by Sarah Moon
You went there (so you said) for the Levi’s and the flannels. Who cared if they fit, the baggier the better, and so what if the sleeves on the shirts were too long. You thought, “Roll ’em up, whatever” (you still think it; the sleeves will always be too long). You weren’t there for those things, though, not really. You knew then as well as you still remember that now. You just needed to bring home evidence to prove where you’d been all day, so your grandparents would believe you when you swore you hadn’t been at your boyfriend’s.
And though you lingered at the suits for a little while longer than the jeans, maybe you touched the lapels and slipped on a few jackets, they mostly reminded you of the elephant men who must have dined (and dined and dined) in them, then died. And that just made you feel sad. And small-boned. So mostly you rushed by those too.
I know what you really went for. How you opened the door and the fan greeted you and blew hot air into your face, then clicked and looked the other way as you rushed down the aisle to the back. Past all the clothes and shoes and toys and couches and books eyeing you. You went as far back as you could go, to the last row of the last shelf in the back room, where nobody went, to the junk boxes where nothing inside made sense. They made sense to you, and you pulled out all the treasures you’d keep for the afternoon: a blue umbrella, a white china teacup, somebody’s family photos, a green suitcase, a straw hat.
You lined them up on the Thrift Town floor, and for a brief moment, you could see a rainy day on a city street, your reflection in the window of a café where two women sipped tea from white china teacups. You could see yourself, standing beneath your blue umbrella in a fine suit and a felt fedora, with a suitcase full of somebody’s family photos in your hand. You could see yourself, on your way to somewhere else, bigger than the holes you kicked in the walls at home, more beautiful than the sound of the slamming front door, more curious than the girl with the bowling shoes and the nights of question marks in her room. You could see it all, in a flash, on the Thrift Town floor. Some bigger place, some better time.
And you were right.
Love always,
Ray
Dear Jimmy,
So the first thing you should know is that I changed our name. I’m called James now. When I moved to New York City to fulfill your dream of becoming an actor, writer, and international bon vivant, James just seemed to better express the person we hoped to become. I’m not sure that I’ve lived up to the international bon vivant part, but I have traveled some, and as it turned out, being an international bon vivant was not as exciting (or profitable) a pastime as it may have seemed when you were thirteen and living in a New Jersey suburb. Also, by the late twentieth century, opportunities for bons vivants had all but died out, and I discovered that there were so many other and greater things to be in this world. I did keep our last name. Even though Lecesne has proved very difficult for strangers to spell and to pronounce, it is distinctive, memorable, and much later when you are in middle age, you will discover things about your ancestors that will blow your mind and make you proud to bear the name.
But I’m not here to ruin the surprise by telling you how your life turns out. I wouldn’t dream of taking away the fun or spoiling the challenges that come with living a full-throttle Life devoted to Art and Love and Spiritual Truth. I just want to encourage you to trust yourself as much as you can, as often as you can. You do, in fact, know the score and though you may not know how to sing it loud and proud, you can hum the tune just fine — even now.
For instance, the fact that you’ve taken to hanging out in the Art room of your all-boys high school shows that you’ve got some sense. You possess an inner compass, something that will always tell you what’s up, where to go, and who to avoid. Trust that. The Art room is so much safer than those long hallways where you often have to fend off a random shove or suffer a coarse remark. Also, the Art teacher, Mr. Livorgna, sees you and knows that you’re a complicated kid with a good heart; he recognizes that something is urging you on and refusing to cave even when it would be much easier to be like everybody else. Your swish, your lisp, your insistence that people be kind, and your over-the-top enthusiasm, these are expressions of the real you, and they slip out when you aren’t paying attention, when you forget to put forward that toughened and fabricated self. Unlike the other teachers, Mr. L. doesn’t have a problem with the Real You or the way you are naturally; you can let your guard down, and you are smart to gravitate toward people like him, people who seem to genuinely like you. There will be many such people in your life. Look for them and stick with them.
Of course you’ll occasionally get mixed up with people you don’t like; you might even have to hang out with people who seem to hate you. This is just what happens. Trust that too. If you’re smart and you pay attention, you’ll learn the most from people who are different from you. For example, not everyone shares your aspiration to love the world. Not everyone made a vow at seven years old to love everyone without exception. And hardly anyone lies in bed at the end of the day like you do, obsessively reviewing the day, trying to determine who, if anyone, has been left outside the circle of love. Some people, like your sixth-grade teacher, Sister Maura, might understand this impulse to love everybody, but just like you she has difficulty making it happen 100 percent of the time. Remember when she called you out in front of the classroom and accused you of being a daydreaming sissy? You weren’t able to stand up to her at the time, but here is what I’m suggesting — if you should see her again, explain to her that you were dreaming of the day when your idea catches on and when even she, a Catholic nun, can love and cherish every one of her students — even the gay ones. When you encounter people who have small minds or tiny hearts (like Sister Maura), try not to be too discouraged. Don’t take it personally and don’t waste time convincing yourself that they have the right idea. They don’t. Remind yourself that they may be members of your species, but they do not belong to your tribe — and you won’t belong to theirs. Go find your own people. And don’t allow anyone to make you feel bad because of who you are. Ever.
