FSF, March 2008

by Spilogale Authors

  "I—told you—to stay away from this place!” he said in explosive spurts, his face red.

  "I'm not doing anything wrong,” she said. “I just came to see my friends."

  Tottering up on spaghetti legs, Dr. Fusselman propped himself against the stone wall of the temple. His head drooped back, his eyes closed. His suit jacket hung open and she could see his heaving paunch. “These people are not your friends!” he said, looking like he might barf. She moved prudently out of range. He shook his head. “They just want to take advantage of you!"

  "At least they don't freaking charge money while they're doing it!” she said. “You know, if I have to look at those stupid fish one more time, I will off myself!"

  "Charlsie!” Her father seized her arm.

  She jerked away. “I got over it, you know, wanting to bite the big one. It was just one bad day, weeks ago, but you keep throwing it in my face!” She glared at her dad and the shrink. “Now, you've got me thinking again that leaving might not be such a bad idea after all!"

  "This is your fault!” Her father turned upon Brother Shawn.

  The new Brother backed away, knocking over the Windex bottle. The roll of paper towels unwound down the sidewalk.

  "Stop it! You're scaring him!” Charlsie said. “He hasn't done anything wrong."

  "This whole thing is a sick, sick scam!” her father said. “I'm going to see that these perverts are put out of business!"

  "Hel-lo? This is a church,” Charlsie said. “You can't just make religion go away because you don't like it!"

  Sister Angela cocked her head, studying his florid face. “Many lay people do not agree with what we offer, but I sense that this is something more,” she said softly. “You told us that Charlsie was underage, so you know we can't accept her. Why does what we do here still frighten you so much?"

  Dad grabbed for Charlsie's arm again, but she backed out of reach. “Answer the question, Dad,” she said.

  He stared at her, wordless.

  There was something in his eyes, something terrified. She suddenly remembered how easily he'd found her in the locker room even though it was in the back of the temple. He'd gone straight to it. No one had shown him the way. “You've been here before,” Charlsie said.

  "I—” His overheated face paled.

  Dr. Fusselman turned to look at her dad. “Charles?” he said.

  "It had to have been before my time, and I've been here eleven years,” Sister Angela said. “I don't recognize you."

  "I do,” Father Andrew's chirping old-lady voice said.

  "You can't have her!” her father cried, then seized Charlsie and pulled her to his chest. He was holding her too tight, and she could feel his heart beating wildly beneath her cheek.

  "Charlsie wasn't eligible,” Father Andrew said. “You, better than anyone, should know that. We take only those of sound mind and legal age who are determined to leave this world, and even for those we provide time to change their minds."

  Charlsie turned in his arms and looked up at his panicked face, trying to put the pieces together. “Dad, did you try to donate when you were my age?"

  "Actually, he's an upload,” Father Andrew said, “one of our earliest, and a great success too. Our failure rate was much higher then. We were much encouraged by his, or should I say her, case.” The old-lady face smiled gently. “We haven't heard from you since the day you walked out of the temple, Charlene. Have you had a good life?"

  "You don't understand,” her father said. “When people know, everyone looks at you like you're a freak, like you cheated somehow and have no right to be walking around.” He gazed over Charlsie's shoulder at the temple. “They say you're not real, just a copy of someone who died. Even my own parents couldn't deal with it. They buried my old body and refused to see me. I had to leave home at nineteen, start all over again, become someone totally new.” He shuddered. “The thought of seeing another person walking around in Charlsie's body—"

  Light began to creep in around the tattered edges of Charlsie's brain. Charlene. So her old dad was sugar-and-spice on the inside, pink instead of blue. The stupid grab-bag effect again. These people really should do something about that random assignment thing. “Does Mom know?” she asked.

  "No.” His (her?) voice was a strangled whisper. “I was afraid, even if you just worked here, you would come across my name in the records, that you'd learn what I was."

  She thought of Phillip cheerfully hacking into restricted files. The parental unit had a point. Sooner or later she'd have probably found out.

