THE MONSTER AMONG US

I had never seen anything like it, of that I was sure. The creature erupted spontaneously, grew quickly, gathered strength, energy and power right before my eyes. Soon it was massive, undulating, amorphous—and hungry. It sported 100 arms, half as many heads, spoke with one voice.

Only later did I realize I have seen it many times before. No, not so much have seen as felt it, feel it. In fact, I feel its presence almost every day—almost all the time.

But back to the moment.

Last month my husband Dave and I participated in a weeklong communal gathering that welcomes people of any sexuality, orientation, gender identity or expression. Over 100 of us camped in the woods of Eastern Tennessee, ate, played, worked, danced and drummed together.

At sun set Friday evening the weather turned unexpectedly chilly. A few people ringed the communal campfire. Several more lay huddled on a nearby grassy knoll, warming themselves by group body heat. Each lay his or her head on another's belly. Some interlocked arms and legs. "Look! It's a puppy pile," said one man as he hurried to join. The clew grew larger by the minute as others followed suit.

We approached with caution. Dave had sprained his ankle and was walking with difficulty. We opted to steer clear of the frivolity, aimed instead for the fire. As we made to pass by, arms reached out grasping, beckoning. Voices called, "Join us! Join us!"

We shook our heads, smiled our apologies to the multi-limbed creature, gestured toward the fire.

"Joooooooiiiiiiiin usssssss!"

From somewhere in the deepening twilight came a single voice: "No! Don't feed it! Get away while you still can!"

We laughed, walked on over to the fire, joined a drumming circle. I tapped out a repetitive line—one and two and three and four. But I kept an eye on the mass of people on the knoll. I loved what was going on there, a spontaneous action, an event, a happening. It embodied humor, served a practical function and fostered togetherness. Plus, the participants were having a lot of fun.

"We could feel each other laugh," one of the group members told me later. "We all had our heads on each others' bellies and we could feel the ripples of laughter. Words, too. A word would just erupt and we'd all chant it in unison. We called ourselves a 'pheno-moeba.'" My informant was located on the outer edge of the group. "I guess I was the asshole of the creature," he said.

One and two and three and four. The moon rose over Short Mountain. The pheno-moeba howled in delight. One and two and three and four. I marveled at how long they kept at it. And with such enthusiasm. With their bodies, their voices, their coming together, they were creating community. They were being playful with it. They were keeping each other warm. And having a great time all the while.

One and two and three and four. A fan dancer decked out in white feathers and sequined drag came by and presented impromptu entertainment. Flashlights served as makeshift spotlights. When the show concluded the howling resumed.

Then the single voice again, this time preaching a gospel of freedom. "You are all individuals! You each have your own mind! You can think independently!"

From 50 mouths erupted one word: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

"WE ARE ONE!" the creature insisted. "ONE! ONE!" The prophetic voice was silenced. Night blanketed the hillside; I couldn't see if the preacher-prophet escaped or if he was pulled in and subsumed into the group mind.

One and two and three and four. I pondered what was playing out alongside me. A parable of sorts about groupthink, about the unwritten codes that pressure us to conform, walk, talk, dress, vote, buy, spend, waste same as everyone else. The call to uniformity. In the larger society and in our subculture niches, as well. The comfort and warmth of being sucked in, feeling a part of a whole. The institutions—church, family, academe, work, legal system, politics—that define, reward and reinforce acceptable behavior. And punish anything else. The voices that cry in the wilderness, speak out against the blob, the pheno-moeba of social structure, stricture, prejudice. What happens to them.

A sudden chill of recognition. Although I do not see a physical creature called Societal Pressure, I feel it breathing down my neck in nearly every aspect of life: I can't do/say/think/love/be that. What will the neighbors think? What will my mother say? Will people like me? Will I be accepted?

Dare I stand against the pheno-moeba? Do I? Will I? Will you?