You’re not going to believe me when I tell you this, but the very things in your life that seem to be depressing and oppressing you right now are going to be the means by which you set yourself free. The experience of being invisible to the people you love and the suspicion that you have to keep your true self a secret from them, these things will pass as you come to know yourself better. And all the crap that is causing you to want to harm yourself will become the basis for the Art you make. Because you know what it’s like to not be accepted for who you are, because you suffered and survived the bullying, you will be able to help others who are on the outside wanting in. You will be able to make them laugh and cry (sometimes both at the same time), and because you’ve been there and back, you’ll be able to express the full spectrum of human emotions. In the meantime, learn to value what is difficult and painful without reveling in it too much. I don’t necessarily believe that everything happens for a reason, but I do hold to the notion that we must find a good reason for everything that happens. So if you don’t make it into that fancy college or if you miss an opportunity that you believe was meant for you (like starring in the touring company of A Chorus Line), don’t despair. Trust that your life is happening exactly as it should so that you can become the person you always wanted to be.
Okay, now for the Love part. This is big. And I’m going to tell you straight out — You WILL find Love. It will take some time, but you will fall truly, madly, deeply, and finally in love. But keep in mind that though there will be many false starts, every one of them will be true — both men and women will do their best, as will you, to bring out the best in one another. Each great love will lead you to a deeper understanding of what Love can and cannot do. For example, if you hadn’t fallen in love that first time with John, you wouldn’t have known what to do when you fell in love with Polly the following summer, and it was Polly who taught you that you might be better off with boy
s, and on and on. Every love has its lesson, and getting it right may take some time, but this is because while your peers are busy impressing themselves on top of girls in the backseats of cars, renting tuxedoes and coming into their own, you will be trying desperately to pass. In a world where emotional development depends on a person’s ability to participate, you will fall behind a bit. You’ll take to your room, imagine that you understand the lyrics of popular singing divas, sulk, decoupage your lunch box, make hand puppets with human hair, opt for style, read Jane Austen, get cast in a musical. Enjoy all that, but might I also suggest spending the time finding out as much as you can about yourself. Learn about what makes you happy, what you need, what you can live without, what makes sense. You’ll need every bit of information no matter what happens, and no matter who you love in this world.
But here’s the thing about the love of your life that no one can tell you, the thing that you will have to discover for yourself — the Love part is a verb, not a subject. The Love of Your Life is an action, not a person. It’s not someone you find who makes you better; it is something you find out how to do better. And better. And still better. So keep on loving, love despite the inevitable difficulties and disappointments that come with the territory. And don’t stop until you find someone who gets you, laughs at your jokes, smells like home, and kisses you with a passion that’s meant for you alone.
And finally, the thing you definitely need to know is this — you belong to a fabulous and long-standing tradition, a tribe of lovers that includes such all-time greats as Walt Whitman, Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Abraham Lincoln, Gertrude Stein, Aristotle, Richard Chamberlain (I know. A shock, right?), Tennessee Williams, Marcel Proust, Alvin Ailey, Frank O’Hara, Dusty Springfield, Billie Jean King, Rock Hudson, Freddie Mercury, James Baldwin, Elton John — and that list doesn’t include the many gays and lesbians you haven’t heard of because, for you, they are yet to be. And though you may sometimes be made to feel less than and outside of the majority rule, you’ll also have plenty of extras to make up for that loss. You will develop a natural understanding of both men and women, because though you are biologically a man, you will want to keep a foot in both camps, while staking a claim in neither. As a result you will be allowed to stand outside and a little away from the crowd, and this will enable you to observe more easily the crazy things that individuals are up to, a valuable asset to you as a writer and an artist. Next year when the senior class casts their production of Arsenic and Old Lace, you will be surprised when Doug the Cool offers you the part of Abby Brewster. Naturally you will hesitate, assuming that the invitation is meant as mockery, but curiosity and a chutzpah will win out and you’ll accept the challenge. This, as it turns out, will be your greatest triumph. You will be seen, appreciated, and against all odds you will win the respect of every bully who ever laid a hand on you in high school. This experience will embolden you to take chances, and to keep alive in you a healthy skepticism of the mob and the willingness to question, to challenge, and to refuse anything as true until you’ve tested it yourself.
Oh, and one last thing — remember that book you read, the one that freaked you out because it described homosexuals as a group of men who frequented bowling alley bathrooms and enjoyed putting lightbulbs up each other’s asses? Well, it was all wrong, and the author was later discredited and labeled a homophobe. You, as it turns out, are right. Love is everything. Trust your Self. Trust your Life. It will lead you. And so will I …
. . . with love,
James
Dear 14,
I am writing to you from the warped perspective of being thirty-nine years old. This exercise seems to match how strange time is. How it moves like a snake. Exactly what a snake looks like in the grass. Like it is moving quickly. As if it is not moving at all.
You are in a Burger King parking lot. Your makeup is perfect. And by perfect, I mean, bright red lipstick with a darker liner, a pale powder covering up any trace that you are Californian, and heavy thick black eyeliner, which also makes this point. A point against the perpetual sun.
