gay pride

People will say we’re in love.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I didn’t mean to drop off the face of the earth. This past week, I spent 6 days in the theater designing lighting and directing my friends in their drag king show. It was a wonderful way to spend the week.

This is my next to last gay pride month post.

It’s the story of how Adam and I came to be.

We met on a cold January day. He approached me while I was browsing at Barnes and Noble in Union Square in New York City. His friend Jon worked there, and he’d stopped in to say hello. It was January 5, 2009, and I just happened to be looking at journals in that section of the store. I turned and bumped into him, not realizing he was behind me.

I said excuse me, and went back to browsing. For some reason he decided my excuse me wasn’t enough. He wanted to know more, so he quietly asked what I was browsing for. I admitted that I didn’t know. I was actually just wasting time until the movie started at the theater down the street. The conversation lasted about 5 minutes and he asked if he could get my number. I laughed. He asked why I was laughing and I assured him that if I gave him my number, I’d never respond. He insisted. I finally gave him my number and he entered it into his phone. He told me he’d look forward to chatting with me, touched me on the arm and walked away.

I was moved by the entire exchange.

Funny the things you remember.

About 90 minutes later a guy named John, also asked me for my number. I told him the same thing I’d told Adam. I’ll give you my number, but I’m not looking for anything, and won’t respond. He said sure you will, entered my phone number into his phone and walked away.

They both texted a three days later. About four hours apart.

Adam texted and asked me to join him for brunch on Sunday.

John texted a photo of his penis. It was a very nice penis I must say, but penises in New York City are a dime a dozen. It was brunch that intrigued me.

I still don’t know why I said yes. I was adamant that I wasn’t looking for anything, and wanted no part of a relationship.

Adam and I texted back and forth for a couple of days and finally connected at 1:00 on Saturday afternoon. He called and we chatted. There was an ease that existed in our conversation, and the exchange flowed between us. We were winding down when he said I have something to tell you. Uh. Oh. He has a boyfriend. He’s moving next week. He’s a criminal.

Instead, he said, I need you to know that I’m HIV positive.

I wait.

What’s the news he’s going to break to me?

There is silence.

I ask him if there is more.

He says no, but I want you to know he was HIV positive before we go further.

I laughed. I seriously laughed. Out loud.

I thought it was going to be something bad. Like he’s wanted by the FBI. His father’s a gangster. His ex-boyfriend is crazy and is trying to kill him. That he has three kids from a marriage in his 20’s.

He asked why I was laughing.

I assured him that I didn’t care. I hadn’t care with the other guys I’d dated who were HIV positive. I certainly didn’t care with him.

He asked if I was sure?

I laughed again and assured him that as long as he’s not wanted by the FBI, I’d meet him for brunch.

We met the next day at 12:30 for Sunday brunch. We lived a few blocks from each other in Inwood, the northernmost part of Manhattan. I didn’t have to ride the subway or take a cab. I walked the 10 blocks to the restaurant, and of course I got the street wrong. He called to see if I was still coming and I told him I’d changed my mind. I could hear the disappointment in his voice when I said, I’m kidding, I’m just kidding! I’m just down the street. Sorry I’m late. I got the address wrong. Give me five.

He laughed and told me he liked a man with a sense of humor.

I entered the restaurant and he was seated in the middle of a bank of 2-tops. He stood to welcome me. We hug. I realize that he is taller than I remember. Much taller. I say, “Oh my, you are tall.”

We sit. I stare at the menu. We begin the awkward stages of a first date. Where are you from? Where do you live? Where do you work? What do you do for fun?

We order. I learn after we order that he doesn’t like eggs. Especially the yokes. I laugh again saying that brunch was a weird choice if you don’t like eggs.

The couple next to us, have realized that we are on a first date, and are listening closely.

Surprisingly the conversation flows. There aren’t gaps or pauses as we search for something to say. We wrap up brunch. He pays, and asks me back to his place.

We walk, in the cold, casually talking about our lives. I can see his breath, as we continue our conversation, shoulder to shoulder.

We get to his apartment, and it’s NICE. Very nice. Everything in its place. Big for someone who lives alone in NYC. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. What the fuck? He has two bathrooms? Can I move in now?

We got settled on the couch, him on the chaise, me at the other end. We talk. About our love of theater. Our love of food. Our love of NYC. Where we grew up. Our parents. Our siblings. We discover that we are both from the south. Me from Kentucky, him from Texas. We learn a lot about each other.

