Cazwell throws some shade

I was beginning to think camp was dead. But it's not; it's just different.

I'm old enough to remember pre-AIDS camp. Back then, "camp" was synonymous with "gay." "Gay" meant "underground." "Underground" meant "immoral." Camp was subversive, dangerous, even anarchical. It defied description and categorization. You just knew something was camp. If you were not on that wavelength, camp meant nothing to you. In mainstream America, camp was unpatriotic. It was up there with Communism.

The camp icons I remember most in the 1960s were Charles Nelson Reilly, Liberace, Paul Lynde, Alan Sues. Women were not camp, but rather the objects of camp: Marilyn Monroe, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, and, of course, the obligatory Judy Garland. Despite featuring men in drag, the 1959 movie Some Like It Hot is not camp, unless you count the presence of Marilyn Monroe. A man's mere wearing of a dress doesn't make him camp or gay or immoral--or funny, for that matter. An illusion of reality has to be created. As much as drag could be considered a distortion or exaggeration of women, it is really an homage to them. Post-Stonewall drag queens like Divine, RuPaul, and Dame Edna portrayed women as confident, sassy, and complex. They inspired empathy and affinity, but they were still camp. The difference is they were in on the joke.

By the 1970s, essays like Susan Sontag's "Notes on Camp" redefined "camp" to emphasize "artifice, frivolity, naïve middle-class pretentiousness, and shocking excess." Sontag said, "You can't do camp on purpose." In a way, she's right. Camp has to come from the heart, however misguided. In the past 15 years, the gold standard of camp has been, of course, Showgirls, an earnest, jaw-dropping, 15-car pileup that purports to portray the real-life, gritty underpinnings of exploited Vegas performers.

On television there have been camp-like roles, such as Patsy and Edina in Absolutely Fabulous, the women of Sex and the City, and Karen in Will and Grace, but there's a self-consciousness there: gay spirits inhabiting the bodies of real women. I think that one reason straight women and gay men get along so well is because they concurrently fought to be treated as equals and in the past 30 years have gained political clout. They can now use mainstream media to express themselves and large numbers of people don't see them as subversive anymore. That's a far cry from the creepy innuendoes of Paul Lynde's bitchy retorts on The Hollywood Squares (which, by the way, are still hilarious).

The other day I stumbled onto a YouTube video by gay rapper Cazwell called "I Seen Beyoncé at Burger King." At first I thought it was amateurish and not funny, but about halfway through the viewing, it hit me: This is John Waters for the New Millennium. This is the new camp!

But is it camp if the intent is deliberate? To me it is, since it incorporates the three main components of camp: attitude, humor and allusion, and drag.

If the grammatically flawed title doesn't clue you in, the garish, seizure-inducing, psychedelic color scheme and irritatingly monotonous synth track will. Influenced by artists such as Deee-Lite, Caz crafts a novelty song that's as clever as it is annoying. Decked out in what can only be described as white-trash rapper couture, Caz and his over-the-top homo-nerdy sidekick Jonny Makeup let viewers in on their dirty little secret: they've spotted Beyoncé in the Home of the Whopper chowing down on a host of calorie-laden food items.

In the video, "Beyoncé" is a tranny who uses her wiles to get Caz to lend her 10 bucks because her car is parked 3 blocks away and "that's just too far, too far." Caz lets on that he and Ms. Knowles are tight, as he nonchalantly advises her that she'd better repay him. In a subsequent encounter at JC Penney, Beyoncé shows up in her '94 Chevy bedecked in curlers and shades and asks Caz to watch her car while she shops. Caz reminds her of the 10-dollar loan, which she dismisses with a fierce "f**k it." And then Ms. B delivers the ultimate bitch slap, mistaking Caz for a liquor store employee while she shops for a case of beer.

This far-fetched sequence of events is interspersed with shots of Makeup in various ridiculous getups (the nosy neighbor, the fashion-challenged queen) gossiping with a half-stoned Caz, himself dressed in a pink scooped-out tank top and bling, about the alleged sightings. Whether intentional or not, the addition of backup dancers in Burger King uniforms and kitten outfits is a great tribute to camp variety shows like Hullaballoo.

