by Dave Holmes
“Larry”—Buffalo Tom
That whole Buffalo Tom Let Me Come Over album, really. I don’t know about you, but when I hear “Larry,” I am running toward whomever I have a crush on, and he is running toward me, in the pouring rain, and then we are kissing. It is possible that I am living inside a WB young-adult show, even now.
“Desperately Wanting”—Better Than Ezra
Sometimes you don’t have to know all the words for a song to be your go-to heartbreak anthem. Sometimes it just has to have a title like “Desperately Wanting,” and a part in the chorus after a bunch of words you haven’t bothered to learn where the lead singer sings the words “desperately wanting,” and you can shout it along with him—because you, too, are desperately wanting. He understands. You are on the same page, you and whatever the guy’s name is from Better Than Ezra.
“The Freshmen”—The Verve Pipe
Oh, who even knows what this one is about. It’s just kind of moody and plodding and “we were merely freshmen” is a great excuse for unwise romantic fixations, even when you’re twenty-eight. Plus, for a moment, the goddamn thing was inescapable; it seems wasteful not to use it as the soundtrack to a self-destructive crush.
Literally Anything by Toad the Wet Sprocket
Were these guys ever happy? I picture them all in windbreakers, on a late autumn afternoon, just having finished crying. Every song is about one single person bravely dealing with some agonizing thing, or standing stalwart in the face of a chill wind, or putting on a smile while inside he’s aching, just aching, and when you’re young and you love torturing yourself, it is exactly what you need to hear.
“Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town”—Pearl Jam
A potent reminder that, no matter how intense the one-way fixation is, how hot and focused the love beams you’re shooting out of your eyes are, or how perfect everything would be if he could just feel a tiny bit of the same about you as you do about him, hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away. It’ll all pass in a few weeks and you’ll be on to the next one. You and SWV will be back harmonizing over Fruitopias before you know it.
My senior year of college, I was the campus social chair, because I loved to throw parties and also nobody gets more done than a young person who is furiously sublimating his need for intimacy. And so it was that in the summer of 1993, I was sent to a student leadership conference at Emory University in Atlanta, where something happened to me that you are not going to believe, but that I swear to God is absolutely true.
That summer, incidentally, was the one where I had decided I would come out to my family. I was still somewhere between partially and completely out at school, and since I’d already more or less decided I wouldn’t be coming back to St. Louis after graduation, it would be the last time we’d spend more than a few days together. And how better to celebrate your last summer with your parents than by making an announcement that forces them, for at least a few brief moments, to picture you having sex?
I came home in late May, set down my bags, saw their smiling faces, and mentally dragged and dropped this task from early June to very, very late August. Oh, sure, I meant to sit them down and say something, but we were having such a nice time. I oscillated wildly between an honest desire for them not to hear about it from someone else, to a very real wish that someone else would hurry up and tell them. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t have anyone to tell me what to do, so I did nothing.
In mid-August, I hopped on a plane to Atlanta to spend three days with some other student leaders from around the country at this conference. This being the early 1990s, political correctness was in full bloom, and this event would focus on programming functions that would reflect our culture’s growing diversity. As conservative and homogeneous as my college and hometown were, I imagined this conference as a Utopia filled with different types of people, all mutually respecting one another; a really sexy Benetton ad. Whatever doubts I had about myself and my looming announcement would simply melt away under the stern eye of our retreat leaders: tough-but-caring Lou Gossett Jr. types who’d beat some pride and self-reliance into me, to the point where I’d hardly be able to wait to get home and tell my parents the good news. The informational brochure arrived a week or so before the event and revealed that the conference would be titled “Diversity: Isn’t That Special?” I had a bad feeling, and I immediately got to work repressing it.
The registration table was directly underneath the giant DIVERSITY: ISN’T THAT SPECIAL? banner, and I signed my papers and received my room assignment as Arrested Development’s “People Everyday” bumped out of the ballroom’s PA system. Just when I was finishing up, Debi, a pantsuited administrator with a fanny pack and a harsh attempt at the Chynna Phillips/Jane from Melrose Place hairdo, fixed her eyes on me with a look of practiced disapproval. “Blue eyes,” she sneered. “We know all about people like you. Go sit on the floor.” I’m more hazel, but the distinction didn’t seem important, so I went and sat on the floor next to a beefy lacrosse type in a Clemson T-shirt. “Hello,” said Clemson. “Welcome to a clumsy parable about racism.” “They wouldn’t,” I said, as a Hispanic girl from Vassar was led to a table where a group of brown-eyed people ate steak and baked potatoes. They would. They are.
And so it continued: all the brown-eyed people were shown to tables and given fancy meals, while all of the blond girls in topknots—and in the tradition of student leadership conferences, this thing was roughly 94 percent blond girls in topknots—were sent to huddle on the floor and share those packets of orange crackers with peanut butter in between. Clemson and I watched blonde after blonde hit the deck and scan the room in frustration, thinking something must be the matter, minds getting primed to be blown. A blue-eyed Janeane Garofalo type from UVA plopped herself down next to us. “Racism’s bad news, huh? Gimme a cracker.”
