Coming Out

The news has been rife lately with stories of young LGBT people killed in acts of violence, or by their own hand in the midst of fear or despair. As this is National Coming Out Day, maybe we can double our efforts to make this a safer world where people can come out.

It was almost 30 years ago that I told my parents I was gay. I remember how frightened I was, not because my parents were close-minded or cruel. I was scared because I thought I knew the life they wanted for me, and I was about to tell them I would be choosing a very different path to happiness. I didn’t know how they would take the news. I guess I had to prepare myself for the possibility that they would disown me. It didn’t seem likely, but it had happened to many of my peers.

I took a boyfriend, Mike, to stay at my gay Uncle Ralph’s house for the weekend. Uncle Ralph lived about 3 miles from my parents’ house, and I had not planned to see them during that trip. While out to dinner at a restaurant in Palm Desert, we just happened to bump into my parents. Needless to say, I was flabbergasted. What are the chances? So I made up some excuse about being in the desert for a meeting and promised I would call the parents the next day.

Six months later, I had a new boyfriend, Perry. I know- if you called me a slut you wouldn’t be the first.

I took Perry to Uncle Ralph’s for the weekend and we were having a nice relaxing time, sitting by the pool, enjoying each other’s company- when my parents stopped by. Uncle Ralph greeted them in the driveway and escorted them to a little table poolside. I cowered in the kitchen and tried to figure out what I was going to say. Perry put his arm around my shoulders and said something very loving and supportive. I don’t remember what it was he said, but I remember my teeth were chattering and my hands were shaking.

Finally, we all sat down together. I told my parents I wasn’t trying to avoid them and that I had come here with a boyfriend. My mom observed that even animals in the natural world sometimes mate with the same gender. My dad was curious about how the physical mechanics work for two men. I told him I’d send him a book. We embraced and then Uncle Ralph brought us some lunch. Later that same week my mom asked me on the phone how I had met such a nice man. I told her the truth; I picked him up at a church event.

Ewing and Geri Got Married

My parents got married in 1947 in the old Methodist church, which was later purchased by the FitzHenry’s and became a funeral parlor by the time that Dad died years later.

Their multi-tiered wedding cake was baked in Pasadena, California, and Mom's little brother William borrowed Dad’s convertible to go and pick the cake up. (I think the car William drove that day was a 1935 Buick Phaeton that Dad had rebuilt with his brother Carl, the best man.) Unfortunately, there wasn't any gas left in the car by the time William came back and Dad got to it. So he ran out of gas on his way to the church. Fortunately Dad was not afraid of walking. Everyone got there eventually and the nuptials took place without further ado.

They had a reception at the ranch house with cake and punch. Uncle Ralph and Uncle William had planted pansies all around the outside of the house. The ranch house was only seven years old at that time and a gleaming architectural jewel. Lots of neighbors attended including Carter Lodge, he was the partner of John Van Druten, and they lived on a ranch next door. Van Druten wrote the play Bell, Book and Candle and several other Broadway hits. Carter represented the Hollywood glitterati that day.

Millions got married that year as men returned from the war and resumed the ceremonies of normal life. But this particular wedding was important to me and my brother and sister, who arrived too late for the wedding, but in time to benefit from the marriage.

Hawaii

My hard-working big sister sent me some photos of her time in Hawaii with family. It was great to see her relaxing with the kids. She has worked hard her whole life and just retired after 38 years on the job.

A few years ago my husband, Tom, and I were invited to go to Hawaii with his cousins from the East Coast. There were six of them coming from New York. We flew from San Diego arriving first. I had made arrangements for an accessible van that we picked up on our arrival at the airport. When we arrived at the hotel we were greeted at the curb by some hotel staff with a tray of Guava juice. They explained to us in an apologetic voice that our seventh floor rooms were unavailable, and they hoped we could make do with a bungalow suite, nearer the beach. We said shucks I guess it’ll have to do.

We followed along from the lobby on a winding path past two swimming pools toward the beach. We finally came to a gate that opened onto cottage number two, a two bedroom, two-bath cottage with a kitchen, living room and a private Jacuzzi pool. Just for us. The bellman showed us all the cottage features, including the outdoor barbecue, and told us if we called the kitchen they would send a cook out to BBQ whatever we wanted. After the bellman left, we just looked at each other- wondering when they would catch the mistake and give us the bum’s rush out. The cousins were located in the cottage next door, and everyone had a wonderful week. They even got me into the pool and pushed me around like a deflated beach ball. All week long we got the royal treatment, all we had to say is we're ‘staying in cottage number two’ and the staff fell over themselves to be helpful. The mystery of our good fortune was never completely clear to us. Apparently cousin Caroline combined some timeshare credits that other favors, maybe I don't even want to know. In any event, thanks cousin, it was the trip of a lifetime. The photo here is our view from the cottage.