The line on whether this video is more satire than camp is blurred. The premise of a white-trash gay rapper dissing a glamorous hip-hop star in the 'hood is a smart statement on what constitutes celebrity and reality, something John Waters exposed so brilliantly in Pecker. Everyone has something to say about Britney, Lindsay, and Paris, but what do we really know about them?

The YouTube commenters don't seem to get what's going on here, but then viewing comments on that site is like visiting a putrid cesspool. Uh-huh, the music is lame. Yeah, the cinematography is garish. OK, the acting is silly. That's the point. The best that YouTubers can muster up are unironic remarks like "GAY," "Retarded," and "Fucking stoopid!"--remarks that indicate camp is still the purview of those who are in on the joke and that Beavis and Butthead are alive and well and surfing the Web.

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Decade(nce)

With endless debate about same-sex marriage swirling around us, Luis and I have managed to build a nice life together over the past 10 years. He has health insurance through my employer, and we have tons of paperwork to protect us in case one of us gets sick or dies. Yeah, we still don't have the same protections as our parents, but I can't say we're hurting. If you really want to show your commitment to someone, buy property with them.

We celebrated our 10th anniversary at River Cafe in Brooklyn. Even though I'm a native Brooklynite, I had never been there. I was in high school when it opened in 1977, and it was too hoity-toity for my family to ever go there. In college my idea of gourmet was a cup o' ramen noodles, and then I moved away for 13 years. When I came back to New York almost 10 years ago, the price of a fancy dinner was still out of reach. Now, as we enter what could be hard times, we figured we should try it before the price of a fancy dinner slips out of our reach.

One thing I love about Luis is his adaptability to any situation. He is not snobbish in the least. When we first met, I was afraid to bring him to my parents' house because our dishes are Corian, we use paper napkins, and my mother uses one cooking technique: Boil The Hell Out Of [insert name of food]. His mother, on the other hand, uses English china and cloth napkins and makes some of the best French food I've ever eaten. Every time I visited their home I'd keep my hands on my lap for fear of breaking something.

Over the years I've learned to appreciate fine dining, and Luis has learned to like Flintstones cuisine. For our 10-year anniversary we decided we should live a little.

Luis asked the reservations person for a nice table for our anniversary. We were both eager to find out what the place was like, especially because the adjoining Fulton Ferry Landing is my favorite spot in all of New York. Now host to Asian wedding photo ops and ice-cream- and pizza-seeking tourists, it no longer feels like the Special New York Place it once did, but I still love it.

I wanted to find out beforehand what others think of River Cafe. Not surprisingly, there are plenty of people with plenty to say. I try to read restaurant reviews with a jaundiced eye, and I realize that everyone has a different experience. On many review sites axe-grinders gleefully dice up their victims and display the entrails in public forums. But overly sugary reviewers cause tooth decay, so I like to find a middle ground. In this case that was difficult. Diners either love it or hate it. The first people I dismissed were those who whined about small portions, high prices, or long waits. Really, just go to McDonald's, where you can drive through and supersize for mere ducats. One reviewer said, "I have had better steaks at Applebees." So, there you go.

Another reviewer complained about the waiters having phony French accents and said he would appreciate a disclaimer that you are not welcome here "unless you're worth a minimum of $5MM, speak French, drive a Porch [sic], have 5 maids and or wear designer suits & have 3 portfolio managers on speed dial." And then there was the reviewer who said "staff NOT gay friendly." Does that mean the maitre d' didn't offer a hand job? Two men celebrating an anniversary: would The River Cafe disappoint?

Before dinner our friend Andrea came with us to the cafe for drinks. Even though it's steps away from the ferry landing, the inside of the cafe feels like another world. The restaurant sits right on the water, under the Brooklyn Bridge, with a spectacular view of the East River. It was still light out when we arrived at 8:15, and we got to see the sun set as boats sailed by. We drove in air conditioning but were still a bit moist in our suits. The dress code is business casual, so we didn't have to wear ties. (Another "shocking" epiphany in reviews: "I had to wear a jacket!" Go...to..the...Web...site.)