  "Charles, it's obvious you still have a number of unresolved issues,” Dr. Fusselman said. He brushed at his disordered hair, then pulled out a PDA and activated it. “No wonder Charlsie was at risk. I think this calls for family therapy sessions, maybe three times a week?"

  "Oh, get real!” Charlsie said, freeing herself. “Nobody wants you here. Whatever's wrong, we'll fix it ourselves! Go back to your freaking office and feed those lame fish."

  "But—” The shrink's mouth gaped in a credible imitation of a dying flounder. “If we're dealing with gender reassignment on top of everything else, we should definitely get to the bottom of this."

  Her father flushed. “I don't want to be a ‘this,’ anymore!” His hands were fists. “Just—send me a final bill."

  Fusselman buttoned his pinstriped suit jacket, though he missed a button and got it crooked, then set out for the parking lot. Charlsie watched him go with a sense of relief.

  "Brother Shawn,” Sister Angela said, “I think the windows on the south side of the church need your attention."

  "Oh, yeah, like sure thing, Sister.” He collected the Windex and paper towels and headed around the side of the temple.

  Charlsie shivered as the spring wind gusted. “Come inside, both of you,” Father Andrew said. “It's cold out here."

  For a second, Charlsie though her father would bolt. His eyes were fearful, his expression haggard, like he'd stayed up night after night worrying about just this.

  "No matter what anyone said, you didn't do anything wrong,” Sister Angela said. “The person who donated your body no longer wanted to live. It was a sacred gift."

  Her dad hunched his head, as though expecting a blow, then darted into the shadowy church. Inside, light flooded down through the stained glass windows so that red, green, blue, and gold danced like living jewels on the flagstone floor. “They're not even—my kids,” he said brokenly, sinking into the nearest gleaming pew, “Eric, Tom, and Charlsie. They came from this body. I have no right to them. They belong to him, whoever he was."

  "Then that's how you've honored your donor.” Sister Angela's rugged form knelt before her dad, staring up into his stressed-out face.

  Father Andrew nodded. “One Leaves, One Stays,” he said in his high quavery voice. “He didn't have the strength to face the future, but you did, Charlene. You created a family and brought three children into the world. That's a marvelous legacy."

  "Jeez, do you think you can get out of being my dad that easily?” Charlsie said. “Like I know I can be a pain, but—!"

  "I was afraid some part of you knew all along,” he said. “I thought what I did all those years ago led you to the temple, that maybe you even inherited the desire to commit suicide from this body. It was all my fault."

  "You decided to live,” she said, “when you could have given up and died.” She thought back on her reasons for coming here. They seemed vague and unimportant now, like thoughts some other person had been thinking, and a very silly one at that. “This is a good place. They do good things for people."

  "Only two percent of those who initially approach the Church of Second Life ever donate their bodies,” Sister Angela said. “That's a much lower percentage of deaths for our contacts than suicide prevention hot lines report, and those who are determined to go help someone in desperate need by their passing."

  "It's the ultimate in recycling,” Charlsie said. “How can that be bad? Reduce, reuse, and
all that! You saved a perfectly good body from going to waste."

  Father Andrew patted her dad on the shoulder. “Charlene, I think it would do you some good to volunteer in the Donation Guild,” he said. “If you experience the work we do, perhaps then you could make peace with yourself."

  "Call me Charles, please,” her dad said. “Things are complicated enough. I haven't been Charlene for years."

  "You know,” Charlsie said, “like we could be a father and daughter team, working here together.” She glanced up at Sister Angela and Father Andrew. “And I still want to learn how to download personalities. Sister Angela promised!"

  Father Andrew looked her dad in the eyes. “Charles?"

  Dad sighed, staring down at his clenched hands, and for a stomach-wrenching moment, she thought he was going to refuse. Things would go back to the way they'd been, boring and stupid and pointless. She'd been clueless to think it could be any different. Old dogs couldn't learn new tricks, even ones walking around in someone else's discarded body. Everyone, it seemed, but her knew that.