Eventually he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.

We lie on the bed. Still dressed.

Funny, the Adam, that I would grow to love, would never get into bed fully clothed. To even come near the bed, you need to be freshly showered, and clean, clean, clean.

We lie on top of the comforter and hold each other for a bit whispering to each other. Then I turn over and become the little spoon. He hugs me as we lie there breathing, feeling the closeness of each other. It doesn’t take long before we are both asleep.

I wake up. It’s dark. I am aware that I’m in a strange room. There is an arm draped over my chest.

I look at my watch.

It’s 7:00.

How the fuck did that happen?

I can feel him breathing. In. Out. Gentle sighs. The same sighs that would eventually lull me to sleep every night for 17 years.

I shift and he stirs. I realize he is awake now.

We lie there with him holding me. Finally, he asks if I’m hungry.

I confess that I’m starving. We get up. It’s been a wonderful afternoon and I am happy that it’s not over. We walk to Piper’s Kilt, the Irish pub up the street from his apartment. He loves their cheeseburgers. We hold gloved hands as we walk.

It’s the first time I’ve held hands with someone in public.

I realize that I don’t much care what people think.

We get seats, have two cheeseburgers and around 9:30 we pay the check.

We sit looking at each other knowing the day is coming to an end. We get up and go outside.

It’s much colder now. The wind is blowing and it’s starting to snow, just the tiniest bit. We stand on the street chatting. I tell him I have to get home, but that I hope that we can do this again.

He hugs me. I hug him back. We hold each other for a moment. He leans down and kisses me. I kiss him back. We hug one last time and I turn and walk away.

I take about 20 steps, stop and look back. He is standing on the street watching me. I wave. We look at each other for about 10 seconds and then we both turn.

I walked home in the snow.

Goodness gracious, that’s why I’m a mess!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

During the last weekend of April, in 2000, I flew to Washington D.C. from NYC and met my friend Michelle, her girlfriend Meredith and my friend Sam for the Millenium March on Washington.

It was the first real gay event that I’d ever attended.

The weekend was packed with events, a concert, protests, a march and a festival.

We all met there, and checked in to our very cheap, budget hotel.

It was a Friday morning and the fun, pride filled weekend lay in front of us.

There are a few things that stand about the weekend.

Sam was at the hotel for about three minutes, said he was off to meet friends, and I didn’t seem him again all weekend.

Meredith and I fought all weekend about the thermostat. She thought the a/c should be on 78. I thought it should be on 60. She won.

And I’m pretty sure when we said goodbye on Sunday night, it was the last time I saw her.

On Friday night, there was a huge concert at JFK Stadium, called Equality Rocks. We had nose bleed seats, but the energy was insane. It was sold out, and the crowd was going wild. So many amazing people performed.

Melissa Ethridge, KD Lang, George Michael, Garth Brooks, Chaka Khan, and the Pet Shop Boys.

The most moving moment of the night was when Matthew Shepherd’s parents took the stage. His mom spoke eloquently about the role of she’d been thrust into by the murder of her son.

She was everybody’s mom that night. She owned it.

It was late when the concert was over.

The three of us, started down from the top of the stadium. Taking one escalator after another.

On the third escalator, a man caught my eye.

Very much caught my attention.

He waited for me at the bottom.

We talked for a few moments, and then we both started our journey again toward the exits.

We got outside the stadium, and were now very much in love.

He asked me if I wanted to come home with him, and how better to celebrate the gay movement than by being gay.

I told Michelle, I’d meet her at the march the next day, and we walked to his car.

As he drove me to his house, he let me know that he was a police officer in Boston, and that he’d flown down for the March. He was in D.C. staying with his family, who very supportive of him.

We got back to his place, shared a beer and fell asleep.

Get your mind out of the gutter. This is a PG story. Plus, it’s been 25 years I barely remember that it happened.

We woke up the next morning, to breakfast cooking.

He asked me if I was hungry? I said sure, did you cook breakfast.

He replied, no but my mom did.

He’d failed to mention that when he said he was here with his parents, he meant at their house.

Ever hear of the walk of shame.

Well, I got dressed, and went downstairs and was introduced to the mom, the dad, the two sisters and the family dog.

We all had a hearty breakfast, while I pretended not to be embarrassed.

After breakfast, he drove us back in to DC, and dropped me off near the spot I was to meet Michelle and Meredith.

I found them, we marched.