Andrea ordered us a bottle of Prosecco, and we toasted and chatted as the last rays of light faded from the East River just in time for dinner. Andrea left us, and we approached the maitre d' to be seated. He looked at me and Luis and then behind us as if looking for someone else. He seemed surprised that it was just the two of us.

We were seated at a great table near the river side, not right up at the window but close enough. Our Brazilian server was very friendly (not at all "snooty," "rude," or "neglects basic courtesy," as others' experiences with staff were). She presented us with a card from our friends J & F, who had sent us a bottle of Prosecco. We'd already gone through one bottle. What was one more?

The room itself is nothing special but pleasant--and really, the view is the selling point. The room is intimate, with enough space to comfortably enjoy dinner without having to overhear others' conversations or shout over music or bad acoustics. The clientele seemed to be a bridge (and tunnel) mix with a smattering of Europeans. There was a considerable amount of plastic surgery. The magnificent Manhattan skyline was the only reminder we were in Brooklyn.

Some reviewers complained about the inordinate number of people who served them. Besides our Brazilian server, only two other people came near our table to serve us bread and water and clear our dishes. That's a lot compared with Shoney's. You can choose either a 3-course prix fixe dinner or a 6-course tasting menu. We went with the first, which costs a little under $100 a person. For a special occasion this did not seem unreasonable. Some reviewers disagreed: "outrageous prices," "bottomless pockets," "overpriced," "high society," "Trump living." My advice: Do some homework first. Or go to Grimaldi's.

I had two types of foie gras, a Cape Code monkfish/suckling pig ravioli entree, and a sticky toffee pudding--all delicious. Luis had lobster risotto, lamb chops, and a chocolate marquise with a miniature chocolate Brooklyn Bridge sitting atop a floating barge of vanilla ice cream. Each of our desserts had a little chocolate wafer that said "Happy Anniversary." The portions were just right, so I must disagree with "very little food for alot of money."

As we left, we said good night to the maitre d', who looked a little sheepish. "We tricked you," Luis said, laughing. The maitre d' seemed a little embarrassed and said, "It's just that you came in with the lady and I thought she was with one of you. I was just surprised." Then he added, "I hope you had a happy anniversary." So, I don't know, was that NOT gay friendly?

"I just had to say that," Luis said to me later, "because the look on the guy's face was priceless." After 10 years, Luis can still surprise me. He's still as handsome and sweet as the day we met, and anyone that can make me laugh as much as he does deserves to stick around another 10 years...and another 10 years...

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Roman holiday

Exactly one week from tonight the bf and I will be boarding a redeye to Rome. Thankfully the euro is beginning to slip a little. That means a Coke will cost $3.00 instead of $3.25.

The last time we were in Rome was about 5 years ago, for only one night after a trip to Siena before we flew home. We got lost driving and went 40 miles before stopping at a gas station and finding out we were going in the wrong direction. It was a rainy night, and Roman traffic really is the horror everyone says it is. All we got to see were Trevi Fountain and Piazza di Spagna.

As a college student in 1983 I spent a week in Rome with my friend Joe. We stayed in a hostel near Termini train station run by a guidette who punctuated all her sentences with a loud "OK?": "Quest'é la chiave, OK?" "Quest'é il bagno, OK?" Our roommates were Canucks who spent most of their time playing a drinking game called "Bunny." Neither Joe nor I had any money, so we ate lots of fruit and chocolate bars. We were almost arrested by a carabiniere for jumping off a train.

This time around we'll be staying at bed and breakfast in southern Rome called I Tetti di Roma (which means "The Roofs of Rome"). It's inexpensive, and I've read glowing reviews of it. We thought it would be nice to stay with a local. The B&B is two blocks from a Metro stop. We're arriving on Gay Pride Day in Rome. It will be interesting to see the parade in a country where homosexuality is legal.

We're meeting up with our friends Andrea and Jim, who will arrive a few days before us. Jim is a chef and has lined up a good restaurant for us to eat at. The nice thing about Rome is that most of the sights are outdoors. There are churches and museums, but the most spectacular sights are the hills, like Campidoglio and Palatino, the Colosseum and Forum, and Piazza Navona (my personal favorite). I'm also looking forward to seeing again the chapel made of the skulls and bones of Capuchin monks.

