Sadie Hawkins

It is rare that one knows where they were thirty-six years earlier, not in general but in specific. In my case it is the afternoon of February 29, 1972. I was in college, in my fifth floor dorm room to be exact, a very young freshman. That afternoon an even younger high school senior took the train and came to visit. We met her once in a post long ago.

It was of course leap year day - Sadie Hawkin’s day - the one day when a woman could formally chase a man. Now we were a modern couple, but this was long ago and we both had a healthy sense of whimsy. So that afternoon Allison took the train, probably cut out of school a mite early, and came to visit. She had a present – not quite finished, so she used the bathroom (dorm’s do not have many places to hide) for those final touches.

When she came out it was with a little box – light colored stripes if my memory serves me well – and inside wrapped in gauze was a shell, a shell from our beach, and she had carefully inscribed it. At the time I did not realize the words were famous, there were no camps in my background. In her light handwriting was:

You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine,
You make me happy
When skies are grey

And then her nickname. It is a hard memory all these years later and I know why; it was a time of such innocence, an innocence that once lost, as it always is, can never be regained. But remember I did – Lord knows why – and it stuck in my memory as the morning morphed into afternoon. And during that time I struggled with a simple question. You see I last saw her a decade ago and I am a packrat when it comes to telephone numbers. A simple question: Do I call her?

For anyone who knows me it is easy to guess the answer. Call her I did, a brief message on her voice mail. And then around 3 PM, around the time thirty-six years she was handing me the shell, she called, as chipper as ever. With the slightest of jogging she remembered the day. It seems that neither of us has had a Sadie Hawkin’s day since.

We spoke for twenty minutes, not about that day or our pasts, but about our lives today: a decade is a long time. There was a comfort in it and an honesty. Nothing for this boy to hide, not anymore.

As I thought about it after, there was one thing that struck me. I remember the day, the shell, the quote. I could describe the dorm room in perfect draftsman detail. One would guess that we made love, a perfect coda to a special day, a day I was chased by the love of my life. And while we very well may have made love, I don’t remember and I am sure nor does she. The thing is that it is such an unimportant detail. The joy, even back then, was between my ears, not my legs.

As that old post details, three short months later, it ended, crashed and burned. I carried the shell with me for maybe a decade after that, a talisman of that day. Eventually I suppose it became too embarrassing, a secret for new girlfriends to find. It was lost. It would have been nice to look at today, not to pine but to remember that time and to finally look back from a perspective of being happy being me.

Respect

I have given a great deal of thought to my lack of writing and blogging of late and there are many factors, most of which do not really hold water. I am busier – as if the last two plus years of hell have not kept me busy, as if I did not blog at strange stolen hours. There are other reasons – being more secure in who I am, being more circumspect in the wake of destruction and, I suppose, having real people (no insult intended) who know my tale and who I can share at least some of my life with.

But of late there has been a new reason: I have … I hesitate because the obvious words seem stilted. I do have a boyfriend though with our average age pushing towards sixty, boy friend seems a mite young. I could say a lover, though there is an air of sexuality to that which seems to belittle the way we feel. I suppose in gay land one could say “my other half”; however I have spent too long learning to finally be whole to give away a half.

The thing is that in one sense there could be much to write – tales of our time together, stories of our meeting, the path leading from a casual meeting to using the most powerful four letter word of all. And it would make for good writing and good reading. It has been a fun ride – road trips and all. But I hesitate, for good reason I think. If there is any regret over the last few years it is in the public sharing of my life. The regrets are muted by the knowledge that without this forum I could not have reached the current plateau. But reach it I have and somehow to “kiss and tell” does not feel right. It is not that these pages are a secret. We have no secrets. It is not that I am afraid of what he will read nor am I afraid that my personal form of exhibitionism will scare him off – he is well aware of all aspects of me.

Ultimately it is many reasons but one stands above the rest: respect. Respect for him and respect for myself. Sure there are those moments I want to scream out “Look at me, look at my happiness, look at my new found sense of self.” But I realize that screaming that smacks of insecurity, of back sliding to a land that hopefully I have left behind.

So there will be many stories, stories every day it seems, and there will even be ones that I will continue to share here. Last night as we lay in bed, both having had a long day and not seeing each other until a relatively late hour, we spoke. Boring things I suppose, our days, our little stories. And my friend looked at me and asked “Is this pillow talk?” It was, and that is where I now choose to tell most of my stories and there is where most of them will stay.

A Hat and More

I have always liked hats – maybe the brim avoiding glare on the glasses or maybe that innate gay style that has always eluded me. I own a few – baseball caps, Stetsons, silly warm winter ones. But I also grew up in the shadow of Camelot. Younger readers may not know about January 20, 1961: JFK not only asked us what we can do for our country, but he asked it without a hat, the famous hair for all to see. Haberdashery still has not fully recovered. But as usual I digress.