After all the conference attendees were accounted for, and right when we were speculating as to whether they’d lead the blue-eyed people outside and turn a fire hose on us, Debi took the stage. “Oh, here it comes,” said UVA. Debi’s voice fought with the feedback for a moment: “Welcome to ‘Diversity: Isn’t That Special?’ Now, you might have noticed that some of you have been treated differently than others.”
“Yep, got that,” said Clemson as a murmur passed over the floor.
“Doesn’t feel too good, does it?” Debi continued.
“Oh, it’s awful,” I whispered.
“Well, that’s because we…”
“…are doing a thing about racism,” we said.
“…have taught you kind of a sneaky lesson…”
“…about racism.”
“…about racism.” The murmur grew to a roar. Blond buns bobbed this way and that. “See, some of you, just because of the color of your eyes, had a completely different experience than your neighbors, and you may not even have known why.” The room was in a full uproar. The topknots simply could not take this information in. “See, racism is still alive and well in this country, and some people like to judge other people on the color of their skin. It’s not fair, is it?” The brown-eyed kids at the tables, many of whom were black or Hispanic and had therefore, as minority student leaders, probably been forced to endure at least one of these simulations before, mostly shrugged and finished up their baked potatoes. “You are free to introduce yourselves to one another. Talk about what you’ve learned.”
The topknots made a beeline for the black kids, with speeds that tested the integrity of their scrunchies. “Is this what it’s like for you?” “You guys, I am so sorry!” “Can I touch your hair?” Baby steps toward enlightenment.
“Diversity: Isn’t That Special?” continued along these lines. The next day, we were given a standardized test comprised largely of questions about jazz and basketball, to illustrate the cultural bias of the SAT. Too bad for Debi and her people, I was deep into an Afro-centric, Tribe Called Quest–inspired phase that summer, and had a huge crush on a college friend who talked a lot ab
out sports, so I scored a 1540. The topknots got their poor numbers back, learned the point of the exercise, and shook their heads no with faces of steely determination. Have you heard about this systemic racism? their faces said. Well, we just did, and it’s bad.
Right around here was the first time I ever even began to view my homosexuality as an asset rather than a liability. Maybe if I came out to some of these administrators, they’d view me as less of an oppressor. Maybe if I let them know I was actually a minority, too, we could actually have a constructive talk about what I was going through, in real time, right then. So in a small-group discussion about sensitivity to gay and lesbian issues (alas, the B and the T were not yet invited to the party), I piped up: “You know, I’m actually gay myself, so…” and the facilitator squinted her eyes, made her lips disappear, tilted her head at a perfect 45-degree angle—the international symbol for You Poor Thing—and interrupted me. “So brave,” she stage-whispered, and then got right back to her spiel about campus safer-sex programs. It went that way with each facilitator I came out to: the squint, the lips, the 45-degree head tilt. No dialogue, no “How are you?” no inquiry as to whether anything they were saying was resonating in any meaningful way, just a condescending look. I was being treated like a box of fragile glass figurines, or Cousin Geri from The Facts of Life.
The more sensitive among us hadn’t really learned any constructive ways to vent our negative emotions in 1993; Jagged Little Pill was still two years off. Instead, Clemson, UVA, and I chose to express our frustrations through the medium of drinking. There was an Applebee’s across the street from campus, and once things got to be too much, one of us would give the high sign—index finger making quick circles in the air—and one by one we’d disappear. We’d grab a table on the patio and smoke cigarettes and laugh and drink things that were blue. I came out to them, and they said “Okay,” and we discussed it a little bit and then got on with what we’d been talking about, which for the record is exactly the way it’s supposed to go. By accident, this conference was teaching us all something.
There was a farewell banquet on the evening of the third day, and as student leaders of all eye colors finished up their steak and potatoes, the administrators fired up a slide projector. And there it was, up on the silver screen: a greatest-hits compilation from “Diversity: Isn’t That Special?” Slide after slide of white girls crying on patient brown shoulders, set to carefully selected hits of the day: “Free Your Mind” by En Vogue, “A Whole New World” by Peabo Bryson and Regina Belle, and then, finally, “What’s So Funny About Peace, Love and Understanding.”
Except it was the version from the soundtrack to The Bodyguard.
The Curtis Stigers version.
Oh, hell no.
Listen: you can condescend to me. You can cut me off and treat me like an injured baby bird when I try to start a dialogue with you. But don’t you dare think you have anything to teach me if you don’t know who Elvis Costello is.
I gave the high sign, and Clemson and UVA were headed for the door before my finger could complete a full rotation.
By our second round, the blue drinks started doing their job and our tongues were loosened, to the point where Clemson leaned forward and asked a question I’d waited a lifetime to hear: “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, no. Yeah,” I answered, out of habit. “I’m fine.”