CAPTAIN JELL-O RIDES AGAIN

I don't think I was born to my parents at all. I think they opened a box of lime-flavored Jell-O, ripped the top off the brown packet inside, poured the powdery contents into a bowl, stirred in boiling water and ice cubes, and–voila!–there I was. Ready to be poured into a waiting mold. All my life I've let others define my boundaries; decide what shape I am to fill.

On the other hand, I'm convinced my friend Bill began life as a hawthorn tree. His parents planted him in the good earth, watched their sapling son grow tall, strong and iron-willed. Like the sharp-spiked hawthorn, Bill can be worse than prickly if you get too close. Grab him the wrong way and you'll be sorry.

Bill seems to have an inborn ability to summon boundaries. Something comes up automatically in him, some self-protective mechanism which I totally lack. He swells up like the puff adder who when threatened pretends to be a cobra. Mess with him or those he loves and you're in for a world of trouble.

Mess with me and I probably won't even notice. Or if I do, I'll tell myself I deserve whatever ill treatment comes my way. I am the puffball. Threaten me and I just sit there. Step on me and I emit a little gasp and spew green spores into the air.

Growing up, I didn't know I was gay. Didn't know the meaning of the word. Didn't know there was a word to describe who I was inside. Knew I was different; couldn't tell you how. Knew that difference was wrong. Knew I was somehow flawed, disordered down deep inside, sinful, wrong. All this without ever learning there was a term to describe me, without learning there were others like me, that who I was had validity in and of itself.

Instead, I picked up on the message that who I was inside was worthless. That if I were to find acceptance and place in the world, it would be granted me to the extent I made my mother happy, to the extent I followed religious teaching, to the extent I paid attention in school and followed the rules.

I grew adept at molding myself into the exact shape of others' expectations. My parents wanted an obedient cheerful child. Voila. The church wanted a good boy, one who told his friends about Jesus, who memorized Bible verses and volunteered time and energy. Voila. Teacher wanted answers, homework done, legible handwriting, no lip. Voila.

Later I met the demands of professor, employer, girlfriend, fiancée, wife with similar aplomb. I look back now and shudder to remember my boss praise me with, "You have a real knack for knowing what I want." Voila. That's how I survived in a world where I felt nobody would want me if they really knew who I am. Given a whiff of your expectations, I'd mold myself to them. Captain Jell-O rides again!

I wish I could say coming out changed all this. My mother would probably say so. She experienced my coming out as a slap in her face. To me, in coming out I signaled I would no longer kowtow to what and who others wanted me to be. At least in this one area I would claim my right to exist. I would claim my own life. I would live into it. My announcement met with something less than widespread acclaim.

"Bastard," said family. "Not here you won't."

"Fired," said employer. "Not here you won't."

"Reprobate," said church. "Not here you won't."

"Betrayer," said wife. "Not here you won't."

Suddenly I was running naked through a forest of hawthorn trees. Bloody business, that. Some of the puncture wounds are still tender, 16 years later.

I have not altogether broken with the past; coming out did not reshape me into an entirely new person. I'm still beset with Jell-O-like tendencies. What's changed for me is that I now ride though life with greater awareness of when and how I'm shaping myself into another's mold. Sometimes I make conscious choices to shape myself this way or that; sometimes I refuse to bend and flex. Sometimes only afterwards do I say, "Gosh, how very Captain Jell-O of me!" I then resolve to be on the alert, watch for it the next time. I forgive myself and move on.

I'll never be a hawthorn tree. It's not my nature. And why be something I'm not? I'm proud of myself those times I ask this same question when I feel the urge to take up my Captain Jell-O cape and ooze to the rescue.

This essay appeared in the May issue of The Community Letter.

SOMETIMES THE WAY OUT IS IN

What raises your hackles may not even ruffle my feathers. We're all different. But we share this: there are times when personal growth requires we face our fears and step into them.

A month back, my husband scared himself when he seriously considered attending a weekend quilting class. He spent long years seeking to squelch his creativity. Since coming out 15 years ago, he has sought to nourish this aspect of self. He has taught himself to sew and quilt. The opportunity to receive formal instruction appealed to him, but he resisted. He would be the only man there, feel out of place, obvious, in the spotlight. He put off making a decision until after the registration deadline had passed. Whew.