Bob n Bill

Bob and Bill have been together for 60 years. Now in their eighties, their home has become too much for them to handle. They are both frail. Their friend, Carl, is helping them sell and move to a facility with a dining room and linen service and emergency response as needed.

Bob and Bill have lived in many places during their 60 years together, Paris, New York City, Palm Springs. As I watch them navigate this difficult time I’m aware that many in their eighties rely on children or grand children to help cross these waters. Not so much with the gays who relied on peers through most of life’s transitions, now their friends are too old -or dead.

I wish there were something funny or hopeful I could say about this situation. But I'm afraid it will be repeated over and over as this generation of LGBT seniors age past the stage of self-determination. They are great and brave men and women who helped shape a world where I could be comfortable being myself. Thank you Bob and Bill, and all your peers who paved the way for me.

hair today, gone tomorrow

When I was in my early 20s, I dated a man named Gene. I suppose there were signs even early on that we wouldn’t last, he had never been to college, he was not particularly interested in intellectual pursuits. But he was so cute and sweet and lovable. It was on our second date that he made it clear he was wearing a hairpiece. I was surprised. I guess I was still at that tender age that assumes all men have hair- so when I started to run my fingers through his hair and he warned me, it was a shock. He wore a nice piece that was apparently glued on and prevented the public at large from knowing how significant his hair loss was.

He took me to meet his parents, and they were nice, accepting folk, genuine and honest and caring. After about four months, I decided we needed to break up. I'm afraid that none of my relationships at the time lasted much more than four months. I’m not very good at this transition thing so I invited him over and asked him to sit down. Before I got even two words out of my mouth I started to cry. It seems inherently unfair for the one delivering the bad news to cry first- but that is just the way I roll. So as soon as I started bawling he knew something was up. He made it easy; asked me if I was sure. He left after a hug.

When I was growing up I was aware that my gay uncle, my mother’s oldest brother, wore a piece on his head. I used to watch him in his bathroom get it from the Styrofoam globe and apply it to his own scalp. I thought it was a lot of work to go through. In retrospect I know how difficult it can be in the gay community. We judge each other so quickly and harshly.

I went to the barber this morning and he carefully trimmed all the edges around my ears and neck. He didn’t mention it today, God bless him, but I know he was looking down on my head from above. And it’s getting pretty thin up there.

My Old Friend: Denial

For baby boomers like me, our parents and other relatives of the older generation, serve to remind us of the frailties of this mortal shell. Even though there are many reminders proffered by contemporaries dying in their fifties of heart disease and cancer, it is still possible for most of us to plow ahead through busy schedules, denying the inevitability of our own demise.

I remember sitting in a training for hospice volunteers 20 years ago and listening to the speaker talk about denial. She observed that denial of our own death was necessary to get on with the business of life. I realized that if I weren’t willing to suspend the awareness of my own mortality, I would never again sit in a 2000-pound lump of steel and go hurtling down the freeway at 65 miles per hour. In fact I use denial very effectively.

Wasps

In the mid-1960s our parents added a family room and master bedroom to our house, and a swimming pool to the side yard. With summer temperatures in the 100’s, my brother and I spent countless hours in the pool. We played Marco Polo and we swam races and engaged in under-water treasure searches. And we used our plastic sandals to kill wasps on the surface of the pool by swatting them. These were common stinging wasps that gathered in our yard and settled themselves on the surface of the pool. We managed to get stung more than once so I guess we thought it was well within our right to slaughter them. So we would swat them dead and then line up their limp bodies along the pool’s edge. Our competition consisted of a race to see who could accumulate the most wasp carcasses on the sidewalk before sunset. This is about the same time that Rachel Carson was writing her epic environmental text, Silent Spring.

Before we had our own pool, our family went swimming in the Olympic sized pool on the estate that belonged to Jacqueline Cochran. Our friends, the Laynes, rented one of the homes on her estate. It was an old pool, going back to the1940s perhaps. It had no recirculating/filtering system. After the pool began to get a little dirty they simply emptied all the water into the nearby date grove. Jacqueline Cochran was one of the first professional female pilots in America. During the war she ferried jets across the country to position them for wartime use. She was one of the Women Air Force Service Pilots, or “WASPS” for short. But I guess it is a little ironic that before my brother and I were swatting wasps in our little pool we were swimming in the big pool that belonged to a “WASP”. I’m glad she didn’t try to swat us.