  "All—right,” her dad said as though he had to force the words out. “I'll—give it a try."

  "Awesome!” Charlsie said and threw her arms around his/her neck. In her mind, she was already planning the weeks to come. They would sweep the flagstones together, polish the pews, wash windows, enter data, and download applicants into the computers to give them another chance at life. Maybe she could even learn to upload personalities into newly donated bodies. That would be creepy and fascinating all at the same time.

  And, now that she really understood where her father was coming from, she might even be able to persuade Dad-Charlene to go to the mall with her. They could bond big-time while picking out earrings and cosmetics. What did it matter if no one at school would speak to her? She and her Dad would be homegirls forever.

  That would totally rock.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Films: NO GAYDAR REQUIRED by Kathi Maio

  I recently re-watched The Celluloid Closet, a documentary co-written (with Sharon Wood) and directed by Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman from the writings of Vito Russo. The film, which first appeared in 1995, was released on DVD in 2001. Packed with lots of intriguing clips, as well as interviews with stars, writers, producers, directors, and social critics, the film details very well the troubled history of the homosexual character in Hollywood films.

  For me, the saddest thing about watching The Celluloid Closet is not revisiting images of the pathetic “sissies” of the fifties, or the gay monsters and victims of the movies of the seventies and eighties. Nor is it being reminded of all the gay characters and content that have been rewritten as straight or edited out of feature films over the last hundred years. For me, the most depressing thing about the documentary was its deliberately upbeat ending which managed to imply that things were changing, strides toward equality in cultural depictions were being made, and that we were on the brink of seeing gay characters more fully integrated into major motion pictures.

  Perhaps in 1995 they had good reasons to be hopeful, but here in the end of 2007, I don't see a lot of cinematic diversity: not for people of color, and certainly not for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people.

  Outside of the fairly frequent use of gays as minor support characters (who are identified as homosexual but appear to be celibate, and exist only to provide a sympathetic ear or buffoonish comic relief), major-studio mall-cineplex Hollywood films are not substantively better than they were seventeen years ago. (If the last “gay” movie you saw on the local marquee was the Adam Sandler straight—guys-in-a-benefits-scam comedy, I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, you know what I mean.)

  You could argue that the small screen has done a better job than the big screen. Without a doubt, premium cable channels have made strides. On the traditional networks, the picture is less rosy. Certainly in campy comedies like the ABC telenovela, Ugly Betty, gay and transgendered characters are an essential part of the mix. Are the gay characters neurotic and ridiculous? Usually. But no more so than the wacky straights in the series. Comedy (like fantasy) makes things safer, of course. And television allows the offended viewer to flip the channel. And yet, even on network TV, gay characters are few and far between—and in each of the last few years they have actually decreased in numbers, as a yearly analysis by GLAAD has documented. (The end of Will & Grace really put a dent in the gay TV populace!)

  But Hollywood movies are even more resistant to change. Is it because they live in fear of their perceived key demographic—the straight, white, adolescent male? Is it because of the massive investment and elusive payback of people willing to invest ten dollars cash for a ticket or twenty-five dollars for a DVD?

  You may be asking yourself: “Why has the bloody woman gone off on this singularly inappropriate rant?” If so, Gentle Reader, let me explain. The reason I am ruminating on filmic gay invisibility is because I have just come back from a screening of the film, Martian Child, which was adapted from a very autobiographical novelet and novel by David Gerrold.

  For those of you more familiar with Mr. Gerrold's Star Trek work and the War Against the Chtorr series than with the title in question, this particular work is a roman à clef about the adoption process. It details a couple of years in the life of the author, as he built a family with an abused and neglected young boy he rescued from years in the foster care system. He went through this process as a single father and a gay man.

  With an eye toward full disclosure, let me remind you that the original story first appeared in these pages in September of 1994. After finding it difficult to place his single father adoption story about a little lad who self-identifies as a Martian, the author found an eventual home for it through the good judgment of our former editor, Kristine Kathryn Rusch. (What can I say, all of our editors and publishers have always shown impeccable taste!) The rest, as they say, is history. The story went on to win the Nebula, the Hugo, and the Locus Award.