We'll be in Rome for three nights before driving down to the Amalfi Coast in our rented Alfa Romeo wagon. For five nights we'll be staying at a five-star resort in Furore, not far from Positano. Luis and I watched Under the Tuscan Sun, a sappy movie that makes both of us weepy, to get us in the mood. Even if you hate the movie, you can watch it with the sound off just so you can see the views of Italy.

After Furore we plan to go to Pompei and Vesuvius for a day. We both want to go to Capri even though everyone tells us how touristy it is. I just want to visit the place that brought us those ridiculous "pants."

Our last leg will be driving to Florence to meet our friends Jenn and Steve, and then from there to Luis's mom's in Umbria for a few days. That's where all the effects of our spa treatments in Furore will be reversed.

I found a great podcast series called ItalianPod101.com, which offers beginner, intermediate, and advanced lessons. I've been listening to the advanced podcasts, which are completely in Italian, and I'm pleasantly surprised that I understand every word. I taught myself Italian in college and worked at an Italian book importer where everyone spoke Italian, so I learned a lot, it seems, by osmosis. When we went to Tuscany a few years ago, my Italian came in handy when the owners of our villa had to explain how to change a fuse in the back shed in case of a blackout.

The nice thing about the resort package is that we paid for it last year, when the euro exchange rate wasn't quite so heinous. We can float away in peace and enjoy our "slow travel" experience.

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Singled out

At work today we had a cake-and-coffee gathering to celebrate the upcoming marriage of a colleague. As part of the toast, our department head asked each of the married men in the room to offer some words of advice to the imminent groom. It was a well-meaning gesture, and I got the jokiness about the differences between husbands and wives, but it made me uncomfortable nevertheless. For the record, I'm completely out at work and fairly secure when it come to my orientation. Most people have met Luis, and no one has an issue with me. When it came my turn, I considered saying something witty, like, "Well, if things don't work out, you can always turn to men," or "My wife always says that...oh wait, I don't have a wife..." But as I was mulling over what to say, I was passed right over and another married guy piped up with his take on marriage. I'm not trying to be mean about this, but most of the guys, including the department head, are minorities, and I think I finally understood what it's like to feel invisible. Luis and I may not be married, but that's because we can't...at least in New York. For God's sake, even friggin' Uruguay just passed a civil partnership law.

And as I read later on CNN that gays have once again been excluded from the federal hate crimes bill, I felt more than ever that this country still has a long way to go. I understand that the bill was attached to a larger defense bill that the Democrats couldn't support, but I'm not optimistic about having equal treatment financially or otherwise in this country. It's ironic that the hate crimes bill is named for Matthew Shepard, the gay college student who was beaten to death in Laramie, Wyoming less than 10 years ago. Society as a whole has come a long, long way since I came out 25 years ago, and except for the time I narrowly avoided being gay bashed in DC, I have seldom felt discriminated against or threatened. I'm still reminded of my status every time I have to check "single" as marital status on a form, pay extra to have Luis on my health insurance, or experience awkward moments like today's gathering. We can use partner, significant other, and boyfriend to define ourselves, but they don't quite have the same import as the word "spouse."

I don't mean to victimize myself by any means. I'm a happy, healthy, well-adjusted homo. But I wondered if my department head, himself a minority, realized who his audience truly was and if he could have been a little more empathic as someone who may also sometimes feel invisible. He ended the toast by saying that marriage was a great club to belong to. Again, a nice gesture, but for some of us, that club is not open to join.

