Missed Connections

by Brian Francis

  To top it all off, I couldn’t shake the feeling that at the tender age of twenty-three, I was already washed up. I was still jumping from crappy job to crappy job, still single, and still going out to the same gay bars, but there was no one who piqued my interest. I had no money or clear sense of direction. And after having spent almost twenty years inside classrooms, I had no idea who I was if I wasn’t a student.

  Video stores were a popular way to pass the time in those days, as you may recall. You could spend hours meandering through the aisles, ruminating over the VHS covers, trying to decide what sort of mood you were in, what genre would speak to you. It’s not much different now, I guess, with everything online. But those video stores had very distinct personalities. Most of the ones I frequented were independents, run by film junkies who’d make recommendations even if you didn’t ask. These were the days before algorithms.

  There was a small video store not far from where I lived with a gay and lesbian section. One night, on a whim, I rented Paris Is Burning. The 1990 documentary about New York City’s ball culture scene in the late 1980s follows a cast of impoverished Black and Latino queer people as they struggle to break free of their oppression. As an escape—and as a means of survival—they held “balls,” which allowed them to ironically reflect the norms of the world that had cast them aside—a straight, cisgender world of wealth, celebrity, power, and white privilege. But in the ball world, the doors of opportunity remained wide open. Anything was possible with a few sequins, a good soundtrack, and an abundance of imagination. Ball “walkers” competed for trophies in a variety of categories, including “Executive Realness,” “Town and Country,” and “Luscious Body.”

  The cast of Paris Is Burning—Venus Xtravaganza, Dorian Corey, Pepper LaBeija, and Octavia St. Laurent, among others—were luminous and fascinating, and they dropped one-liners with seasoned street-smart wisdom. Their flamboyance and strategic instincts, the necessity of their creativity, resonated with my gay sensibility. I had never seen a film that exploded so unreservedly with queer life as Paris Is Burning. It was a revelation to me. And, for the first time, I felt that I had found the community I’d been searching for, even if it only existed within the parameters of my twenty- inch television screen.

  In the cast’s refusal to dim their queer lights, I found my battle cry. Growing up, I had felt like a reject, the “gay guy,” dismissed like the lisping jack-in-the-box on the Island of Misfit Toys. But Paris Is Burning emboldened me. If the ball walkers of Paris could be unapologetically themselves, then I would follow suit. And I didn’t need the straight world’s permission to do it.

  I was Paris’s student. Each time I watched the film, it was like being educated in a queer classroom that had never before been available to me. I memorized the ball scene’s language: “shade,” “fierce,” “reading.” I even quoted Venus, a trans woman featured in the documentary, in one of the stories I was working on.

  I realize now that I had very little in common with the cast of Paris. Yes, we were queer, but these were racialized people whose struggles had been insurmountable compared with mine, though back then I didn’t quite see it that way. At a time in my life when I was searching for community and purpose, and trying to stand strong in my convictions, I saw only other queer people.

  Through Paris, I felt I’d finally found my gay home.

  * * *

  —

  A year later, I ended up moving to Toronto. I’d come to the realization that the life I thought I wanted, this comfortable backdrop, was ultimately getting me nowhere. If I was going to carve out a career for myself as a writer, whatever that looked like, I’d have a better chance of doing that in a larger city where more opportunities were available.

  Not that the transition was easy. It was a shock, to move from that WASPy manicured city to the stained-sidewalk grittiness of Toronto. I was completely unprepared for Big City Life. I remember the first time someone asked me for spare change.

  “Sure, okay,” I said, reaching into my pocket. I had no idea I’d be asked for the same by someone else a few blocks later. And the block after that.

  Toronto was a much more diverse setting than what I’d been used to, and the people I met, the symphony of languages I heard around me, the various ethnic neighbourhoods I visited, were exciting. And while I was intimidated, the energy of the city fuelled the budding writer within me. A whole new world was waiting to be captured in my stories.

  It was also exhilarating to be part of a larger, and more eclectic, queer community, one that drew hundreds of thousands of people into the city’s downtown core every June as part of its annual Pride Day celebrations. I recall watching all the people march past me at my first Toronto Pride parade, and how empowered I felt. Queer people truly were everywhere. And I remember marvelling that, although we may have looked different on the outside, we were all united in our fight for equality and rights.

  Many years later, I had a very different experience at the Pride parade. There I was, standing alongside my partner on the crowded sidewalk, beneath the glare of an unforgiving midday sun, cursing myself for not wearing sunscreen. Or a hat. But at least I had on my good sunglasses, a necessary accessory for any self-respecting homosexual. As you get older, your attitudes towards Pride Day can change. It can cease being the party it once was. In fact, it’s easier to see Pride Day as a growing annoyance. The crowds, the drunk people, the oiled models in corporate-coloured Speedos. And yet, for me, that’s what also made Pride Day a source of endearment. It was a nostalgic experience, allowing me to mark my evolution as a gay man by reflecting on all the Prides of my past and the person I’d been then. And it was still nice to watch the parade, to see all those smiling faces, young and old, from all walks of life, and be reminded of the breadth of the queer community.

