death, so many of our loved ones had to hide their truths.

 

*

My brother Rion Planty (May 10, 1974-March 2, 2005) lost his battle with progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy (PML). He contracted the virus due to his almost non existent immune system.

Rion tested positive with HIV sometime in 2002 but he was so afraid of the stigmatism that he stayed quiet and didn’t tell anyone. He lived in [such] fear of anyone finding out that he did nothing to take care of his health…

So many “if” scenarios have gone through my mind every day for the past 16 years but I know in my heart that if Rion had taken care of his health from the moment he tested HIV positive, he would still be with us today. I truly believe it was the stigma of the disease that took his life, not HIV.

 

*

An example of the unique personalities lost:

Alan Walker (July 6, 1951-May 13, 1996): In between acting gigs and working in bookstores, he collected stamps and created elaborate paper doll folios. Often these paper cut-outs centered around the Miss Universe beauty contest, sometimes in evening wear, sometimes in swimsuits. Each character had a complete bio. He could describe in detail the background and attributes of each of these invented women.

For my 30^th birthday in 1989, Alan created a Miss Universe book for me, each participant inspired by an aspect of my life: Miss Connecticut, Miss California, Miss Sweden, Miss Poland, Miss France, Miss Arizona, Miss South Dakota. They were illustrated in their evening wear and were accompanied by a short prose poem. It’s one of the most amazing pieces of art I’ve ever seen…AIDS was particularly cruel to Alan. He suffered terribly in the final weeks of his life. The medical establishment treated him more like a science [experiment] than an ailing human being. Fortunately, I don’t remember him in this state but as the handsome, strapping, charming, boyish angel he was and still is.  

 

*

Ending on a hopeful note, while pointing out there is more to be done:

Ronald Dennis: I found out in 1984 that I was HIV positive when the ELISA test was released which detected exposure to the virus. In 1986, my symptoms began, weight loss, dripping night sweat, flu-like symptoms of the worst kind, on and off until I was hospitalised with “full blown” AIDS in 1990…I held on until 1996 when antiretrovirals arrived. They saved my life and I didn’t die at 43. 

99% of the men of my generation are long ago deceased. My Black male friends are ALL GONE…I held on and outed my HIV status rather than hide in shame. It was hell what I lived through but here I am! I lived on and here I am at 76…I endured: Pneumocystis pneumonia (PCP) four times in three years. Non-Hodgkin lymphoma, twice, along with a host of AIDS related ailments…As the Senior Advisor at APLA for Project Rise addressing medication adherence among the young Black men in Los Angeles, the very same issues of shame, secrecy and resistance to taking their medication persist in 2021.

 

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.    

WORTH ANOTHER LOOK

Okay, so in my last post I devoted a thousand (plus) words to an encounter that consisted of four glances. Total glance time: 10, maybe 11 seconds. Total time, including moments of stunned ineptitude between said glances: 45, maybe 50 seconds.

 

It was actually 1,380 words. (That’s 27.6 words per second. Must edit better.)

 

Sorry. Maybe the past ten months saying I needed no one and professing to love being single without any possible prospects bore too much bluster. I still don’t think so. I like time on my own. What I’ve learned during various incarnations of lockdown is I miss travel. Men? Meh.

 

But if opportunity knocks…

 

Handsome Man Walking Dog notices me and suddenly I’ve entered Hallmark movie territory. Apologies to Luke Macfarlane as I may have taken one of his roles. (It’s a “sorry, not sorry” from one Canadian to another. How have I missed all eight of adorable Luke’s Hallmark movie appearances?) I decided it was worth considering another glance-fest, maybe even a daring exchange of hellos. (“Hi” sounds more casual, right? “Hey” is too casual, verging on coffee barista indifference.)

 

Over the next week I went back. Same place, same time. Not every day. That would be desperate. (I skipped Monday.) I can’t be sure, but I think he was there every time. I can’t be sure since he now had an extra dog and he didn’t look as good. Do I have that fickle gay gene? 

 

I reminded myself that there were no suitors waiting in the wings. Heck, there are no wings. They got repurposed after lack of use. 

 

My first day back, I was back to my old self. No confidence. Eyes on the pavement, avoiding the cracks that might break my mother’s back. Noble, right? (That should be rewarded.) If he looked, I wouldn’t know. Still, he could’ve approached, said something about the weather, COVID or Meghan and Harry. They’re the standard chitchat topics these days. Clearly, he couldn’t make a choice. I may have made him nervous. He walked on. 