At the end of the day, we all went our separate ways. Me back to NYC. Them back to Chicago.

Two interesting facts about the boy in question.

He has a very distinct name.

Two or three years later, I was reading a true crime novel, set in Massachussets, and the book mentioned him as a investigative police person in the case.

He was also booked on American Airlines Flight 11, out of Boston to L.A. on 9/11. He missed the flight and the rest you can say is history.

We stayed in touch for a bit. One of the last times I spoke with him was just before I moved to San Diego to start grad school.

And a quick google search has shown that he is now a very high ranking Boston police officer and makes a ton of money, because it’s public info.

I found him on Facebook.

He has a cute boyfriend.

And a dog.

I’d rather be sailing…

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I missed yesterday, so there are two posts today.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Most of my younger friends, would never believe that I have not always been an overweight middle aged man.

In fact, at one time you might call me attractive.

Might.

If your glasses were foggy and you hadn’t had cataract surgery.

However, I did okay for myself.

When I lived in Atlanta, I never really had a boyfriend.

Well, I had one for about 5 minutes. But that’s a story for another day.

I did date a bit. Although not much. I was too busy living my best life.

There are a few men who stand out in Atlanta. Matt, the boyfriend. Chris who tried to get me to like red wine. Dave, the artist. The guy whose name I’ll remember later, who went on to make a huge fortune in designing chandeliers. Tony, who I stayed in contact with and of course.

And Shel the furniture distributor.

This story is about Shel.

I have no idea, how we met.

I do remember our first date.

We had lunch, in the spring, at a café that over looked Piedmont Park.

He picked me up in his baby blue Mercedes convertible, and was the perfect gentleman.

He was easily 45, with a weathered appearance, that gave the impression he’d grown up on a sailboat. His face was tanned, and his hair was blondish grey. His eyes, were crystal blue and he spoke with a slight Norwegian accent.

The only thing I know about his wealth, was that he and his Norwegian family, owned a European furniture company and distribution center.

I never asked. He didn’t offer up much information.

We were never exclusive. We’d go out to mostly lunches, and early dinners. He’d drive me around town in the convertible and I felt like royalty. He was wicked funny, and very sweet.

His apartment, was in a high rise, and it had beautiful views of Atlanta.

One of the memories that I remember clearly was going to Neiman Marcuss with him where he was picking up and paying for pants that had been altered for him. When he paid, the register said $750. In 1988. What the fucking fuck.

He was in excellent shape and looked as good out of clothes as he did in his $750 pants. He really was beautiful.

We dated casually throughout the summer, and then our summer romance kind of fizzled. I don’t remember a conversation. I don’t remember a break up. I just remember one day I had a friend with a powder blue Mercedes convertible and the next day I didn’t.

Truth be told, I probably have his old phone number written in an address book in a box in my closet. And for the life of my I can’t remember his last name, which was Norwegian.

For a moment though, my star shone brightly.

Yes, “I’ve arrived” each check announces. Each one gold until it bounces!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It was reported by NBC news yesterday, that Target will stop taking personal checks in the coming weeks. 

To be honest, I was surprised they were still taking personal checks.  

I write one check every couple of months for companies, that won’t take a credit card, and don’t use Venmo.   For example, the person who plows our driveway, doesn’t take a card.  The person who installed our a/c, didn’t either.  They don’t want to pay the fees.  

But the number of checks I write gets smaller every year.  

The writing of checks brought back a memory from 1982.  

A memory that I’ve thought about over the years.  

Once upon a time, ATM cards didn’t exist.   

As a 16 year old, I didn’t yet have a credit card.  And sometimes, you need cash.  For a date.  Or a ballgame.  Or a trip to the movies.  

I had a job, but my checks were deposited in the bank.  

And the banks weren’t open after work, or on the weekends.  

On summer evenings, when I needed cash, I could go to a convenient store (think 7-11 or Speedway) and they’d cash a check for you.  

Personally, the place I went most often to cash a check was E-Z Way on North Broadway in Georgetown, KY. 

They never said no.  

In fact, the girl that worked there, often commented on how responsible I was.  

Writing checks.  Recording said checks in my register.  Not having them bounce.    

I was fairly responsible. 

Although, I will say, it was possible to write a check on Wednesday, that you wouldn’t have the funds to cover until Friday.  Because the clearing of checks was much, much slower back then.  

That being said, I didn’t bounce checks.  

I’d go in and pull out my check book, and diligently, fill out all the necessary information.  

Then.  