You hang there, out on the concrete, next to cars, next to Xtina. Xtina is a wild girl you have a charge for — your body twitches in her presence. It is the greatest feeling on earth. And because of this charge between you, a wish gets made into the dry air. A wish that — regardless of the dull, dull afternoon — you will live an exceptional life.
And you will.
At fourteen, though, you don’t accept this. You don’t believe any of this. You discard your strongest thoughts. You change the charge between you and Xtina into something else. You become angry with her for the way she does things. You get angry that she does not keep this nameless thing between the two of you. She flaunts it, or performs it, or exchanges it with complete strangers walking by. And there is the difference right there: For you it is real.
At fourteen, you have thoughts that are unalterable. You might be odder than the oddest types. You have thoughts of being someone new. Or something else. Anything else. Not these people. But you don’t think it’s okay to say that, especially to these people. At nine, you start drinking Diet Coke, adding a tiny bit of clear alcohol from your parents’ collection. It is toxic and disgusting — a great elixir. At twelve you start to avoid the mirror at all costs — closing your eyes in the hallway as you walk by. Praying for some kind of magic disappearing act. Go away, you say. Stay away. And at fourteen where we have arrived, you will do anything a boy asks you to do. And any boy. And none of it matters because you don’t feel a thing.
Turns out, though, these details become the very slingshot into a greater life. You move to Seattle. You walk into a feminist, queer-owned sex store. You ask if you can work there. You recognize it as a refuge, a place where queerness thrives, a public space that speaks the truth against all American odds. And it’s true, queer is the right place for you. You tell your boyfriend that you are just going to work there a few nights. He understands, but he has no idea you will leave him for all this.
You realize you are queerer than you knew and you start to write with the exact same freedom. It becomes one and the same — who you are and what you write. And you start to live an exceptional life. You write the scripts. You fall in love. You find yourself in the middle of everything you’ve ever secretly believed in — fearless abandon, warm love, a solid crew, and a life without the mainstream.
You write a play and on closing night, you bat at a half-inflated Mylar balloon, a Warhol balloon, which is part of the set design. The balloon lifts to the ceiling and then rides the air back down. You find it all in one swing. Alone in a black theater, you see your reflection run over several balloons and under many lights. The queerest reflection.
A couple things you should know. All people up close are insane. All lives are bizarre. All people live a life filled with queer thought. That said, however you can do it, earn the freedom to live exactly how you want, and let part of that living be purely of your own invention. Nothing you’ve ever seen before. And, since you are the ambitious type, spend your life reading the plays and books of the writers collected here. What they have written will topple any kind of resistance to who you want to be.
And always use a condom. I don’t care what kind of sex it is.
Sincerely,
39
P.S. 14, you do not know anything about sex or how to have it safely. Fourteen-year-olds nowadays can use something called the Internet to find good info on sexuality at www.advocatesforyouth.org. And when they’re eighteen, they can go to www.babeland.com for what they need.
Dear Colman, the boy in the Grainy Waxy Photograph of 1987,
Why are you standing with stooped shoulders making that very Bill Cosby-like sweater you are wearing look like it weighs four hundred pounds? I can’t tell if you are wearing your sister’s hand-me-down sneakers or not because I can only see above your torso in the yearbook photograph. Everyone else seems so glad to have their picture taken for the Overbrook High
School newspaper association. You look like you are trying to hide. But how can you? You are tall with high African cheekbones covered with pimply skin. In the photograph you seem to carry shame on top of the weight of that bulky sweater. Shameful secrets. Of catching a whiff of Terrence Jones as he puts you in a headlock between classes. That sweater looks long enough to cover your excitement. Secret thoughts that feel very natural to you, yet forbidden as illustrated on television, in movies, by some woman named Anita Bryant, and pastors from the pulpit, all who tell you that this is far from natural, that it is to be feared, and hated.
Colman, I found that yearbook in the basement storage in your parents’ house. I had no idea how it got down there. Maybe it was trying to hide too. I dusted off the pages of the twenty-year-old Overbrook High School Beacon Yearbook. I strained my near-sighted eyes on the grainy black-and-white image of 1987. I smiled at your picture for what seemed like hours. The chasm of then and now filled with memories of all that came after high school and bulky sweaters. Colleges and first loves. Dance parties and gay bars. Twenty years. As I closed the yearbook, I thought I saw your eyes look up and I thought I saw such a dazzling smile part from your lispy lips. And you said to me, “Mmm hmm!” The thought that came to me as I smiled at the grainy photograph was a slogan from the images of Black models dangling Virginia Slims cigarettes from their lips in the 1970s, “You’ve come a long way, baby!”
My Dearest Colman, I am so glad that we don’t cover anything up in bulky sweaters anymore. You dress in fitted clothing and your bulky sweaters are a thing of the sartorial past. Thank God!!! Your secret thoughts are less secret these days and you dress accordingly.
All Yours,
Colman
Here you are, almost fifty years later, right where I remember you: standing before the bathroom mirror, fretting over the hair wave you have started training, a small, blond, meticulous crest that rises just above your forehead, slicked into place with Brylcreem or Vitalis.