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The road rose up to meet me

When I was a wee lad my parents showed me a brochure from Aer Lingus that gave bios of various Irish saints, among them St. Kieran. Aer Lingus had just unveiled its first fleet of Boeing 720s and named them after Irish saints, as they still do today. That, and my mother's corned beef and cabbage, was pretty much the extent of my knowledge of Irish culture. And yet, only one generation stood between me and the motherland. Dad's parents were "right off the boat," arriving a mere 30 years before I was born. Dad met mom while working as an Aer Lingus reservations agent. He was the black sheep of his family, and I never knew whether he wasn't interested in his heritage or whether his strained relationship with his abusive father estranged him. Aside from my family, the only Irish people I knew were my friends Jimmy and Mary Lee, new arrivals from Limerick with brogues and scrappy demeanors. Being Irish meant witnessing my father's hazy drunks and enduring the pungent odor of cheap, stale beer in the dark corners of the local pub.

My cousins Joanie and Denise were Irish stepdancers, and for a few summers I watched them dance at feisanna in East Durham. My aunt and uncle were charter members of their local AOH, and family gatherings often involved a wistful rendition of "Danny Boy." One of my aunts would usually go on about the anti-Papist laws, but I just thought she was crazy. I was American, through and through, and no one was trying to stop me from being Catholic. While my cousins were off spending their summers in Ireland with our relatives, my exposure to Irish culture consisted of eating Irish sodabread made by my Scottish grandmother.

I saw my dad's side of the family fairly often as a child. We lived in Brooklyn, and the rest of the family lived in Astoria and on Long Island. Summers I spent at my cousins' sprawling ranch house in Deer Park, where I learned how to ride a bike and breathed more easily away from the city and the family. At least once a month we had Sunday dinner at my grandparents' apartment in Long Island City. They were of the lace-curtain variety, certainly not the shanty variety--a distinction I would later discover is razor-thin.

Dad's mom died in 1980 of complications from arteriosclerosis, before anyone knew it as Alzheimer's, and Grandpa died 7 years later. By that time I had moved away to DC, partly to get away from my family, particularly my dad. I was terrified of ending up a repressed, belligerent drunk like him, so I became a teetotaler.

But as I came to learn, as much as you fight against the things you hate, you somehow end up being drawn to them. I didn't become a drinker, but I did like to fight. It must have been innate, because gay boys are not supposed to like fighting. I gave up Catholicism and embraced boxing as my religion. It didn't occur to me that I was following a long line of Irish boxers. Irishness was never in my consciousness. I just knew I liked it.

The year before Grandpa died he began losing his battle with emphysema. We all knew he had little time to live. My aunts and uncles organized a family reunion in a public park in Sunnyside, Queens. It's one of the few times we were all together, my grandfather, his five kids, and their fifteen kids, in one place. I came up from Washington, in the middle of summer, to see my aunts and uncles and cousins. In the pecking order of cousins, I'm number 5. I had fun, but I wasn't quite sure I fit in with them. For one thing, there was lots of drinking, which made me uncomfortable, and talk of sports, which, as a newly minted out homo didn't interest me. There was talk of trips to Ireland and Irish music and dance, and the bombs in Northern Ireland and the bloody Protestants. I remember someone talking about Irish performer Carmel Quinn, who I thought was cheesy. I didn't identify with anything Irish. Being Irish was quaint and backwards. It was leprechauns and green beer and four-leaf clovers. Now, when I think back on it, it's ironic: I was a foreign language major interested in every culture but my own.

After Grandpa died, I lost touch with dad's family. Grandpa was the glue that kept us all together. My cousins, who lived towns apart in Long Island, saw each other regularly. E-mail and cell phones were not common in the 1990s, so contact was sporadic at best. And there was one more thing: I was afraid to tell them I was gay.

Every year the family held a reunion, mostly in Long Island, but I never went. The next one I attended was in the mid-1990s. Many of my cousins had married and started having kids of their own. They owned houses and swimming pools and cars. I was still living in Virginia and renting a house. My "secret" still kept me at bay. During the reunion that year I confided in my cousin Joanie. "I was wondering when you were going to say something," she said. Turns out everyone in the family knew, had known for years, and it just wasn't an issue. It made me realize that fear is largely a figment of our fertile minds.

When dad died 7 years ago, it liberated me. No longer would I witness his bloated dramatic performances at family functions. I could be myself, on my own terms. Through the years, every alcoholic in the family had sobered up and stayed that way. My cousins were adults with interesting lives and families.