 

The next day, I dared to look. It was the quickest of glances, but long enough for me to see him looking straight ahead, my image registering no more than a one of the dozens of trees in the park. As the days went on, I lengthened my gaze. It’s less gutsy when you know it’s perfectly safe. Still, I focused on the task before me.

 

No doubt, my look remained a work-in-progress. It wasn’t anything in the realm of “Come hither,” but it was a very clear “I see you.” And yet he didn’t see me. 

 

Maybe he’s the one with the fickle gene.

 

Then, it happened. He scowled. It wasn’t directly at me, but I was definitely in range. Message received. Even if it wasn’t intended for me, why would I want to date a random scowler? If he scowls for no reason, what would he do if I put the orange juice carton back with only a few drip-drops left? What if he found a hair of mine in the bathroom sink? What if I didn’t smell Irish Spring-fresh after a run? (These things have been known to happen.) 

 

Bullet dodged.

 

Anything gained? I’ll always have that fifty seconds of four over-the-shoulder glances. The fact he turned out to be The Scowler can’t negate that. So many possibilities never lead to anything. There’s also the chance that The Scowler with Two Dogs is just a case of mistaken identity, that my Handsome Man Walking Dog really and truly only has one dog and is still out there, Fido’s pee schedule too irregular for me to expect such an easy, Hallmark-approved Scene 2. “And cut. Can someone’s get Luke Macfarlane’s agent on the line?” 

 

Wasn’t meant to be. 

 

Doesn’t matter. For a moment, I felt noticed. I extended that moment into a week of what ifs and, dare I say, hope. (Bonus: I blogged that week in half as many words.) That’s enough.

 

 

LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER

I’ve noticed a shift when I’m out and about, doing my daily walks, runs and bike rides. I’m noticing men again. I suppose I never really stopped noticing them, but there was an extended period time when they mainly registered in a recently renovated part of my brain. (I never used the old frontal scrapbooking space anyway.) Thoughts about men had moved to the COVID police lobe. 

 

That guy isn’t giving me space as he walks toward me on the sidewalk. 

 

Is the dude behind me too close? 

 

Why isn’t that man’s mask covering his nose?! 

 

Brain overload. I may have had an overly active survival instinct or maybe it was just a mutation of my ever-present need to control my environment. Men represented danger, but then, just to make it clear I’m not sexist, so did women, people who are gender-fluid and maybe the occasional statue. Deep into a pandemic, I was anti-bodies.

 

Think I’ve (mostly) worked my way through that. Now it’s back to seeing men as humans, some of them aesthetically pleasing to this gay guy’s eyes, some of them possibly even being gay. (My gaydar has always had reliability issues. Now it’s rusty and further hindered by mask coverings. It’s as if everyone’s being coy with me.) 

 

Possibilities? Nah. Pre-COVID, it wasn’t like I ever caught other men glancing back at me with that Hey-he’s-aesthetically-pleasing-and-possibly-gay-like-me kind of look. There was a brief window of time for a few months before I turned fifty when that kind of thing may have happened, but never ever at any other point in my life. Most certainly not after I hit the half-century milestone. Hello, pasture. Let me graze on hay and the occasional sugar cube.

 

Today, a man looked my way. I contacted a skywriter to assist with the big announcement, but his fee was astronomical. (If I’d said “sky-high” it would have been too on the nose, yes?)

 

SPOILER ALERT: Don’t get your hopes up, dear reader. This isn’t going to lead to anything.

 

Vancouver is enjoying a string of days of sunshine, with temperatures getting warmer each day. We’re in that weird spot in the calendar year where some people step outside in shorts and t-shirts while others continue to wear puffy winter coats and gloves although I think many in the latter group do so out after establishing a months-long habit, much like I see people carrying umbrellas on days with no chance of rain in the forecast. They’re locked in with, This is my outdoor look. Change is hard. I wore jeans and a sleek, form-fitting navy sweatshirt with a thin horizontal ribbon of hunter green across the chest. It’s the kind of understated, clean garment I see a lot in Stockholm; indeed, I bought it at a trendy men’s boutique in the city’s hip Södermalm neighborhood during my most recent visit. (I just Googled the tag to learn it’s a German label.) The item comforts me, reminding me of my geographical happy place, while also giving me the cool confidence of a faux Swede in North America. 