Me, I faced fear recently when I signed up for a 10-week intensive writing class with two female instructors. I felt energized by this opportunity. I kept talking about it to my husband and to anyone else who would listen. I had big plans. Was going to do great work. Dive into scary places. Write into my vulnerable spots. Just you watch. Can't wait for the course to begin. Bring it on.

I suspect my husband heard my nervous energy for what it was. When I get afraid I can get verbose. This helps me pretend I feel more confident than I do. Behind all the words, I was afraid I would be shown up, fall flat on my face, have nothing to say, once again be outed as an incompetent blowhard.

That first day of class a nighttime dream woke me up to what was going on. I pay attention to nighttime dreams. I find them instructive. They do an end run around my conscious mind, offer me a peek into my inner life. May I relate this one?

I enter a small one-story house. Along with two other men I get on an elevator that will take us eight floors below ground level. Before we even press the "down" button, the floor of the elevator begins to shake and tilt.

"I don't trust this!" I shout. I fling myself up onto the half-wall that surrounds the elevator shaft. My companions follow suit. The bottom of the elevator drops away; my stomach goes with it. A black hole gapes below us. We three belly-straddle the wall; our feet dangle over the abyss. I feel panic, intense fear.

We worm our way to relative safety on the floor. Two women enter.

"Mind the hole!" I yell, even as one of them steps right onto the emptiness, walks across to us.

"We know the hole there," she says.

I awaken, feeling a mix of fear and relief. Respect, too, for what dreams can reveal. I don't know what you make of it, but I see this: Here I am, first day of a writing class with two female instructors and the opportunity to go down deep within, and I dream of a house with a downward passage and two women who safely navigate the abyss.

Message to self: I may be prating on about how excited I am to plumb the depths, but there's a threefold part of me that's scrambling to stay safe, prefers playing the worm to plunging in. I'm running scared. Afraid I won't be good enough, won't have anything to say, won't like what I do have to say. I fear what I might learn about myself, that I may have to act on it.

Message to self: there's also a two-part feminine energy within me that knows this interior landscape, can handle it. Now there's a confidence booster.

Out of the dream comes this way forward: rather than talk about my big plans, I can face my fears. Rather than worm-crawl the perimeter, I can run at what scares me, jump in, plunge 80 feet down, see what happens before I hit bottom. I can start writing. Just do it.

And I do. I write into what absolutely scares the bejabbers out of me. I do good personal work, learn more than I want to about myself. Find it's true, what I've been told: "Write into your deepest fears; that's where the energy is."

The sign-up date had passed, but my husband called anyway. Any chance he could still sign up for the quilting class?

"Love to have you," she said.

He went. This week he finished piecing together a queen-size quilt top in the shoofly pattern, a traditional Amish design. Now begins the difficult work of hand quilting the whole thing. One step, one stitch at a time, he tells me. One leap, one headlong plunge into fear.

^{This essay appeared in The Community Letter, April 2011}

THE STRANGER IN THE LIVING ROOM

He looms large in our living room, silent, dressed all in brown with an olive green overcoat, white rope tied tight around his neck, shoulders, waist, knees. I nearly jumped out of my skin last night when I first saw him. He has startled me several times today. I laugh in sympathy when my husband Dave says, "Every time I see that wrapped bookcase I think it's a man standing there."

Yesterday we were to deliver a set of hand-crafted stepped-back shelves Dave had made as a gift. As rain was forecast, we wrapped the shelves in tarps and roped them down before we realized there wasn't enough available space in the bed of the pick-up truck. We left them behind in the living room. Seen from the side, the shelves look remarkably human.

That we startle easily at a stranger's sudden appearance will surprise no one who has lived with the sobering awareness that violence against GLBT people can strike without warning and with society's tacit approval.

Living in a secluded rural area, Dave and I are constantly alert for strange noises, for the sound of vehicles slowing down outside. Vandals have often targeted our house and mailbox. Not (yet) our bodies. However, it does happen. Recently a gay acquaintance—a kind, gentle sweet man—was fatally stabbed. And friends of friends—a gay retired couple—were bludgeoned to death in their home.

