Ziggy, Stardust and Me

by James Brandon

  I quit shuffling, eyes locked on the floor.

  “It’s strange. You know it’s going to come one day. But you never really think about it. Then something happens and, I don’t know, the whole world looks completely different. Upside down. So strange . . .”

  I look up. His eyes aren’t lost or clouded over with a thick haze of anger. No, they actually twinkle. I see him. For the first time I see him again: my dad.

  “I saw your mother,” he says.

  “You did?”

  “Oh yeah. She gave me a damned good scolding. Always knew how to put me in place.” He laughs and turns to the window, drying his eyes. “I miss her . . . Man, do I miss her . . . Anyway, they still gotta do more tests on me—but I’m going to be fine, son. When I’m better and outta here, things’ll be different. Not gonna drink or smoke, gonna get a job—I’m a changed man.” Huh. Not sure I’m convinced about that— He grabs my hands. I flinch because, well, he’s holding my hands, but he grips them tighter. “And so are you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry if I ever—” He starts crying. For real crying. “I don’t know. I guess a part of me died with your mother that day. Never really let myself love again. I guess . . . I never let myself love you.”

  Whoa. Okay. Whoa.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “The truth . . .”

  “But it’s never too late to start, is it?”

  “No, I guess it’s—”

  “Dr. Evelyn came back yesterday.”

  “She did? I didn’t hear—”

  “You were dead asleep. Didn’t want to wake you.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She told me you’re fixed now, you know, cured.”

  “Did she . . . tell you why?”

  “Huh? No. What do you mean, why? She wants to talk to you more about it, but that’s all she told me.”

  “Oh, well—”

  “You did it, bud. I’m really proud of ya. I knew you’d get rid of that sickness inside you. Like I’m gonna do with myself. And now that you’re cured, we can maybe have some real father-son bonding time. Not at the lake. And without worrying about all that crap, you know?”

  “Oh . . . yeah . . . right . . .”

  “We can be a family again,” he says. “You and me. And go to the Arch and a Cardinals game and maybe even take a road trip to Branson and . . .”

  “Uh-huh . . .” He’s still talking, but I no longer hear. Something’s happening: The linoleum’s melting; my body’s twitching. In fact, I can’t be sure, but I think the feral creature I saw in the mirror at the bar is rapping his fists against my rib cage, screaming to get out. I have to tell him the truth. No. I need to tell him.

  “Dad, no—”

  “What?”

  “I mean—I don’t know—” I look at him. So happy I’m fixed, so proud I’m his son again. I don’t know. It’s like this weed was planted inside me when he first sent me to Dr. Evelyn. And no matter how hard I try to ignore it, it lingers and grows. Maybe I can never kill it . . . or maybe I can only tame it for a bit . . . or . . . maybe it will stop growing altogether if I—

  “Dad.” I squeeze his hand. “I am changed, just not how you think . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’m not fixed, because there was nothing to fix in the first—”

  “Jesus Christ, Jonathan.” He shakes his hand free. “Don’t start that up again. Not now, not after I—”

  “Just listen to me. Please—” I stand.

  “You were sick, son, and you’re fixed now, you hear me—”

  “No. Stop. Jesus. Please stop saying that. Stop looking at me like I’m the Crazy Son here, because I’m not, I’m not—”

  “You’re tired. You aren’t talkin’ sense—”

  “NO. This is the most sense I’ve ever made. Listen to me! I don’t need to be cured by Electric Boxes of Shame or hide in a moldy closet or be saved by Jesus or Ziggy or whoever else is out there. I don’t need to pretend anymore that I’m anything other than who I AM. Because . . . Because . . .” I stop at the end of his bed, panting. “Because, I don’t know . . . I think maybe I love him, Dad. Him. Web. And that is who I AM. And I’m sorry you never let me in or let me be me, because it feels fantastic and I almost missed out on it and—” I’m sweating, no—crying, no, I don’t know what, my protective skin melting into oblivion. “You almost missed it, too, Dad. Me. The real me. But you don’t have to anymore. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. Maybe, like you said, we can have that time together now, the time we missed—you’re right, it’s never too late . . .”

  He looks back at me, chest heaving, eyes burning. It’s possible he may detonate right in front of me. I have no idea what’s coming next.

  Then: He shakes his head and turns away from me. “No,” he says. “I will never understand that part of you.” And he closes his eyes. Gone again.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . I . . .” I stand there, unable to move, unsure what to do . . .

  I look out the window. Swipe a tear. I see the oak trees. And the hills. And the clouds. And a few birds flitting across the clear sky. And people scurrying in the parking lot. Life. Going on. As it does.

  And us. Two people. Existing in the same room, on the same planet, living in two very different worlds . . .

  I don’t know.

  Maybe one day, he’ll understand.

  Or maybe when he comes home, I’ll pick him up from the Blues Note and we’ll watch All in the Family eating TV dinners in silence, and he’ll still believe in his version of me, and I’ll believe in mine.

  But at least I know which one is real. And for now, that’s enough for me.

  I look at him one more time. “I love you, Dad,” I say.

  Then I walk out the door.

  61.