For years Luis tried to persuade me to apply for Irish citizenship, and I paid it lip service. When I finally decided to do it, I started talking to my dad's family to find out if anyone had done it. Some of them had thought about it but no one had actually applied. I decided to try, but I realized I didn't even know where by grandfather had been born. As it turned out, no one else knew for sure either. When I applied for his birth record from Ireland, the seed had been planted: I realized that I knew only a watered down version of Ireland. I wanted to know where I came from. A big driver was the realization that I am the end of my line. If I couldn't leave a child, at least I could leave the legacy of the family history.

I started reading Irish history, learning the Irish language, and applying for citizenship. I took my first trip to Ireland, became a member of the Irish Arts Center and the Irish Repertory Theater. I built my family tree and have now gone back almost six generations on both sides. (Oh, and I love the Guinness.) Plastic Paddy though I may be, I don't consider myself any more Irish than I was growing up. I just have a different perspective. I still find it ironic that I am descended from a long line of dairy farmers and I'm mildly lactose intolerant.

This year I went to my family reunion on Long Island. I hadn't gone in 4 years, as I'd had other plans when the reunion was held. My cousin PJ proudly announced that his daughter Julia is a world-ranked Irish stepdancer. My cousin Tommy told us stories of visiting our great-grandmother when he was a kid. I showed my aunts the family tree; Aunt Helen, my best source of family information, said she was so thankful that I had done this. I showed off my new Irish passport, which I will christen on our trip to London in December. Now all my cousins want to get theirs.

At the end of the day, PJ gathered us all in his basement to watch Julia perform a few Irish stepdances for us. I watched her raptly, feeling a tear come to my eye, and was glad for the journey I had made.

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The jab that stings

There's no such thing as bad language...These are the words adults use to express frustration, rage, anger, in order that we don't pick up a tire iron and beat the shit out of someone. --Lewis Black

I woke up this morning feeling refreshed after my massage, despite my outburst the previous evening. I had to give a presentation to senior management in the afternoon, in addition to unpacking boxes in our new space on the third floor. I was in a surprisingly good mood, even looking forward to my workout. I'd been feeling stale the past few weeks, and the massage made me feel brand new.

I've said many times that my boxing gym is like my second home, my sanctuary. I know every inch of it. I know who's a regular and who's not. So, after work, I went to the gym, said hello to all the trainers and the regulars, and went to the locker room to change. There were only two other guys in there, fresh from a workout, changing back into their work clothes. They looked to be in their early 20s, definitely white collar, not particularly athletic looking. I walked in to the middle of their conversation, which went like this:

"Yeah, I should write 'Homo' on the side of his locker," said one.

"Maybe," said the other, "he's in the 'Female' section."

They picked up their stuff and left the locker room.

I didn't know the context of their conversation. I was pretty sure it was their first time at the gym, and I have a feeling it will be their last. As I changed into my workout clothes, I felt myself getting angry, and rageful thoughts flooded my brain. I don't know why I let these pinheads' comments bother me. For the past 20 years I've heard homophobic comments in the locker room more times than I care to recount. The first time I stepped foot in a boxing gym, a black teenage kid recounted to me, in all earnestness, how a woman boxer he knew turned out to be a "lady fag." He wasn't being judgmental; he just didn't know the word "lesbian." But with these two punks, it was their sheer audacity and bravado of using that cheap, prepubescent language in a boxing gym, a place where anyone, even the janitor, could kick their sorry asses. It was also the persistent, unfounded assumption that being a "homo" is a sign of weakness and/or equated with femininity. I'd like to see them go a few rounds with some of the female members of the club to see if those words ever get repeated.

But what was I going to do? What if they were reciting lines from Beavis and Butthead? It was not knowing their intention, rather than the words themselves, that bothered me. Despite feeling pretty relaxed when I walked in, I was feeling like I wanted to show those dudes just what a "homo" is capable of. I thought about asking one of the trainers for advice, but I pretty much knew the answer. Wasn't that why I'm at a boxing gym? I'd have to punch out my rage. During my workout I stepped up the intensity, letting my fists fly on the bags, imagining I was adminstering a sound beating to the guys who'd made the slur. A real beating wouldn't have solved anything anyhow; the virtual beating was far more satisfying. By the end of the workout, my anger had dissipated, and the endorphins kicked in.