I was given the 20 dollars I was looking for.  It was almost always 20 dollars.  

On one, particular night, the girl, who thought I was responsible, remarked that I signed my name like a girl.  

What she meant was that you could make out all the letters.  I took my time signing my name.

It gave me pride to do so. 

But on this particular night, I was taken aback.  

I handed her my check.  Received my 20 dollars.  

When I got home that night, I began to practice signing my name.  

Faster and faster.  

Less and less legible. 

Till it was finally a J, followed by an F and a scribble.   

That was followed by my crossing the t, that was imaginary at best.  

In the 42 years since, my signature has gotten worse and worse.  

When I have to sign documents, you can see signs of the signature I practiced year and years ago.  But checks, credit card receipts, it’s a scribble.  

All because, 16 year-old gay Jeff, was worried that someone might learn the truth.  

Oh the horror or it all. 

It makes me sad now.  

I’m not scared to be seen, I make no apologies, this is me

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

A friend posted my favorite clip from the TV show True Blood today.

You can view it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7l-VVxCLo8

Whenever I see things like this, it reminds me of the decades of my life spent in the service industry.

This one brought back a very specific memory.

In the mid 90’s, I worked at an Italian restaurant, and I use the word Italian loosely, called The Italian Oven. My ex-boyfriend, Jim got me the job there, after I may or may not have walked out of a job at O’Charley’s, after a substitute manager, filling in for a pregnant manager I loved, yelled at me.

I find myself at The Italian Oven. It has black and white checkered plastic table cloths. The table cloths are covered with white craft paper. When you approach the table, you introduce yourself by name and write your name upside down in crayon on the table cloth. It never ceased to WOW the audience.

Fun fact. It takes about 22 seconds to learn to do this when your name only has 3 different letters.

It was a wood fired restaurant, that served mostly pizzas, calzones, and pastas. The food was remarkably not bad, and it’s where I learned to love tiramisu. We had a beer and liquor license and were very busy most nights. I made a comfortable living there, and had a good time most nights.

It’s funny, that I only remember a couple of people from there, so it didn’t make a huge impact on me, and I remember no one’s name but Jim’s.

What I do remember, is that one Saturday afternoon, toward the end of the lunch rush, a table of five arrives, and are seated in the far back right corner of the restaurant.

The server approaches the table.

I don’t remember his name. I can see his face. I can hear his voice. And he was fun to work with.

The one thing that I do remember is that he was gay. Undeniably gay.

The kind of gay, that when he opened his mouth, a purse fell out.

(We said these things back in the 80’s and 90’s).

He was also kind, and lovely, and the best server in the restaurant.

If I remember correctly, he was the person who trained me.

He approaches the table, introduces himself, writes his name on the table, and is responded to with the following:

You gay?

What?

Are you gay?

What?

We don’t want no gay person waiting on us, get us a new server!!!

I’m in the kitchen with a couple of other servers, and the very straight, very redneck, very religious manager who was on duty. We’ll pretend his name is Robert, which I think it was.

He says, Hey Robert, table 43 has told me they need a new server, because and I quote, they don’t want no gay server waiting on them.

They may have used the “f” word. I don’t remember.

Robert wants to know if he heard them correctly.

He is assured that he heard them loud and clear.

Robert says, I’ll be right back.

He might as well have said, hold my beer.

He goes to the table and says, excuse me, I hear that you have a problem with your server?

They reply, yeah we don’t want no gay person waiting on us.

Robert says, well I don’t know what to tell you all my servers are gay.

They question him.

He says, yes, we only hire gay servers here.

They then ask, if he can wait on them.

He replies, well yes, I can wait on you. I do wait tables from time to time, but I’m gay too, so I don’t know what to tell you.

They hem and haw and eventually realize what is happening.

He says, if you don’t mind a queer manager waiting on you, I’ll be glad to get you some food.

Instead, they gather their belongings and leave.

And I’ve never been happier to work for a redneck, conservative, Christian manager.

Thank you all for the gifts and the flowers, Thank you all, now it’s back to the showers, Don’t tell Adam, but I’m not getting married today

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

It was summer, August 2017.

I was at work, when two regulars walked into the restaurant.

I seat them, and ask how they’d been doing.

We chatted for a few minutes when they handed me a gift bag with a bottle of wine in it.

I asked them what this was for, and they said for your wedding.

I said, whose wedding.

Yours.

I said, I don’t think I’m getting married.