  WHEN I PULL INTO our driveway, I see a package on the front stoop. Wrapped in Web’s faded-sheet curtain! I fling open the car door and dash over.

  A scrawled note lying on top reads:

  To Ziggy. Open later tonight. Outside. No sooner. You’ll see why. 2TM4VR, Web.

  Oh man . . .

  Our phone starts ringing. I run inside.

  “Web?” I yell into the receiver.

  “It’s Chester, son. You okay?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Fine. How are you?”

  “Good, kiddo. Was just callin’ to check in on you two. Haven’t seen you and your pops here in a couple days and—”

  “Yeah, he’s been in the hospital. But he’ll be okay.” I lift the package to my nose. It smells like him: Irish Spring and burnt herbs.

  “Oh. Well . . . that’s good . . . I hope he . . . Well, anyway, kid, we listened to that tape of yours, me and my brother, and—”

  “Oh. That’s right. Almost forgot about—”

  “Did Hal hurt you, son?”

  “No . . . not really. He tried—”

  “Yeah, thought as much. That sick bastard’s in jail.”

  “He is?”

  “Think he’s gonna be in there for a long time. What he done to you—you’re just a kid and—makes me boil up just thinkin’—and all that stuff he said about them cops and Native peoples. Man, oh man. You thought I could get angry? You shoulda seen my brother. Nearly flung that damned trailer door off its hinges and into the lake. I ain’t ever seen him like that.”

  “Oh man . . .”

  “You did a brave thing, kid. You shouldn’t have done that alone. Wish you had called me or somethin’ sooner. You coulda been hurt. Real bad.”

  “I had to,” I say. “For Web and me.”

  “Yeah . . . well . . . I just wanted you to know . . .”

  “Thanks, Chester. For everything.”

  “So . . . maybe I’ll see ya in here again soon?”<
br />
  “Yeah . . . maybe . . . See ya, Chester . . .”

  “Oh, and hey, Jonathan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re just . . . well . . . you’re a good kid, you hear me? Don’t you let no one tell you any different, no more . . . you got that?”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Okay. Well . . . I’ll be seein’ ya.”

  We hang up. And I spend the rest of the afternoon outside on my swing, swaying back and forth, reading his note over and over and over again . . .

  * * *

  —

  Now, six of the LONGEST HOURS OF MY LIFE later, here I am.

  I gently place the record on the player and walk back outside. Dark Side of the Moon whispers through the speakers. Like the breeze. I lie down and—

  KAPOW.

  The great big, beautiful full moon.

  Whoa.

  I circle it with my thoughtstrings: Remembering the Martian-moon-landing like it was yesterday. Remembering the night in my room with him like it was today. And remembering a quote President Kennedy once said: “We choose to go to the moon not because it’s easy, but because it’s hard.”

  I think I finally get it now. It’s a lot like love, isn’t it? It’s hard work, but if you don’t give up and keep pushing forward, the rewards are infinite . . .

  I slowly untie the string wrapped around the package.

  It’s the framed Polaroid from his mantel: the one he labeled “HOME.”

  I flip it over.

  And smile.

  On the back, he’s written two words:

  Your Turn.

  Author’s Note

  ON DECEMBER 15, 1973, the American Psychiatric Association changed history.

  After a long and rigorous, seemingly insurmountable battle fought by the Gay Liberation Movement, the APA officially removed homosexuality from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Simply put: If you identified as queer, for the first time in recorded history, you were considered “normal.”

  I first learned of this pioneering moment in time when a friend passed along an episode of This American Life, titled “81 Words,” which beautifully documents this fight, struggle, and ultimate life-changing decision that some consider to be the birth of the modern LGBTQ2+ movement. And the initial seed for Jonathan’s story was planted.

  This was in 2014, when I was nearing the end of a decade-long international tour playing the central role of “Gay Jesus” in Terrence McNally’s Corpus Christi. To give you a quick backstory, the play, told in a divine, respectful and heartfelt way, is a retelling of the story of Jesus with Jesus as a gay man living in 1950s Corpus Christi, Texas. Although “controversy” followed the production, it was easily overshadowed by the audience’s love and support: For the first time, LGBTQ2+ peoples were witnessing the story they grew up learning through their lens.

  Being gay and raised in St. Louis in a Catholic home, I was told by the church that I did not belong, and therefore never felt a deep connection to spirituality. But as we traveled the world performing this play, I saw my story mirrored back to me through every person we’d meet along our journey, and it was here I began to understand the deep pain LGBTQ2+ peoples felt on an innate level. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel alone.

  During this tour I met LGBTQ2+ peoples from every walk of life and outlet of faith, including those from the Two-Spirit community. I’m embarrassed to say, even as an openly gay man, how little I knew about Two-Spirit peoples and, for that matter, every other letter our queer rainbow represents. And it dawned on me how although we claim inclusion, the individual communities within the queer identity can feel so separate. I wanted to change that for myself.

  I attended my first Two-Spirit Powwow with Bay Area American Indian Two-Spirits (BAAITS) in 2015, and my life changed. I laughed, I cried, and I humbly witnessed Native peoples and their allies coming together in harmony, peace, and love. As a non-Native I cannot be Two-Spirit, but being welcomed into their community I felt a re-ignition of my own spiritual connection to being a gay man for one of the first times in my life.