Ignorance breeds fear and fear of gay people lasts a long time in rural areas where people receive little exposure to GLBT persons and culture. Fear can turn to rage, rage to violence.

Yet the threat is not only from without. Seen from another angle, the stranger in our living room might well be me. Those white cotton ropes are the shame-based messages from my past that encircle me, thwart me.

Example: I decide I will at last take the plunge, write a memoir of my coming out experience. I start with great enthusiasm, get up early mornings to write, schedule my time carefully, fill page after page. Six weeks later I fizzle. I'm not good enough to do this; I have nothing important to say; it's too hard. I shelve my dream project.

Example: Put me in a social setting, let me see a man I'm attracted to and I'll come up with 10 reasons why there's no sense in my going over to talk to him. He's chatting with someone else. And if he's not, he wouldn't be interested in me anyway. He's out of my league. What would I say? I can't tell a joke to save my life. And I'm no good at small talk. He wouldn't give me the time of day. I'd look like a fool. He's probably stuck on himself. If he really wanted to talk to me, he'd come my way.

Example: It amazes me how pleasurable masturbation can be. In the blissful moment preceding ejaculation I feel perfectly one in body, mind, spirit and psyche. Such intense pleasure. For free, too! And yet not free—I pay for my fun with guilt, hear the voice of my parents, my upbringing: "What do you think you're doing? You dirty boy. You filthy-minded man. Sex is evil. Thinking about sex is wrong. You always were a bit twisted." So I hide masturbation sessions from my husband. I feel conflicted about what brings me pleasure.

In his poem "Healing," D.H. Lawrence writes about deep wounds to the soul. "Only time can help," he says, "and patience, and a certain difficult repentance/long, difficult repentance, realization of life's mistake, and the freeing oneself/from the endless repetition of the mistake/which mankind at large has chosen to sanctify."

Shaking loose the shame-cords that bind me takes time and effort. Coming out was a first step. Educating myself about gay issues, connecting with supportive people and groups was another. Telling the story of my coming out and listening to others' offered perspective. I limited contact with family members, former friends and others who continued handing me harmful messages—who seemed eager to sanctify messages that strangle.

I may never be totally free of shame or threat of harm, but I can stay aware. I can keep my eyes open to the possibility of threat from without and within, not be totally surprised if and when they appear. I want to make informed choices, do the best I can, live fully as I can as who I am in the time given me. I can easier deal with the stranger in our living room when I remind myself he is still there.

This essay appeared in The Community Letter, June 2010

THE BEACH

It is the summer of 1981. I just finished college in the spring, and now my younger brother and I are waist deep in Lake Michigan, chicken fighting: His girlfriend, Trish, sits on his shoulders. My friend Serge sits on mine, his crotch pressing against the nape of my neck.

My brother and his girlfriend have no idea that I am gay. I am struggling mightily to stay unaware of it myself. I believe I am destined for a literal hell if I continue to do what Serge and I have been doing in bed at my parents’ house this summer.

As Trish and Serge fight to pull each other into the water, I wage an inner battle against the desire to throw Serge down onto the warm sand and ravish him right here and now: To hell with propriety. To hell with my family learning I am gay. To hell with my burning in everlasting fire.

Big plans, but I don’t act on them.

Later, back on the beach, I scout for a clump of dune grass that might afford Serge and me some privacy. Then I decide not to risk it. I will never openly declare my feelings for this man, but will continue to deny, repress, and hate the love I have for him. I know well the fear of damnation. I do not yet know the world of sorrow, heartache, and grief that awaits my future wife, our children, and me.

This article appeared in The Sun, Issue 412, April 2010

THIS DRAG QUEEN IS NOT A HYR

If there be grace, this must be a part of it: I awaken to frost on the ground and a still-toasty house that has held its heat without the furnace kicking on. I pad about in sleep shirt and cap, naked from the waist down, needing neither sweat pants nor robe. "This is what grace feels like," I tell myself. "Grace warms."