  But that year, 2016, it wasn’t the queer community that held my attention. It was a straight man. Specifically, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, who was walking in the parade for the first time since taking office. After seeing him so many times on television, and in the shirtless pics that had found their way online, I was anxious to see how he compared in the flesh.

  But before he could make his way to where we were standing, the parade came to a grinding halt. The participants in front of us, who moments earlier had been joyously waving their rainbow flags and blowing their whistles, were now left to just stand there, awkwardly fidgeting. The sight made me consider how much of a parade’s enchantment comes from its movement, the momentum of forward motion and energy, the passing revelry.

  “This is the worst-organized Pride parade ever,” I grumbled to my partner.

  We overheard someone say Justin was just a few blocks away. Was he as attractive in real life? I wondered. And was he wearing a shirt? I had to find out. So we waited, sweating it out.

  Then a plume of purple smoke suddenly arose not far from where we stood, and I immediately became alarmed. Throughout all the Pride parades I’ve attended over the years, I’ve always feared that the parade would be a target for violence.

  “I think we should go,” I said, and my partner readily agreed. We made our way through the confused crowds towards the subway station.

  Once we got home and turned on the news, we found out Black Lives Matter–Toronto had staged a protest during the parade. According to a spokesperson, the group was protesting the marginalization of Black, Indigenous, and racialized queer and trans people by Pride Toronto, the presence of police floats in the parade, and the lack of representation of queer and trans people of colour on the Pride Committee, among other concerns.

  “Well, you fucking ruined Pride,” I thought. I was angered by what I perceived as a colossally inconvenient and manipulative display. It stood in direct contrast to everything I believed Pride Day represented. Wasn’t the parade, at its core, a celebration of inclusivity? And I never even got to see Justin Trudeau.

  But the events of that day
, as well as the news articles I read and the conversations that were sparked, stayed with me in the weeks that followed as I learned more about the reasons for the protest. About the way Black people were treated by the police, the racism that people of colour face on a daily basis, the threat of violence and discrimination experienced by trans people, and especially trans people of colour.

  “You don’t do something like that,” a straight white woman had angrily said to me about the protest. “Not at Pride.”

  Not at Pride? Who was this person to tell me, a gay man, what was acceptable behaviour at Pride? Had she even been to the parade that year?

  Her words gnawed at me until I finally heard myself reflected in them. I thought about the anger I had felt at the protesters’ actions that day. But wasn’t that what Pride Day had always been about—a protest? A demand for visibility and equality? And who was I to question what trans and queer people of colour had to say about their lived experiences? Who was I, a white gay man, to tell anyone what they should or shouldn’t be doing at Pride?

  I realized, Glen, with no small amount of irony, that the comfort zone I had sought to escape all those years ago had been replaced with another comfort zone, one of my own creation. I wanted a nostalgic Pride parade filled with floats and balloons and waving people wearing rainbow leis. The same unified parade that I had naively assumed I saw at my first Pride all those years ago.

  While we should never take for granted the milestones we can celebrate as queer people, I understand now that the parade I saw back then had been viewed through a very narrow lens.

  * * *

  —

  I returned to Paris recently. By that I mean the documentary. Over thirty years have passed since its release, and while it is still an iconic piece of cinema for many in the queer community, there have been numerous criticisms about the film over the years, including the fact that the filmmaker, Jennie Livingston, was white. I remember my surprise when I first found this out; I had never considered that the lens through which Paris’s cast was viewed had been a white one. Although, to be perfectly honest, I hadn’t given much thought to the lens at all. Was the criticism of the role Livingston played in filtering (and exploiting) the lives featured in her documentary any different from the filter I felt straight people had cast over my gay writing? And although Livingston identified as queer, people have said it should have been a Black or Latino queer filmmaker at the helm of telling these stories.

  You could argue that, without that white lens, Paris Is Burning might not have found its way to the film festival circuit or secured a distribution deal. And that’s the shameful reality. (Another shameful reality is that the cast of Paris had to fight for what they felt was fair compensation for their participation in the film.) I’m grateful for what Paris Is Burning gave me as a young, gay white male at a point in my life when I was desperate for a sense of belonging and connection, but I’ve since come to understand that, in spite of those first impressions, Paris was never my home to claim. It makes me wonder: What Black or Latino filmmakers have been denied the opportunity to make a Paris Is Burning of their own? What stories by people of colour have never received the recognition they justly deserve? What queer audiences have never been given the chance to see their own complicated and fully realized lives on screen—in stories written by, directed by, and starring them?

  But on this viewing, it was the loss that struck me most, specifically while watching Venus Xtravaganza light up the screen again, her vulnerability on full display, as she talked about the paths that she believed would make her dreams attainable. While the people in Paris were brave and resilient, they were constantly subjected to the inequity of the world outside of their balls. I realized, with a dawning clarity, how much I’d contributed to that landscape.