  Although the layers to this are much more complicated, to put it simply here: “Two-Spirit” is used by some American Indian/First Nation peoples as an umbrella term for gender and sexual orientation variance. It was coined in the early nineties by a group of Indigenous community leaders as a counterpoint to colonial terminology, created as an addition, not a replacement, for Indigenous languages that already have a word for non-binary Native peoples.

  Being Two-Spirit is exclusive to Indigenous peoples who are in touch with their traditions, and although they commonly identify as LGBTQ2+, not all do. Pre-colonization, Two-Spirit peoples held a special role in their communities as healers, balancing the masculine and feminine sides. Christianity helped to chip away at these roles in the 500-plus nations, and the movement today is focused on reclaiming their voice from pre-colonial society.

  In 2015, the play ended and my journey as an author began. I was reminded of the historic moment in 1973, the APA’s decision to remove homosexuality as a mental illness. And when I started researching the world events of 1973, and the months leading up to that December day, I read about the Occupation of Wounded Knee—another moment in time I knew nothing about that dramatically changed the lives of Native peoples. I’ve always believed we have the most potential to learn by compassionately listening to and observing others; to try and untangle our own stories and struggles with someone and something outside of our own experience. This is how the two stories organically merged for me to become Ziggy, Stardust and Me.

  Although this novel is a fictionalized account of that time, and I’ve tried to be as historically accurate as possible, I’ve taken a few liberties in creating the narrative. One very real moment in Jonathan’s journey remains: Not only was he considered mentally ill, the treatment he endured was a validated form of aversion therapy. You might think that after forty years we would have learned from history. But here we are. Again.

  Even as I write this in 2019, and even though we have made some incredible strides since that time, the LGBTQ2+ community still struggles for full equality, and conversion therapy is still legal in thirty-four US states, not to mention numerous countries around the world. Any number of states and countries is too many, and it must change.

  Jonathan’s story is one of thousands. And the damage one suffers after such treatment leaves everlasting, sometimes irreparable scars. If you are currently experiencing a piece of Jonathan’s story, or know someone who is, first and foremost seek help. The Trevor Project is a great place to start. You need to know you are not alone. There is a community for you. We are here.

  History may continue to repeat itself, but it has also taught us that when communities come together in one voice, change is not only possible, it is imminent. For my part, I believe Two-Spirit peoples are the bedrock of the LGBTQ2+ community: their innate power to balance the masculine and feminine, and their healing roles as mediators, can ultimately bring us all together, whether you identify as queer or an ally. I hope you’ll one day join a BAAITS (or other regional Two-Spirit) Powwow to experience it for yourself.

  Either way, remember: It’s your choice. You can be part of the change, not only through mobilization and protest, but by listening and learning from others’ unique perspectives, and by simply being You. Please don’t waste another breath being anything else. There’s just no time.

  Acknowledgments

  TO TRY AND THANK everyone for making this moment in time possible would require another 120,000-word novel that I’d have to figure out how to edit down. But there are an extraordinary few who made this book manifest, without whom these words would still be floating in the cosmos.

  My Patronus Agent Gemini Twin, Barbara Poelle: For never giving up on me. For always believing in me, especially when I didn’t. For somehow knowi
ng me better than me. For dancing with me to Christmas music in July, and laughing with me till we crack ribs, and crying with me till we start laughing all over again. For encouraging and supporting me (in all my messy forms) and loving me since that day we met many moons ago: “Do you wear Lever 2000?” she asked. (I did.) Without your everlasting patience, pushing, and unconditional love, I would undoubtedly still be flapping my wings, stuck in the same spot on Chester Ave. BJW2-4VR.

  My Goddess Editor, Stacey Barney: For somehow, someway finding the story I really wanted to tell in the glorious mess I gave you. I may have breathed some life into the story, but you found its soul. I am forever grateful for your brilliance and genius, your thoughtful and careful notes, your wisdom and enthusiastic love for these two boys, and especially for pushing me to not only be a better writer, but to be a better human.

  And to the incredible Penguin Team for bringing all the beautiful elements together: Jennifer Klonsky for always championing, Lizzie Goodell for being the publicist extraordinaire, Caitlin Tutterow for her sweet kindness keeping me organized and calm, Robert Farren for his careful copyediting, Dave Kopka for his typesetting wonderment, Jacqueline Hornberger and Cindy Howle for their proofreading mastery, Kristie Radwilowicz for designing this gorgeous cover, and to Tomasz Mro for his most stunning artwork that I still sometimes stare at in utter awe.

  To my friends of Bay Area American Indian Two Spirits (BAAITS): For providing a sacred and safe space for all, for helping me find my joy again in a time I felt so lost, and for all you give to the LGBTQ2+ community and the world at large. It’s been an honor and privilege to serve by your side. And in particular to Derek Smith and Roger Kuhn for your Two-Spirit sensitivity reads and notes, and for your encouragement and support, I thank you. Proceeds from the sale of this book will benefit the BAAITS Annual Powwow, helping to further their mission of inclusive love for all peoples.