They explained, that the last time they’d dined with us, that I’d said we were going to be closed the following weekend for a wedding.

They thought I meant MY wedding.

I assured them, that I had not in fact gotten married.

We laughed out loud about the misunderstanding.

Then they handed me the bottle and said, for when you do get married.

It was a very expensive bottle of rose.

For the next few weeks, every time they were in we had a good laugh.

Then the restaurant closed, and I haven’t seen them since.

Face life, with a little guts and a lot of glitter.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!!!

My show opened tonight.

It went well.

In fact, in over all the shows I’ve designed, I don’t remember ever having brought up a cue and gotten an audible gasp.

It happened tonight.

It’s the equivalent of applause for the set when the curtain rises.

Tonight’s show was a celebration of queer theater.

It involved straight folks, gay folks, lesbian folks, trans folks, and some bi folks.

It was about 15 performers and crew, getting their groove on, making art.

It was not high art; we’ll never be compared to Sondheim.

But it was smart and funny. And the jokes sometimes played on the silly and sometimes were intelligent, and unexpected.

It was theater by committee, as everyone had a voice.

I cleaned up the choreography for the opening musical number. The stage manager staged the curtain call. We all helped the MC, write bits and jokes to tell to fill the space, during transitions and costume changes. The performers gave each other guidance.

Fun fact, except for me and the stage manager, not one of the group has a theater back ground. It’s a group of folks, who decided to put on a show, and didn’t let not knowing how, stop them.

The show changed a great deal in the five days we were in the theater. Scenes were cleaned up. Laugh lines played a multitude of different ways to find the comedy.

More than anything, it was a group of like-minded friends who got together, to celebrate each other, their creativity and their queerness.

The older I get, the more appreciative I am the community we have in Maine, especially the Portland area. We can never take for granted the fact that we live in a state/city/community that allows us to be open. Adam and I never fear, walking across town holding hands. We don’t get nervous at work that someone might see us hugging or getting a quick kiss.

All of our friends are equally open.

The openness is all around us.

Today, I drove through McDonald’s to get a soda. The 16-year-old that handed me my drink, presented as masculine with about 2 weeks growth on his face, but he had 2” acrylic nails painted a bright pink.
I thought to myself you go!!!

This pride post, is about our friends. Our life. Our relationships. Our love for each other and our friends.

The truly best part of the evening, was sitting in the open booth, waving to friends as they entered the theater. Getting hugs at intermission. And being celebrated by these friends at the end of the show.

I truly hope, that my LGBTQ friends, and I have a lot of them, have found communities that embrace you the way ours has. That you are able to feel safe. And loved. And appreciated for the special person that you are.

And for you straight friends, love your LGBTQ neighbors. Support them. Love them. Make them feel safe in your communities.

You’ll get a 100% return on your investment.

We thy call have disobeyed, into paths of sin have strayed and repentance have delayed, we beseech thee, hear us!!!

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We thy call have disobeyed
Into paths of sin have strayed
And repentance have delayed
We beseech thee, hear us!

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Pride Edition!

In the late 80’s, I moved back to Kentucky to go to grad school at the University of Kentucky.

A couple of years into this, I met a guy named ????. I don’t remember. We’ll call him Mark.

I don’t remember how I met him. I do know that we got went out a few times.

At one point, he asked if I’d like to join him for church on Sunday morning.

I said sure.

I still believed in god back then, and thought what the hell.

He picks me up on Sunday morning, and we drive toward his church.

On the way, he mentions that he is a Jehovah Witness.

Okay.

I have never been to their church, but I’ve known people in my past who worshiped there.

How bad could it be?

We arrive.

We are out of the car, and he says, Oh.

One more thing. They know I’m gay. I’ve been excommunicated. And no one will speak to us while we are there.

What the fucking fuck.

I go in. He is smiled at. He is acknowledged with a nod. He points out his parents and family.

But for the 90 minutes we were there, not one person spoke to us.

I was not introduced to anyone.

I met no one.

It was the weirdest church service I’d ever attended.

The service starts and the minister says a few things, and then they begin to read from the Watchtower magazine.

They read a passage, then someone with a microphone runs up the aisle to ask someone to interpret the reading.

Like this.

Jesus said to love your neighbor.

Then someone got the mic and said, I believe that means Jesus said we should love our neighbor.

It was that literal.

It perhaps was the longest church service I’ve ever been to.

Because no one spoke to me. I was on parade. Everyone knew I was gay. And no one liked it.

