LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Weekend Beach Bum |
by Eric Morrison |
Lara Fabian's "I Am Who I Am." Donna Summer's "I'm a Rainbow." Jennifer Holiday's "I Am Changing." Helen Reddy's "I Am Woman." All these divas seem to know just who they are. Most gay men worship, adore, and idolize these divas. Divas seem to have such a solid sense of self, such an incorrigible determination to live life on their own terms. Peer a little below the surface, however, and the water is rather murky, shallow, or both. Sadly, until this point in my life, I have found the same to be true of gay men.
How many gay men really have a strong sense of self? Judging by my life experience, not many. We know many things. We know where to find skin-tight Structure T-shirts for half-price, we know where to find a fabulous dinner served by an equally fabulous waiter, we know how to work our pecs at the gym and our stilettos on the dance floor, and we sure as hell know how to throw a party. But as individuals and as a community, who are we? Many gay men will talk your left ear off about their views on life. The San Francisco health nuts tell you that the good life lies on a plate of organic greens topped with steamed tofu. New York's Chelsea boys discover joy at the gym and ecstasy at the clubs. Buddha queens (Never heard of them? That's because I'm coining this term right here in Letters!) reach nirvana by leading perfect lives and barricading their hearts against the outside world, especially other gay men. Most of us are all about the look, the style, the savoir faire. My gay male friends and I cannot find a decent date, much less a life partner. My gay male friends and I are not losers. We have dated some men of quality. Sooner than later, though, the stunning (and stunting) brick walls we have built around ourselves fall apart, blown down by the three little pigs of honesty. We build our walls for reasonsvery good reasons, it seems. In our lives, we have been so tortured, so tormented, so emasculated, we grow scar tissue around our souls in a desperate clutch at survival. At an early age, I remember making a conscious though uninformed decision to begin construction on my scar-wall. After having pins shot into my ear through a straw at another anxious school lunch, my adolescent mind thought, "Everyone here hates me because I'm a 'faggot.' Everyone probably always will. But I know I'm OK. I get good grades, I do tons of extracurricular activities, and Mom and Dad hardly ever yell at me. I'm not a bad person. If I'm not bad, and everyone still hates me, I simply must be better than everyone else." Kaboom! The concrete truck's backfire resonated in my head as its long, silver slide lowered the first layer of "leave me alone" foundation for my scar-wall. In no time, I was turning up my nose at fellow students who couldn't match a shirt with pants, practicing sucking in my gut in front of the mirror, and running home to cry every time I scored an "A-" on a test. Like Cher, I began "dreaming about perfection." I've never had my nose done, but I still "push it to the limit every day and night"at work, at the gym, with my writing and my performance. Thank Whomever, in my mid-twenties, I'm mellowing out considerably. At least I put my energy into my work, not into playing Super Club Boy like I did at nineteen through twenty-four. I've come a long way, baby. I may seem a bit like the embodiment of the repulsive Protestant work ethic, or the Jamaican family with fourteen jobs from In Living Color, but I enjoy a beautiful apartment, a new car, and vacationsnone of which I could begin to afford as Super Club Boy. Most importantly, I enjoy my work, and I have friends and family who care deeply for me. That's a hell of a lot more than most people my age have. Speaking of whom, where are most gay men my age? I see them virtually nowhere. Are they still so enraptured by image that they whittle their days away at the malls and discount department stores, drowning in a sea of Tommy Hilfiger denim sets? As my one friend insists, did they give up on themselves and find an older gentleman to take care of their wallets and car payments (although certainly not their souls), and we will see them out on the scene again when they hit thirty, looking older than their sugar daddies? Or did they just grow tired of their perception of "the gay lifestyle," and decide to stay at home and languish in asexuality? I don't know where in the world gay men in their mid-twenties are, but they sure as hell are not at the Blue Moon for happy hour. As much as I adore the Moon, I almost lost my Yuengling on the balcony last weekend, so surrounded was I by thirtysomething talk of "e-mail" this and "dot-com" that. Due to a serious lack of physical presence and self-awareness in gay men my age, these days I find myself happily chatting with fiftysomething gay men. I do not pine for the underage Woody's days of drunken dancing and one-night stands, but I do not want to sell my soul for a summer place on Queen Street, either. If gay men could harness the energy we put into judging, instant messaging, buying out, and screwing each other silly on the weekends, we could raise Atlantis from the depths of the sea and crown the King of a bold, queer world. I don't hold myself apart from any of this. Like Diva-of-the-Day Dido, I am no angel. I have no desire to be. But there has just got to be a happy medium somewhere between separatist Bhudda queen and dot-com slutpuppy. Between the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other, there lies a sensible head and a tender heart. So what do I want these days? I want to meet sincere, soul-searching gay men. I want to feel a stable sense of community, and I do not want to search for it in a one-night stand. Like the playful but innocent Little Prince, I want someone to ask me about my favorite color, not the size of my penis or AOL account. I'd even settle for a friendly smile, not a downtrodden, crotch-aimed look. I'd love a Dutch invitation to dinner, not to bed or business talk. Eric wrote this column earlier this summer, in a fit of frustration. Since then, he has actually met quite a few "nice guys." Stay tuned for the September issue of Letters, when Eric will write about what he's learned this summer. Eric can be reached at starchildB612@gateway.net. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 11, No. 12, August 24, 2001. |