Boxing is the reason I'll never make it to prison, no matter how much people piss me off.

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An open Christmas gift to my parents

In 1992, I brought my then-partner Harry to my parents' house in Brooklyn for Christmas. I was living 250 miles away, in Virginia, and the distance was by design. When I came out they did not reject me, but neither were they happy about it. It was many years before we were able to talk about the "love that dare not speak its name," and I was encouraged by their attempts to understand. So, for Christmas that year I gave them a book called Beyond Acceptance: Parents of Lesbians & Gays Talk About Their Experiences. I thought it would be more effective than a book written by therapists or gay people themselves. Mom and dad read the book, and it helped strengthen our relationship. I also wrote them the following letter, which I discovered today in a box of photos and mementos my mother gave me. The letter seems almost quaint to me now, but there are still countless people who are afraid to reveal their true selves. Maybe someone reading this will find encouragement in my words.

December 23, 1992

Dear Mom and Dad,

Merry Christmas! I'm really glad we'll be spending Christmas together this year, as we always do. And being able to bring Harry along to share it means a lot to me, too.

You're probably wondering why I'm writing you this letter, especially when I'll be seeing you. There are just some things that are better put to paper, so that they can be reflected on and remembered later.

One of the gifts I decided to give you this year is a book written by parents and friends of lesbians and gays. I have read it, and I think it accurately conveys how many people, not just parents, perceive gay people and how many myths and stereotypes are perpetuated because of lack of information.

I have always been grateful that neither of you rejected me or shut out of your lives when you learned I was gay. I realize that because of societal attitudes and things that you may have believed about homosexuals growing up, it was very painful for you to deal with my coming out. Perhaps you are not aware of how painful it has been for me, too--but the pain does not come from unhappiness with who I am. It comes from being misunderstood by people who want the world to appear in black and white--and, in some cases, just white.

A long time ago I started becoming aware of my different orientation. Even though I attended a college located in the heart of the then-gay mecca, I could not bring myself to accept that I could possibly be gay. One day, while in the NYU library, I searched through the stacks for a book that would help me reach some kind of decision about who I was becoming. The only book I could find was called Overcoming Homosexuality, and it was written by a psychiatrist who claimed he had "cured" thousands of homosexuals by a simple reprogramming procedure. A man seeking conversion was shown pictures of naked men, and when the man became aroused, the doctor would administer electric shock to his private parts. Then the doctor would show the man pictures of naked women and send gentle waves of electricity to induce pleasure. I read that book, and for several weeks I seriously thought about calling that doctor. Fortunately for me, I was afraid of the electric shock treatment.

Had it not been for other friends of mine who happened to be coming out, my life today would have been very different. I am still no closer to understanding why I am gay, but I can confidently say that it does not matter.

I continue to read about countless numbers of people who are rejected by their own families and friends because they are simply being themselves. I truly believe that God doesn't make mistakes, only people do. In Colorado, for example, I heard a report that several people have been given notice to leave their jobs, and they are not even out of the closet! That is why, depsite people's best intentions, they cannot understand why gays need explicit protection from harassment and discrimination. They don't understand that the Constitution was framed for and by white, heterosexual males implicitly.

I know that you are not among hateful and bigoted of our society. You alwasy taught me to respect people for who they are. But I also don't want you to feel that being gay is just what I do in the bedroom. Unfortunately that's whay many people believe. I am the same person you see at Christmas and Harry sees every day. No one "made" me this way, and as long as I'm living, no one will make me change. I am truly happy with myself, and I want you to be happy, too.

I realize some of this may be preaching to the choir, but I think too often I take for granted your unspoken support. After my last visit, in November, when we talked about gay issues, I felt good that we were able to sit down and discuss things without animosity. I don't know many people who can do that with their folks.

So, thank you for your support. If you ever have questions or need information, I want you to ask me. I hope you will read Beyond Acceptance and tell me what you think of it.

I love you both very much.

Your son,
K

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