  Mr. Gerrold later expanded the story into a full-length novel. And when you read both versions of the story, it is interesting how the author added depth and human drama to his tale of the difficult bonding process between “David” and little Dennis. The fear and disquiet of a new parent dealing with a troubled eight-year-old who had already seen too much of the negative attributes of the human adult world is keenly felt and clearly documented. He expands the details of both the tenderness and turmoil of the relationship. And he weaves throughout his very realistic story/memoir the fictional elements of a gnawing fear: If a child says he is Martian implanted into a human host, what if he is telling the truth?

  Among the other aspects to the story the author further elucidates upon and makes completely unambiguous is his identity as a gay man. This open acknowledgment adds much to the story. It adds to the protagonist's fear that he will be judged not “good enough” to be a father. And it also adds to the profound connection he feels with his new son, who has been so imprinted with a sense of being alien and “other” in society, that he can only explain it away by identifying himself as a creature from another world.

  It's a poignant story, to be sure. Heart-warming, dramatic—it even includes the Northridge earthquake!—and with just enough of a tease of spooky fantasy elements (especially coming from this author) to add another layer to the story-telling. How could such a tale not be adapted for the screen?

  And so it was. After the normal amount of time in development hell, Martian Child finally made it to theaters, adapted by screenwriting partners Seth E. Bass (Twilight of the Golds) and Jonathan Tolins (Twilight of the Golds, Queer as Folk), with an assist from director Menno Meyjes (The Color Purple, Max).

  As an intimate family drama, the film rests heavily on the shoulders of its two central characters. In the case of new father, David, it is well-served by the casting of John Cusack in the role. Cusack has never been particularly handsome or dashing. And as he slouches toward middle-age, he is even less so. But like Tom
Hanks, he has always possessed a regular joe quality—albeit with a bit more of an alienated edge than dear Tom can manage—that makes him believable in the role of a straight widower who is drawn to adopt.

  In the difficult role of the troubled young boy, the film was even more lucky. Young Bobby Coleman shows all the intuitive natural acting chops that we so often see in children who have not yet been ruined by the sophistication of show biz. In addition, with his big eyes, raspy voice, and unusual verbal cadence, he does have the eerie affect of a changeling. Throw a heavy coating of sunblock on his face—as a Martian, he fears the Earthly rays of the sun—and you definitely get the sense of a ghostly extraterrestrial who may simply be a frightened and unhappy little boy.

  To add a dose of parental caution and common sense, the cast includes Joan Cusack in the not-exactly-a-stretch role of David's sister. But nepotism be damned! Joan Cusack is a national treasure and she is always so much fun to watch on screen that I am always happy when she is in one of her brother's movies. Or any other, for that matter.

  Less effective are Oliver Platt as David's literary agent, and Anjelica Huston as his publisher. Their roles are underwritten and seem to exist on screen only to provide (not very funny) comic relief and to play the bad guys in the movie's semi-heavy-handed message. To wit, even adult writers are pushed to conform and be what other, more powerful people want them to be.

  I enjoyed the fact that the filmmakers tied in the author's science fiction background. David is shown visiting the set of a rather cheesy adaptation of his “Dracoban” interplanetary war novel and he is under constant pressure by his agent and publisher to deliver the sequel. Gerrold's story and book have many more self-referential asides and inside jokes for the sf fan to enjoy, but more in the movie would not have been practical.

  I do, however, wish that the film had made more of the growing anxiety of the new dad regarding the possible alien origins of his new son. Despite the fact that little Dennis seems to be able to “Martian wish” a lackluster baseball team into getting a home run or a red traffic light into turning prematurely green, you never really get the sense that Cusack's David fears that the little boy might really be from Mars. He doesn't talk to friends, comb through his journals, or make plaintive queries in internet forums looking for evidence of Martian children. And it is this content that specifically introduces a possible sf (that is, fictional) element to a story that is otherwise simply a heartwarming memoir.