LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
High CAMP |
by Brent Mundt |
Peel Magnolias
Magnolias are iconic in my beloved but bittersweet south. The withered petals peel away and reveal the original blossom. So my spring reunion with my best girlfriend from college, with whom I'd lost touch for 31 years, was bittersweet too. Those real life red state southern steel magnolias have petals tooand peeling them back after years of my own growth pathfrom gay liberation to political activismwas enlightening for us both. Whoa, do southern women have a different take on life than the ballsy Yankee dames I've come to pal around with? But my hometown gal pal came to visit the homoand with it the love and the laughtermixed with bittersweet undertones of "why do you have to talk about it?" "It" would be my life. First, Franthe foxiest and funniest sorority chick at our small Louisiana college, affectionately known as "Harvard on the Bayou"hadn't changed a bit. She was Farrah Fawcett looks and Lucille Ball zaniness rolled into one. And, she looks better now than she did in 1977 when we grabbed our diplomas and headed in separate directions. She went off to start her family. I went off to find the fags. We had spent four carefree, partying years doing what college kids dodrinking, laughing, playing and cramming when we had to. Because she was hot, every jock on campus wanted to date her. And as her best friend, they lobbied me to get in her good graces. Nice set up for me. These guys would no more have talked to me than fly if it weren't for Fran. Then, being "out" took a courage that no onecertainly not this Leo the Lionhad. I joined the fraternity and did what conformists dohid myself. It's interesting how Harvey Milk is so famous for giving isolated gay kids "hope"when southerners I knew were so repressed that we just sat quietly in the back of the bus and yearned for precious littleexcept the toxic mix of that constant craving for what you couldn't havepom poms and boyfriendsand simultaneously needing never ever to be found out. Frat boys lived in our own self made pansy prisonswith the occasional unsatisfying same sex grope and the colossal joke that everyoneevery single one, knew. But you didn't talk about it. Closets housed our platform shoes, bell bottom jeansand us. So the alumni newsletter arrived a few months back and there's a "Photo of the Past"and it's homecoming. Fran's on the homecoming court and I'm her escort, standing behind her and if I could write a bubble over my head it would be "gimme that crown, bitch!" But instead I gave her a corsage and walked her to the 50 yard line (fully expecting over the loud speakers, the announcer to say "Homo coming!"but it's the south and we don't say such things in whispers much less over loud speakers. I made my way back to the stands, took my seat in the VIP reviewing stand reserved for escorts and the homecoming courtfeeling pretty darn proud of my BMOC image. Latermuch laterI realized how proud I was to be the Biggest 'Mo on Campus. So Fran, the real magnolia who had stayed within five miles of her home, is coming to D.C. with her husband. We plan a reunion. On that long ago graduation day, I had sassily tossed my tassel from the right to the left and thought I'll find myself and be honest with myself somehow...somewhere. In my case it was San Francisco and Washington, D.C. So how do you catch someone up on 31 years of what was once a secret life that's now a screaming one a life you'd embarked upon three decades earlier with a mix of such fear, anticipation, trepidation (and often sedation). So I ask about a fraternity brother who was lighter in the loafers than I (that would, for the record, be airborne) and Fran shares that he and his "friend" are happily living in New Orleans and come to a number of alumni events but "no one really talks about it." They are just themselves. No need to mention anything. And then, it comesyou've heard the story a hundred times. Her uncle had "a friend' and they were always part of the family and he was her mother's closest relative and his "friend" was part of the family but here's the most important partNO ONE TALKS ABOUT IT. Not then. Not now. A friend of mine in San Francisco calls this couple everyone knew in the '60s Michael Fitzpatrick and Patrick Fitzmichael. But we don't talk about it. OK, so now's the time for peeling me a magnolia. Thirty one years of self discovery and political anger/ activism bubbled to the top and I said "You know, Fran, when you don't ever talk about 'it'along comes shot Milk, beaten and left for dead Matthew Shepard, job discrimination, and denial of marriage rights. Larry Craig is tapping his foot in a bathroom stall and Christians are clapping for Rush because silence equals death." Whether it's your mother's favorite funny uncle from the sixties or my contemporary and finally semi-out frat brother, it's NOT okay not to talk about it. It's why your state is red and your state of mind is limited. I didn't spend 31 years growing up (and out) to be told to stay quiet. I hope Michael Fitzpatrick and Patrick Fitzmichael plan a summer wedding. Fran should bring a bouquet of magnolias. I'll peel. Brent Mundt makes a living in Washington and a life in Rehoboth Beach. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 19, No. 02 March 06, 2009 |