  Venus was murdered when she was just twenty-three years old, two years before the release of Paris Is Burning. She was discovered under a hotel bed on Christmas Day. It was believed she had been there for four days. Her unclaimed body was about to be cremated before her house mother, Angie Xtravaganza, identified her. To this day, Venus’s murder remains unsolved. The film brought her fame and legions of fans, but Venus wasn’t alive to enjoy her new-found celebrity status. I wondered what, if anything, had changed in the three decades since the documentary came out, especially when violence against trans women of colour continues to be a constant threat. And I asked myself what I’d done to help end that violence.

  I had worshipped Venus from the frame of my television screen, but I hadn’t taken a single action to help prevent the murder of another trans woman of colour.

  Glen, you likely know this yourself, but one of the biggest lessons in life is understanding that your own evolution never ends. Everything you’ve learned has to be relearned. Attitudes need to be constantly rechecked. Opinions demand to be questioned. In spite of what I thought I knew when I walked away from that university campus, my role as a student never ended. And while I am a product of my time, the city I grew up in, the school I went to, and the society that surrounded me, that doesn’t mean I’m confined to it.

  I was naive when I assumed being gay was my invitation to the ball. It wasn’t. The colour of my skin afforded me privileges, enabling me to stand on the sidelines and watch a parade pass by, when there were so many other actions I could have been taking.

  I’m just sorry I didn’t stop to consider it before.

  Sincerely,

  Dear “Student”

  I am a university alumnus currently enjoying an early retirement. This has enabled me to pursue interests I could not while working. These interests include, but are not limited to: Philosophy, Ancient History, Politics and Music. I am well versed in numerous subjects. I am also a very good listener.

  I am all too acquainted with the perils of the bar scene. The values it upholds are damaging to any meaningful relationship. The Lady Di’s of this world are fascinating objects, but only from afar. As to the denim- and leather-clad citizens of the scene, I prefer to avoid them. Consequently, I come across as a well-educated, older gentleman who does not feel compelled to use the word “fuck” to make his points.

  I would like to establish a relationship with a university student or a recent graduate. I too am tired of being alone. Physical endowments are one thing, but who one is, is far more important in the long run. It pleases me to see that you have come to a similar conclusion.

  I would very much like to hear from you. Should you wish to contact me, I may be reached at the following telephone number. Ask for Randy M. That way, I will know it is you who is calling. Should you get my answering machine, simply leave a message that you are wishing to speak to Randy M. and I will call back at my earliest convenience.

  I look forward to hearing from you. I remain

  Yours truly,

  Randy M.

  P.S. By the way, I’m HIV negative.

  Dear Randy M.,

  Good lord.

  You were a retiree and responding to the personal ad of a twenty-one-year-old university student. Cupid’s arrow was pointed a little high, don’t you think? Even the way you addressed me, “Dear ‘Student.’ ” Come on. You have to admit that’s pretty fucking creepy. And yes, I swear sometimes. Another reason it wouldn’t have worked out between us.

  I would have been open to meeting you, though. Just not for romance. I can safely say our stars weren’t aligned for that. But maybe for a coffee. Or a glass of wine. I had a soft spot for older gay men when I was younger. I found them fascinating. I still do, even though someone will likely—and rightly—point out that I’m an older gay man myself these days. There’s usually common ground to be explored between the different generations. The dance music, the camp, the humour, the same cultural touchstones—though I’m always interested to learn which touchstones have changed and which ones have held fast.

  “What do you think of Madonna?” I’ll ask young
er gay men. (Apparently, not much.)

  “When you hear nineties dance music, does it sound dated?”

  “Do you know who Karen Black is?”

  “Have you seen Grey Gardens?”

  If I hadn’t been so hell-bent on finding love, I would have liked to talk to you, Randy M. I would have been curious about your experiences. What were things like when you were twenty-one? And were you jealous of the freedoms my generation was enjoying?

  That’s one thing I’ve always wondered about—how the older generations feel about the liberties bestowed upon the younger gays. Marriage rights. Support groups out the wazoo. We even have our own Netflix category. Compared with how things used to be, even a few decades ago, queerness now seems like such an everyday presence. Not that prejudice and ignorance aren’t a constant threat. Queer people still experience violence and discrimination on a daily basis, especially trans people and people of colour. For many, the fight for basic human rights is ongoing and unrelenting.

  Still, did you wish you had what the younger generations have? Did you feel that a chunk of your gay life had slipped by, unlived? Because at times I’ve certainly felt that way. So many of my formative years were spent in darkness. And I’ll never get those years back; they’ll never be made right.

  * * *

  —

  From when he was a young age, I suspected my nephew was gay. There were the same telltale signs that I recognized from my own childhood: a penchant for dolls, for dressing up. Even the same weight issues. And while I wanted to say something to him, I also knew it was his journey, not mine.

  When he did come out at twenty, he’d had me as a role model his entire life, just by my honestly being who I am. What my nephew witnessed growing up was a gay uncle who was visible and accepted. I was always present, at every birthday party or Christmas Eve gathering, a gay family member, never pretending otherwise, never sitting in shrouded silence or awkwardly fielding questions about when I’d settle down with the right girl.