And then I took a deep breath. “No. You know what, guys? I’m not okay. That was bullshit.” My new friends nodded. “We spent three days talking about sensitivity and diversity, when I am right here being diverse and needing some sensitivity and nobody’s letting me say anything. I am about to come out to my fucking family, which is scary, and I would love it if just one person in my fucking life would listen to me.” People started to look over, because I was loud, and I didn’t care. “I cannot be the only person in this world who’s gone through this fucking problem. I do not need to be told how brave I am, I do not need the head at the 45-degree angle.” Clemson and UVA gave a puzzled look, but chose to let me continue releasing steam. “I need what you and you and everyone I know has always had, and has never had to worry about not having, and that’s someone they respect who has been through what they’re going through, who can sit them down and tell them they’re okay, and listen to what they have to say, and tell them what to fucking do. I am alone, and I am furious, and I am scared to fucking death, and I just want someone who isn’t an idiot who’s gone through this to
Tell.
Me.
What.
To.
Do.”
We are now at the part of the story that you are not going to believe, but again: this actually happened.
I sat back in my wrought-iron patio seat, wiped my eyes, and lit a Marlboro Light. “That’s it,” I exhaled. “I just want someone to tell me what to do.”
These words left my mouth, and in the very next second the door opened, and out onto the patio of the Applebee’s across from Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia, walked the Indigo Girls.
The.
Indigo.
Girls.
And not the Indigo Girls and their friends. Not the Indigo Girls and their manager and publicist. Just the Indigo Girls. Just Amy and Emily, taking time out to enjoy some boneless wings with their choice of sauce.
It was as though they had seen some kind of gay distress signal in the Atlanta skies and reported for duty. They sat down at the table next to us. My jaw did not so much drop as unhinge. The Blue Curaçao was really pumping through my bloodstream, so I did not hesitate to turn to my left and start in:
“Um…Amy? Yeah, hi, my name’s Dave and I’m gay just like you and I’m sort of about to come out to my family and see I’m here for this conference and I tried to talk but they do the angle and they don’t know who Elvis Costello is and…”
“You know what,” she stopped me, “I’m Emily.”
“Sorry!” I gritted my teeth and sucked in air. “That happens a lot probably, right?”
“Not really,” said Emily. “But I get you. Been there. Coming out is hard, and it’s something you have to do on your own. You gotta trust yourself.” She patted my knee. “You’re okay. Just trust yourself.” And then she turned to Amy and got down to the business of choosing an Appeteaser, her work having been done.
And I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the best advice I’d ever gotten. I flew home to St. Louis the next day and stood face-to-face with my parents and took a deep breath and immediately waited a couple more weeks and then came out to them. It was awful, and it took some time for things to be okay, but they were, eventually. I trusted myself, and I got through it.
I went back to school, ready to spend my fifth year prostrate to the higher mind, get my paper, and, finally, be free.
As graduation loomed, I decided that I needed to escape the Holy Cross of my mind. Enough of small places where everyone knows one another, enough of homogeneity. I was going to move to the biggest, greatest city in the world: I was starting over in New York City. I had enthusiasm, a poor understanding of how the world worked, a 2.4 GPA, and no job skills. I couldn’t fail.
In the spring semester of my senior year, I started sending out cover letters and résumés to advertising agencies in New York. I decided that Madison Avenue was the place for me: There was creativity, proximity to media, and suspenders, plus, a lifetime of pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t would seem to make me a natural.
A few agencies got back to me to set up interviews, the first of which was Saatchi & Saatchi in SoHo. I drove down from campus and spent the night at the Best Western in the South Street Seaport. And as is customary when I travel, I forgot one major item. Sometimes it’s a basic thing like toothpaste or deodorant; this time it was socks. I had a brand-new, early graduation present Brooks Brothers suit, which without socks would simply be too jaunty. Unacceptable. My interview was at 9:00 a.m., and so, bright and early, I hunted the Seaport for a pair of socks. Nothing. All that was open was a Walg
reens, and their offerings were limited, but I was a hosiery beggar and therefore could not choose. I grabbed, I paid, I donned, I ran.
And so it was that I received my first big-boy job offer while wearing a gray, glen plaid suit and opaque women’s black thigh-high drugstore stockings.
I accepted. I got back in my car for the drive back to campus and Z100 was playing Collective Soul’s “Shine.” My new life had begun. I was an ad guy now. And a L’Eggs gal. Heaven, let your light shine down.
I began looking for apartments right away. My perception of New York apartments and their size came mostly from Janet Jackson’s “Pleasure Principle” video and Big: I envisioned massive, untreated warehouse spaces with floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed pipes. The heavy-doored elevator would open right into my place. I’d wait a tasteful few months before getting a trampoline.
The first place I saw was an $800/month jail cell in Chelsea with no kitchen or bathroom, shown to me by an angry man of indeterminate ethnic origin in a tank top. “Is shared bethroom. Is New Jork, is always shared bethroom. You sign liss? I am very busy.” I gave that guy a firm maybe and kept looking, settling on a place on the Upper East Side, right above Elaine’s on Second Avenue. It had wood floors at a 15-degree angle, so that if you opened the refrigerator, you had to keep a hand on the top of the unit so that it wouldn’t topple and crush you.
I signed the lease, bought a pillow and a blanket from Bed Bath & Beyond, and stayed the night. New York City! As night fell, I decided to go see what was what, the only way I knew how: by hailing a taxi, getting into the backseat, and telling the cabdriver, “I’m new here. Take me somewhere gay and awesome.”