Finally, it is over.

Mark, says goodbye to his parents and siblings.

None of them acknowledge him.

We get back in the car. And head back to Lexington.

That was the last time I saw him.

Until about 10 years later, when I ran into him in NYC coming out of a play. He too had moved to NYC and was living his best life.

We hugged.

Caught up for 4 minutes.

Then went our separate ways.

The moral of this story, is that if you have to do things that are uncomfortable, do it alone.

Don’t bring a victim to suffer with you.

The sex is in the heel, even if you break it. The sex is in the hell, honey you can’t fake it.

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

The sex is in the heel even if you break it
The sex is in the heel, honey you can’t fake it

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Edition!

I spent 1987 and 1988 waiting tables at Bennigan’s.  It was located at The Lenox Mall, in Atlanta, back when the mall was only one floor, and Rich’s and Macy’s were the anchor stores.  Banana Republic still focused on cargo shorts.  Abercrombie and Fitch had not started selling sex yet.  Structure was a favorite store of mine.  

I’ve written about my time there, and how it was the beginning of my coming out.  

Everyone I worked with knew I was gay.  

And as with every restaurant, the cast of characters was ever changing.

The beginning of my first summer there, a very cute, very masculine young man was hired.  He was a very straight, very sheltered, straight fraternity guy.  (This becomes important later).  

He starts work, and I trained him one of his shifts.  Believe it or not, I was a trainer, in every restaurant I ever worked for.  I always loved it, because I felt like I was a great server, and could share my talent with others.  

I train him, and he becomes a real server. 

As he gets to know me, and the rest of the staff, he can’t believe all the gay people.

And he can’t believe that I’m gay, as I don’t look gay.  I’m assuming he meant that I didn’t walk the runway in front of the bar as Jason did.  And I didn’t wear makeup like Kelly did.  And I didn’t gesture with a limp wrist like Billy did.  

I however, did not hide it.  I sang showtunes in the kitchen.  I learned to be caddy along with the best of them.  And if you took a second look, the façade always gave way to the truth.  

Imagine my surprise, when one Saturday night, I’m waiting tables, and this young man comes in for dinner, with three of his fraternity brothers.  And ask to sit in my section.  

I wait on them, have fun teasing and joking around with them.  They pay the bill, tip me well and are on their way.  

A couple of days later, I work with this guy and he tells me why he wanted to sit in my section.  

He wanted his friends to meet a real life out of the closet gay guy, who didn’t look gay.  To him I was a novelty.  He’d never met someone who looked and acted straight who was gay.  

I took the comments with a grain of salt, understanding what he was trying to say.

However, I did say to him.

Greg, how many men are in your fraternity?  

He replied, 70.

I said, well think about this.  It is estimated that 10% of the population is gay.  So that means that 7 of your fraternity brothers are gay.  And I can assure you, it’s not the ones you think.  And I can assure you that a couple of them act straighter than me.   Think of that tonight as you are showering before bed.  

And I turned on my heels, and sashayed away, walking the runway in front of the bar.   

Why are there so many songs about rainbows? And what’s on the other side?

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

In the mid 1990’s, I taught high school for three years.

I was teaching lighting, at a performing arts high school, in Cincinnati.

Cincinnati at the time was very conservative. VERY CONSERVATIVE.

I was told before moving there, to keep my sexuality to myself. I did so by buying my one and only rainbow car sticker, to put on the back of my Ford Escort Station Wagon, that my friends called the family car.

I didn’t really get any pushback as had been suggested.

I had a boyfriend soon after moving there, who came to my shows.

I didn’t flaunt it, as they say, but I certainly didn’t hide it.

One day, I’m teaching in the morning, and a student, who was known for pushing the boundaries, raised their hand, and asked what the (hehe) meaning (hehe) of the sticker (hehe) on my car was for (hehe).

She was completely convinced she was going to make me out myself, publically.

Instead, I stretched the truth a bit and said, “Well, it’s a rainbow sticker, that was created to celebrate diversity. Its foundation, was the rainbow coalition, that has been supported by the Reverend Jessie Jackson. Its purpose is to let everyone know, that I think diversity is a good thing. I think, we should include everyone equally in everything we do, and I just want everyone to know that.

There was a pause, she said okay.

And I went back to teaching.

It never came up again.

And I went on to sing in the Cincinnati Men’s Choir. I also designed the lighting for a number of their shows, and my students assisted in hanging and running the shows.