Grace warmed my heart last evening. Coyotes had howled as I locked the chickens in for the night. Yet all my feathered friends were accounted for. Sometimes grace means making it through to bedtime.

I resolve to share my experience of grace with others today, make my world a warmer place. I start by asking myself, "How can I be graceful to Dave this morning?" I find my husband in the kitchen, tell him I enjoyed snuggling with him through the night. I make a small joke ("thank you for sleeping beside me, for not getting out to lie on the cold floor at 3:00 A.M.), then again speak my truth, "You are my north, my south, my east, my west." He looks at me, "I love you, too." And so we restate our love for each other as we do in myriad ways every day. After 14 years it is still brand new. Grace surprises.

When I was growing up, my very conservative church fellowship sang Amazing Grace so often I tuned it out. It's a tired old song, anyway, the crone who shows up at every funeral, black ostrich plume bobbing from her hat. Respectable, uplifting perhaps, and a bit clichéd. Whenever I heard the hymn’s opening notes on the church organ, I wanted to look for the coffin. Nevertheless, I loved an over-the-top rendition by The Impact Brass and Singers. The group toured the country as goodwill ambassadors for one of the Bible colleges our church supported financially. I still remember the first time they sang for us.

Soprano Cindy Phillips had made Amazing Grace her trademark solo. On that last verse, "When we've been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun...," Cindy let it rip, jumping several octaves, her voice rising to meet the sun, raising the roof, bringing our staid congregation nearly to its feet. Grace exceeds our expectations.

Even we knew a good thing when we heard it. Our church invited Cindy and the band back for the July 4 festivities, biggest event of the year in our small town. Her solo blew everyone away and scored us points with the community. Especially from Cindy's lips, grace amazes.

Dave and I perform our morning ablutions and leave for work together, he in the pickup, me in the car. I follow him for a mile. Before he turns right, I flash my bright beams three times to say, "I—love—you." He blinks his brake lights three times in response. Sometimes grace speaks in code.

Once at work, I promptly forget all about grace and being grateful, graceful in the riptide of the day. Yet life goes on doing its work without my participation. Fortunately, grace does not need my say-so.

Early afternoon I receive an e-mail message. A good friend died yesterday. Was found by his best friend who is also one of mine. Heart attack? Something quick, sudden, unexpected. No lingering death, his. Grace? If so, sometimes grace sucks.

Tomorrow will bring amazingly strong winds, warns the National Weather Service. Drivers of high profile vehicles should beware. People with lawn chairs, garbage cans, pets or small children should tie them down, adds the radio announcer. Grace sometimes issues bulletins.

Tomorrow will deliver a tragic accident to the highway near my workplace. A semi-tractor trailer, turn signal flashing, will wait to cross traffic. As my coworker sails by, slows to turn into our parking lot, a panel van will ram the back of the semi. My coworker will describe the explosion of glass, metal and colored plastic: "It was like fireworks!" Rescue workers will close the highway for over an hour as they clear debris, minister to the living. Sometimes grace is sailing on by.

How great our need for grace, for awareness of the moment, of the day, of the gifts given us every minute. An ostrich feather tickles my ear. That old drag queen Amazing Grace leans over, tells me to rise above complaining, self-pity, petty jealousies, thinking I'm not good enough. Life is short, honey, she says. Get a move on. Go all out. Hit the high notes.

This essay appeared in the April issue of The Letter.

PRACTICE NOW FOR YOUR NEXT TRANSITION

A small place, where I work–a specialty design agency and print shop. A dozen of us employed here all together. The principal's office sits right up at the front of the building. This morning my supervisor comes tearing out of this room screaming, "Call an ambulance! Quick!" My first thought: The big boss has had a heart attack. Then I see my supervisor spin on her heel and head out the front door. My second: Here we go again.

A heavily traveled state highway runs along the east side of our workplace and crosses the Mississinewa River a stone's throw north of us. Our building sits on the river's south bank. In cold wet weather, our front yard is often the landing site for airborne vehicles that hit the icy bridge and launch out over the steep embankment.