Now that I am gay, I indulge myself, usually a nice felt Stetson. For Christmas Carrie buys me a new hat – a pork pie model, very comfy but not really me. I wear it to work and the comment is the new one is okay but the Stetson is a statement. And they don’t even know about the gay, but they are right: it is a statement indeed.

A few days after Christmas I take the kids for a weekend and one of my eleven year olds adopts the hat – it fits her well and on her it is statement also. She and the hat becomes an item very quickly. I bring her back to her mother’s and the question is asked: why is she wearing my hat, my new hat that was not cheap. It is quickly transferred back to me and I leave proudly wearing it. I have learned after two plus years a little bit about picking battles.

A month later, another day with the kids and again: an eleven year old in full hat glory. As we head back to the house the kids suggest we call ahead, invite Carrie to join us for dinner, and to my surprise and gratitude she accepts. We will pick her up and continue on to Outback – steak for my young carnivores. As we turn down the block, final Carrie approach, I notice next to me: the porkpie hat.

I had considered telling this story – it is cute enough and I am a proud Dad, but it is also a little fluff. Then I received a comment on my blog today from Jen, a daughter of a married gay man. I was in heaven – a demographic if you would that fascinates me. Then as I looked at her blog I started to do some math. She was thirteen when her father came out. And here it is almost thirty years later that she is sharing her thoughts, things still clearly on her mind. It was sobering to one who thinks that this is my coming out, my story. It is the stories of others also, my children’s story. And as she removed a hat at the last moment, my daughter showed how much more she understood than she is able to say, at least at the tender age she currently finds herself.

I fear this is a fertile road, one with much for me to learn and hopefully to share.

Dry Run

I have oft wondered about coming out at work. Friends ask why and I think of James Baldwin on why he came out with his second novel. "They don't tell me; I tell them." When I read the quote I understood immediately – it was about controlling the cycle, an understanding of “spin” a generation before Fox and CNN. It resonated with me because coming out while difficult strikes me as infinitely preferable to being discovered – being seen on the street arm in arm with my boyfriend, maybe an overheard phone call, or maybe, just maybe, a slip of my tongue. This all came into focus during the past day.

I am a white collar dude, even if I do not wear white shirts, and definitely a tie dangling. Yesterday I went on a recovery mission looking for some papers that may have found its way into the recycling pile. I learn the recycling bin – an excessively large garbage pail is right behind the official shredding machine. I lean over the shredder, far over, peeking into the bin behind. As I shuffle the papers it happens: my tie dips into the shredder and the whir begins. I know this machine so as it starts to eat my tie, a tie that is attached rather securely to my neck, I hit the off switch and then the reverse button. Within seconds I am free, the bottom few inches of my tie in strips, but fine other than being massively embarrassed. Off with the tie, back to my office and back to work.

It seems that someone noticed this moment from the distance. Now they did not approach, inquire as to my well being, but notice they did and yes, the news started to circulate. A few minutes later two of my partners come in to inquire and I tell them yes it occurred; no it was not a major incident. I continue my work and it being late in the day soon head out for my evening. But the incident stays in my mind – this will, quite appropriately, be the talk of the office. There will be some teasing. And I remain embarrassed.

The next morning I am barely at my desk and three friends pop in. I raise my head and say it’s true. They start to laugh and I can’t help it – I laugh with them. Even I can see the humor. We discuss how much damage I would have needed to incur before the person watching actually would have come to my aid. The rumors already have my head almost in the shredder.

I know there is one person – a senior partner – who relishes in other’s misery. Over the years I have learned the secret. Never give him a rise, never let him smell blood. He leaves me alone in general: what fun is there in one who doesn’t really care. But I know this one will have his juices flowing. It comes to me. I find a large bandage in the first aid kit, some ketchup in the cafeteria and when he comes in I am ready, neck bandaged, just a touch of red. I find him; tell him it was worse than I thought. He looks, smiles and then, with a smile, extends his hand. We shake. I will be teased, this is a good one, but the teasing is with me, not behind my back. I told them.

Through the prism of this incident are lessons for coming out. An acutely embarrassing moment became quite bearable when I took ownership of it. My friends, the real ones, came to me to see what was true and then laughed and without words invited me to laugh with them. Those that would have teased – and still to a degree did – were greatly disarmed when I took the game to them instead of waiting for the hammer to fall.

So I can wait, never come out – maybe I will never be caught, never slip up. Doubtful. Or at some point I can come out – no rainbow flags, just conversations with those I care about and who care about me. It will not be an easy day. But the days that follow will be worth it, days of being me, days of no self censoring. And I can now see how when I tell them, they will no longer be able to tell me. It will be a few more months, but one day I will write on these pages that “I told them.”