LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
My Queer Life: Singing A Different Tune |
by Michael Thomas Ford |
When my nephew, Jack, was about to turn ten, I called my sister well in advance of the actual date and asked her what he would like for his birthday. The tenth year is a big one for any child, marking a transition between the dreamlike world of kick-the-can and paper dolls and the horrors of adolescent life like spontaneous erections and big bullies named Kurt, and it should be commemorated accordingly. I still recall vividly the gold eagle pendant my cousin David, my childhood hero, presented me with on my tenth birthday. I wore it religiously, until one sad day the clasp snapped and it was lost forever, improving dramatically my choice of accessories but leaving me cheerless. I wanted Jack to have such a moment to remember. Karen knew instantly what Jack would cherish above all else on this earth. "CDs," she said promptly. "Hes really into music now." This was good news. Children as a rule have no taste whatsoever, so when buying music for them, its just a matter of going to the record store and picking up whatever is hovering at number one for that given week. Even if they have no idea what it is, kids will play it loudly and thrash about in some semblance of dancing, feeling very grown up and pleased with themselves. The week of my tenth, it was the soundtrack to Grease burning up the charts, and I received it with delight and some surprise, considering that my mother had forbidden me to actually see the movie after learning that the word "shit" was uttered freely. I played it endlessly, naturally taking Olivia Newton Johns solos, and to this day I wonder how my life would have turned out if, instead, AC/DC or Bruce Springsteen had ruled the airwaves in the fall of 1978. "So what should I get him?" I asked. "Hootie and the Blowfish? Coolio? Maybe Garth Brooks?" Karen laughed. "Oh, no," she said cheerfully. "Nothing like that. He likes soundtracks." "Great," I said, visions of Grease filling my mind. "So maybe the music from The Lion King would be good." I had this vague notion that every 10-year-old thrilled to all things Disney. "Actually," Karen said, "He wants the soundtracks to Cats and Les Mis." I was speechless. I wondered if my sister had any notion of what the implications were of what she had just said. Maybe, I thought, Id just heard her incorrectly. "You mean the Broadway shows?" I asked doubtfully. "Yep," she confirmed. "He loves those. We went and saw a touring show of Cats, and hes been humming the songs ever since." I didnt know what to say. This was my sister talking, the one whose only response to my coming out was, "Well, you know Im okay with it, but God says its wrong so youre probably going to Hell." Now she was telling me, in effect, that her very own son was exhibiting early signs of becoming a raging queen, and not only did she not seem to mind, she was enthusiastically supporting his bid for queerdom. Okay, I know the stereotype of the gay man singing showtunes is one many people find offensive. I know I dont happen to like them very much. And we all go out of our way to reassure kids that just because some boys like ballet and some girls like softball they arent necessarily going to end up with rainbow flag stickers on their Volvos and mineral water in the fridge. But really, whens the last time you saw a little boy who could belt out "Im Just A Girl Who Cant Say >No" grow into a fascination with Pamela Anderson Lees breasts? Can you blame me for being suspicious? Still, I knew I had to be careful. I certainly didnt want to out the kid to his mother, especially so near to his birthday. If he really was tripping gaily on the heels of Dorothys ruby slippers, I didnt want her to freak out, which I knew she would. She was already worried about the effect it might have on him being raised by a single mother, and shed probably go out and buy him a rifle to compensate. She still harbors a suspicion that Im gay because our father never built a tree fort with me. "Um, Karen," I said, trying to determine exactly how serious the situation was. "Does Jack just kind of hum the music, or does he know all the words." "Its amazing," she said ingenuously. "He knows every word to every song. He hears them once and has them down. He can even do the motions Grizabella makes when she sings >Memory. You should see it; it almost makes me cry. Why?" "No reason," I said casually. "Ill see what I can do." I hung up and ran to the record store. Now, Im not saying its right to actively hope that a young child is gay, and far be it from me to suggest that we push those showing the slightest indication of a queer aesthetic along in any way. All I will say is that I skipped with a glad heart to the soundtracks section and snatched up Jacks requested discs. For good measure, I added Phantom of the Opera, and briefly paused at Gypsy before deciding that would be too much even for me. He had to be broken in slowly. Once home, I wrapped the CDs up and shipped the whole mess off to my sister with a prayer to the Patron Saint of All Young Queens - Charles Nelson Reilly. On Jacks birthday, I called to see how things were going. "Hello?" Karen shouted when she picked up the phone. In the background I could hear the swelling tones of "Music of the Night" filling the apartment. "Hi," I said briskly. "Hows the birthday boy?" "Just great," Karen said. "Hes absolutely thrilled with the CDs. You didnt have to send so many, you know." "Thats okay," I said. "You only turn ten once. Whats that shrieking." In the background I could hear what sounded like a recent castrato bemoaning its fate. "Hes singing," Karen said proudly. "All morning it was >On My Own from Les Mis. Now hes learning Phantom." I tried not to crow in triumph. "Thats really great," I said. "Hell be a singer in no time." I imagined what my sister would think when Jack started renting Joan Crawford movies. Shed probably blame it on me, but I didnt care. Score one for our side. "Oh, he already is," Karen said. "You should hear him try to do >Evergreen." This was more than I could stand. "He sings Streisand?" I said incredulously. "Oh, yeah," Karen answered. "Hes been getting into my Barbra records since he was six. In fact, my present to him was his own copy of The Broadway Album. We sing it together." I had to hang up. So maybe ten is a little young to know for sure. Still, I think the fact that I asked for an Easy-Bake oven when I was seven was probably some kind of early indicator, sexist or not, of what would come. My friend Anne agrees. She gave her Barbie a crew cut and rechristened her Alix when she was four. Now Anne drives a UPS truck and plays rugby for her wimmins collective team. You cant ignore the facts. Jacks birthday is coming up again, and this year he wants to visit the Smithsonian to see the exhibit of first ladies gowns. Karen says shes glad hes showing such a healthy interest in American history. Michael Thomas Ford is the author of Alec Baldwin Doesnt Love Me & Other Trials from My Queer Life. He welcomes e-mail at Shopiltee@aol.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 8, No. 11, August 14, 1998. |