In my 10 years tenure, we've seen one fatality, a few motorists left with cuts and bruises, assorted vehicles in various states of disrepair and a fair number of drive-offs where the only signs of an accident are tire tracks in the front yard.

"Here we go again," I think to myself, as I rush outside. "I hope no one's hurt." A white van steams on the front lawn while two of my coworkers help a thin gray-haired man with a gorgeous full gray beard climb out of the vehicle. The van's windshield is gone, its back windows are smashed in; pieces of bumper and our neighbor's sheered-off mailbox dot the embankment. The driver stares about blankly. He can talk. He can walk. I am thankful.

Later my supervisor recounts her story. She was in with the boss, telling him that while money is tight for small businesses like ours, it's not the end of the world. "Bryn reminded me the other day about the Y2K scare, how people thought the world was going to end 10 years ago," she said. "The world's not going to end this year. Maybe in 2040 or 4020, but not this year."

No sooner were these words out of her mouth than it looked as if the world were indeed ending. She saw a white van skittering down the embankment, ploughing up turf, scattering car parts, heading directly for the her. The vehicle stopped short of slamming into the building.

The driver was delivering hot meals to elderly and home-bound clients. I imagine several people went hungry today or had to make alternate dinner plans.

Here at work a baker's dozen of us were served up a heart-stopping reminder of how quickly, how very quickly events can spin out of control. Our forward momentum can turn on a dime; our world can come to an end.

Perhaps the wonder of it is how often this does not happen, how many people even today crossed the Mississinewa without incident. Call it what you will–grace or chance or providence or love or business as usual–it manifests every day in myriad ways unseen, unnoticed.

The challenge lies in the getting through, in crossing bridges (or not) as we come to them. Coming out, going in, starting over, dying–life is full of transitions. Those in-between times–when we're airborne, when we have no firm footing, when everything crashes in around us–those are the challenging times. The liminal moments when anything can happen. Perhaps the wonder is that we get through them at all. Yet we do.

Even when we don't, we do. My husband works in hospice. Death is not the most scary thing that can happen to a person, he says. People in the dying process often say they are not so much afraid of death as of the getting from here to there, the in-between, the process.

Let's practice now, I say. I bet life will soon enough offer you and me both a chance to experience transition, to hang in mid-air, to face the feelings and reactions this brings up for us. I wish you soft landings. Always. I'll look for your tire tracks in the yard.

This essay appeared in the March issue of The Letter.

IS THAT GOOD COMING?

I stand at my window and watch enthralled as huge snowflakes waft my way. A quote from a George McDonald novel drifts into mind. My paraphrase: "Good is coming to me; good is always coming to me, in the best possible form for me at this particular moment. Even if I do not know it, even if I cannot recognize it, good is coming to me."

I ponder this as I watch snowflakes drift down over the waking world. Maybe this is how life is: maybe good is always falling gently upon us, a unique good, crowning the individual moment, covering our particular needs. Maybe we don't know it's coming. Maybe we can't see it all the time. Maybe we see it only through eyes of faith.

Or maybe this is all so much hooey. Our cat O.B. presented us with a large brown field mouse yesterday. Was good coming–always coming–to that mouse even as feline claws sank into soft yielding flesh, as razor-sharp teeth cut short a mousey life?

My father-in-law may know now if what Walt Whitman says is true: Death is far different than we imagine. And luckier. Orville died recently at age 97. His was a gentle going–a precipitous two-week decline after two years in a nursing home. Even there, he had continued to look after others–staff, residents and visitors alike. He policed the halls, watching for anything out of place. He wept with those who wept, smiled at most everyone he met.

At his funeral people recalled his pulling weeds from his soybean field at age 92, and the cats he kept in his dotage. A grandson told of the time he found his grandpa sad one morning, having buried his favorite cat after it was hit on the road. Later that day Orville had a big smile on his face. He must have buried someone else's cat. His favorite 'Snoopy' had come rubbing up against his legs. Today Snoopy lives on, while his master's body lies buried in the cold ground. Good is coming, Orville, good is always coming.