 

I loaded my backpack with my laptop and headed out for a midday walk to do some errands and to do some writing outdoors, a rare treat I’ve only done a couple of times in this year (plus) of lockdown. Between errands, I stopped in a favorite café, ordered my go-to drink, an oat milk latte which I first “discovered” in, yes, Stockholm several years ago during my first visit. (I was an oat milk convert before it became a thing in North America.) Drink in hand, I walked two blocks to a waterside park, sat on a shaded bench and fit in a half hour of writing, a decent chunk of time given that it had been a while writing in a different venue than my windowless home office/recycling nook. (I'm so glad Zoom isn’t part of my life. Eyes off my sad space, people!)

 

As I packed up and began to walk out of the park, I spotted a nice-looking man about my age walking a small dog on the sidewalk across the street. Our eyes met. Normally, such a moment prompts me to do a lower my head and conduct a safety check. Are my shoelaces securely tied? Could that knot be a little tighter? But, on this occasion, I didn’t look away and neither did he. In fact, I got the distinct feeling my presence startled and pleased him, much like his pooch might respond upon seeing an approaching Pomeranian. (Ghastly breed, but then dogs aren’t very discerning.) In all, the look may have lasted two seconds, but that’s a long time to hold a gaze on someone, enough time to feel one’s personal space has been invaded. Naturally, I came to my senses and looked away. My double-knotted shoelaces were indeed securely intact. 

 

History proves that I am a complete failure in executing The Second Look. On that rare occasion when I attempt such a move, degree of difficulty 4.8[1], it’s a belly flop. My timing is all off. I wait until it’s safe. I don’t turn around until I feel certain that the moment has passed. It’s absolutely counterproductive. But I like feeling safe. I turn and, sure enough, the guy is a full block away, looking forward, getting on with the ordinary thoughts of his day. Did he turn back moments earlier? I’ll never know. Yeah, safety kinda sucks.

 

This time was different. Maybe it was my swanky sweatshirt. Maybe it was a radical move, brought on by months of being cooped up. Maybe the past ten months being dateless produced temporary amnesia regarding the sting of dismissive rejection. Whatever the reason, I pivoted my head slightly—subtly?—and glanced back. 

 

By god, he was doing the same thing.

 

No way. This was too much. I felt embarrassed. Caught! I quickly came to my senses and looked forward. Safety again. I wouldn’t want to risk walking into a tree. Again, a counterproductive stance. Come on, man. What are you doing? You looked and he looked. Somewhere pigs were taking flight. (Hopefully from a factory farm. Fly, Porky, fly!)

 

Doing something daring once—this was like parachute jumping for me—feels less so if you do it again immediately thereafter. I turned back again. Alas, all I saw was the back of his head. But then…he looked back again, directly at me.

 

A bit thrilling, but I panicked and pulled the parachute, looking forward. 

 

Another jump—er, look. Same from his end.

 

Um…now what?

 

I didn’t have a clue. Another mutual glance occurred before I looked forward again in case some prankster tree had snuck up on me. I walked on, a building now blocking any possible view of Handsome Man Walking Dog. Whew! That was quite a ride. A little “Weee!” in my day. Time to hit the grocery store. (Oat milk on sale!) 

 

Perhaps I blew an opportunity. Somehow, I was supposed to make something out of that exchange. How? I need a dating tutor. Maybe I should start with Flirting 101 or enrol in a campy retro course: Cruising for Love. (My luck, it would be all about Captain Stubing and “The Love Boat.” Incidentally, did Lauren Tewes ever get back on track? Must Google.)

 

A quick reflection two blocks away told me the dog was the conversation starter. Duh. Apparently, I can’t think and execute over-the-shoulder glances at the same time. Still, it would have looked odd, the two us of walking on separate sidewalks, heading in different directions and me suddenly changing course, feigning an urgent need to shake a Yorkie’s paw. Too obvious. 

 

Sigh. Sometimes obvious IS the objective! It’s good to know I’m fifty-six and I still have things to learn. I just wish it was something else—baking bread or top five metropolitan areas in Siberia. 

 

Heading home, canvas bag of groceries in hand, I’d already worked past feeling incredulous over my ineptitude. I was smiling, the day felt a little brighter. I’d been acknowledged. Ain’t that something.   

---

[1] This, according to a 2017 answer to a query on technologyreview.com, is currently the highest degree of difficulty for any existing dive thus far attempted in competition, a reverse 4 ½ somersault in the pike position. Truly comparable.