Or is it? I had a hard time believing so this past fall when a routine blood test suggested my husband Dave had an aggressive form of cancer. The news hit us hard. I went into overdrive, researching the latest treatments, reading what I could find on the subject, talking about cancer with anyone who would listen. Meanwhile, Dave explored taking early retirement, made lists of what furniture would go to which child, reflected aloud on happy memories. He finally took me aside and said, "Look, your talk of 'cancer, cancer, cancer' is not helpful to me. If I do have a shortened life expectancy, I want to focus on being grateful for the time I have had; I want to make the most of what I have left. Please support me in this."

Follow-up test results indicated no cancer. Dave shelved his plans for early retirement. Good always coming.

Meanwhile, my three adult sons remain estranged from me. No response to my continued overtures. Good always coming?

New fallen snow blankets the tree limbs as far as eye can see. I catch my breath as a squirrel in the maple tree crawls out near the end of a slippery branch, leaps into the air towards a snowy oak's outstretched arms, four or five feet away. It lands safely. I sigh with relief.

And I wonder: what leaps are you and I being called to make? In relationships, jobs, healthcare decisions, inner and outer life journeys? No guarantee we won't grab for the branch and get an armful of air instead. Sometimes all we have to go on is hope. Is that enough? Snowflakes plummet faster now. Good is coming, good is always coming. I hope so. Maybe hope helps us move forward, take great leaps of faith, meet whatever comes with open arms. May the branches hold.

This essay appeared in the February issue of The Letter.

LONG NIGHT COMING: BETTER GET ROLLIN'

We were soon to host seven people for dinner. From the state of our kitchen, you'd have thought we expected an army. My husband Dave and I spent an entire daylight hours cooking and baking up a storm. He used my grandma's recipe for never-fail pie dough, rolled out crust after crust using the huge wooden rolling pin that came from Emil Cager, the white-haired soft-spoken gentleman I remember from Organic Gardening Club days of my youth.

Emil and Gladys Cajer lived somewhere past the railroad bridge coming into Valparaiso, Indiana. Their house was squirreled away down a shady lane. If you didn't know to look for it, you'd drive right on by. Their place offered a taste of country living inside the city limits. Like my parents, the Cajers belonged to the local Organic Gardening Club, a group of mostly elderly people who met once a month for two-hour meetings that included programs on such scintillating topics as making compost and all-natural insect repellents. My siblings and I were privileged (read "forced") to attend.

Emil had retired as a professional baker by the time we came to know him, but he remained an avid gardener to the very end of his life. He gave my parents one of his monstrous rolling pins. I asked my mother for it before she died. It occupies a place of honor in our home--when not being pressed into service for rolling out pie dough, it serves to remind me of dreary talks in a basement meeting room each winter and (weather permitting) outdoor garden gatherings the rest of the year.

Those meetings were the one social event our family attended that did not revolve around our conservative church. It came as revelation to me that there could be kind caring people like Emil and Gladys who did not share our theological beliefs--and from whom we could learn things. Lessons of another sort were delivered courtesy of "Nurse," an ancient wheelchair-bound lady who attended the summer garden parties. She swore like a sailor. My good-boy ears flushed red in her company.

So the rolling pin serves me as more than a simple kitchen tool. It forges an early link to a worldview bigger than the one I bought into as a youth and young man, one I didn't embrace until after I came out. It reminds me that there are all kinds of people in the world, and that some part of who we are and what we love and how we live our lives does implant itself in those around us whether we are aware of it or not. Whether we live to see it come to fruition or not.

Truth to tell, the rolling pin most often serves Dave in its original function. He makes the pie crusts in our family. He has the patience and finesse to roll them out thin so they'll be flaky and light. He takes his time, works at it in a way that would make Emil proud. Dave and I have seen the results of my rolling out pie dough. Think thick rubber strips. Think cardboard. Think fruit leather, chewy and stretchy as you tear into it with your teeth. No, Dave rolls out the pie crusts in our family.

Pie baking became an all-day affair. Darkness had long since fallen before we finished supper dishes. We'd be off to bed in an hour or so.

I turned to Dave. "Maybe this is a metaphor for all of life, but what would you like to do with this little time that remains to us?"

He looked at me. He's used to these kinds of questions, this way of looking at the world. "How about Scrabble?"

And so we played with words, made vampires and orgy and query and zit, then ziti, then zitis. The first word down was "mere," in itself a comment on who we are, how much time we have, what we may hope to accomplish.

All around me, reminders, reminders. Time is short, shorter than I know. Actions do have consequence and impact on those watching. What will I do with the little time before the darkness falls? Care to ask yourself the same question?

This essay appeared in the January issue of The Letter.

TIGHT BUTTS AND HARD QUESTIONS

Open seating at the university theater tonight, so my husband and I arrive early. It is a love story. They cannot begin to pack all of the actors and actresses involved in this drama onto one little stage. So they make do with those called for in the script. I realize this as my husband and I wait for the curtain to rise.

Nearby, two college men capture our attention. Surrounded by people, they are absolutely ensconced in their own little world — a world bounded by each other. The (slightly) younger of the two has a peaches-and-cream complexion and short curly red hair. In profile he reminds me of a Roman Caesar. Red waves his hands about as he talks, but hardly keeps pace with his companion whose arms fly here and there, punctuating the discussion. He wears a blue plaid shirt. He has curly blond hair — thinning on top — and a matching beard. Both are tall and lanky, but Plaid is the taller of the two. They are equally animated. They almost bounce out of their seats.

Just before the play begins, Plaid moves halfway across the auditorium, sits opposite us. He crosses his arms, remains impassive through much of the show, even the funny parts. The woman to his left leans away from him, rests her chin in her hand, elbow on her left knee. The woman to his right sits with her arms crossed. No sign of him being acquainted with either.

The lights dim, the action begins. The play has a fair proportion of women in it. I keep my eyes on the men. They have slim builds, flat stomachs, tight butts. The play calls for the men to drop to one knee with a regularity I appreciate — the fabric of their trousers pulls tight, rounds off the buttock.

At intermission, Plaid appears glum as ever. Off to his right, I see my friend Joe. As a teenager, Joe wrapped his car around a telephone pole. He barely survived. The accident left him crippled and disfigured. He walks with difficulty. He slurs his speech. He wears plaids and stripes together. When he came out in middle age, he learned first-hand how mercilessly cruel members of the gay subculture can be to people who do not fit cultural standards of physical beauty. Joe has never had an intimate relationship. He has friends but no boyfriends. Dave and I go over and chat with him until the lights dim. Then I go back to ogling sexy actors.

In Act Two, the audience must face the stage death of an endearing character. We welcome the finale, a joyous celebration of the survivors falling in love, one after another. Life will not be easy, they acknowledge, but love will see them through. Love makes life worth living.

I listen to them proclaim their love. And I wonder. I wonder about Joe. I wonder about my friend Scott, who padlocks his heart, refuses to open it to anyone. He will not share his home with a dog, a cat, a fish, a bird — a houseplant, even. He believes that if he loves anyone or anything he will get hurt. He was present when his mother died. Hearing his sister's immediate wail of grief, he said to himself, "See? See? This is what happens when you love someone. You get hurt."

Easy enough for the actors and actresses to make stirring speeches about love, proclaim its primacy, its role in saving us from ourselves — after all, they are reciting their lines. But are they feeding us one? Is this how love works? For Joe? For Scott? For Red and Plaid? For Dave and me? Does love always triumph? Does it for everyone?

Perhaps the answer is too big to fit on the little stage of my mind. Perhaps the answer envelops me, every day, enacted in the lives of those I pass. Perhaps it plays out in this season of the year as our planet turns from the dark powers of winter towards life-giving light once again. Do I have a role in this cosmic drama? Do you?

This essay appeared in the December issue of The Letter.