Remembering Brad: On the Loss of a Son to AIDS (8 page)

Most straights will find it hard to accept you if you come out. You will not be able to be affectionate in public as straights are. Your relationship will always have to be hidden from most of the world. It will not enjoy the reinforcement that society offers a heterosexual relationship. To come out will change your dealings with even understanding colleagues, family members, and friends. It can’t help but do so.

You must always hide and live a lie. This can cause anxiety, severe depression, neurosis, etc. No wonder gay couples have a hard time staying together for any length of time. So to live, love, and be happy being gay is a long, difficult haul. It’s after realizing all of that that I think, I plead: “Why should it matter? Why are people so blindly afraid?” It is in that blindness that I see the greater sin.

NOVEMBER 30, 1978: Kurt, Michelle, and I went out to dinner tonight at the Spaghetti Mill, the first time we’ve done anything together since Barbara left. An interesting thing happened while we were there. We were sitting eating, and I was telling them about “Swept Away,” which I had seen at the SUB [Student Union Building] last night. As we were talking, I noticed a guy who looked near our age, blonde, a little heavier than me, being seated by the waitress at a table near us. He was alone. We went on with our conversation. After a few minutes we heard a voice asking what movie we were speaking of. It startled us, and on looking around I saw that it was this guy seated at his table. I laughed and told him the title. He said he hadn’t seen it. I told him it was foreign and had played at the university last night. Then I turned around and resumed talking with Michelle and Kurt.

Five minutes later we were talking about a Steve Martin comedy special we’d seen on TV. Once again from the other table comes a voice saying, “I saw that show.” Looking around, almost embarrassed for him, we all stared at the guy. After all, one doesn’t usually interrupt another party’s conversation in a restaurant. He seemed to recognize this and said something about our conversation being all he could listen to. I felt a little sorry for him, he seemed like a nice guy. I didn’t know what the others would think but on an impulse I invited him to come and eat with us. Everyone seemed to relax more. Suddenly it was like we were old friends, well not quite, but it was comfortable. His name was Alan. I was impressed by his firm handshake. He was well mannered.

He told us that he was from San Francisco and that he worked for an electronics company that makes detection systems for libraries. He was up here installing one in the public library. We talked about school, about big cities, about his work, his traveling all over, about backwoods Pocatello (ha), about entertainers. It was all very pleasant.

A funny and embarrassing thing happened. The last time we ate at the Spaghetti Mill I was chewing gum, and when the meal came I didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t want to put it in the ash tray where everyone would have to look at it, nor in my cloth napkin, nor on the bottom of my chair. I made a joke about putting it in the water pitcher and we all laughed. But I put it in my own water glass where it was less conspicuous and didn’t bother me or anyone. Tonight the same thing happened and we laughed and again I put it in my water glass. But this was before Alan came. During the meal I was taking a drink, and he got a funny look on his face and said, “Hey, there’s a dark thing floating in your glass.” Oh, brother! How embarrassing. It was so funny trying to explain what it was and how it got there. We were laughing so hard, he must have thought us very strange and terribly unsophisticated. But he laughed too.

There were several things that led me to believe that he might be gay. He mentioned his girl friend more than necessary, he brought up the subject of gays as though he wanted to talk about it (this is a funny thing I find myself doing too, bringing up the subject in a casual way but also feeling the atmosphere produced and wanting to just talk with someone about it). Also he was from San Francisco, which is such a haven for gays. That fact doesn’t mean he’s gay, of course, but it enlarges the possibility. And then lastly, there was the way he looked at me.

There is a look in the eyes of a person who is hungry for the companionship of another person. It is a searching look, a pained look, and desire is there. It is like an animal on the prowl. It is a look that rests on the other’s face and speaks a thousand words without uttering a one. It is a look that lingers just a split second too long, almost a caress, a look of pleading, a crying out for love. I know this look well, for it reaches out from my own eyes. Sometimes the eyes of two such individuals meet and lock momentarily and exchange their secret knowledge. But only if the look is mirrored in the eyes of the other. Then comes the test to see who, if either, will be strong and unafraid enough to acknowledge what he has just revealed of himself and learned of the other. I have yet to be in this position where it was acknowledged by either party. But Alan looked at me in that way, that split second too long that tells all. And I looked at him. He was good looking, but he was also intelligent and I craved that too. This look occurred not once only but many times during the meal. That’s one reason I say it doesn’t happen accidentally.

I couldn’t have hopped into bed with him, even though I might have wanted to. I don’t believe in that, but still—and even if he wasn’t gay—he
symbolized
my imaginary lover. Sometimes I wonder if that lover isn’t only myself.

But as we left and said goodbye, I felt bad for him, that he would be alone for the evening in some boring hotel room. We had invited him to come with us to the lecture we were going to attend at the university, but he declined, saying he had to study some of his work plans. Did he? But it was sad for us to see him get into his rented car and drive away without a friend. It hurts me too, the gay aspect aside, to know that I will never see him again. He was just a nice guy all around. Perhaps we could have been good friends.

DECEMBER 20, 1978: I’m in love with an angel. She is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. She’s
only
a junior in high school. Talk about robbing the cradle. She’s a sister of one of Roger’s friends. Her name is Trina Marsh, and she is sexy! I’m OK when I’m not around her, but I can’t believe how she makes me feel when I see her. I always thought this melting business was bunk, but I’m proof it isn’t. I feel weak at the knees, my heart pounds, and my eyes feel as if they will pop out. We went out once a couple of months ago on a blind date. It was fun, but I didn’t really pay much attention at the time because I thought she was too young, probably dumb and high schooly, etc. Sure she was good looking, but so what. Now for the past month or so I’ve been reevaluating. Now I think maybe she’s not too young, not dumb, and from what I hear, not high schooly. Anyway, I saw her at the high school choir concert Monday evening, and after much deliberation asked her to go out next week. This time you can bet I’ll be paying attention.

* * *

[After transferring to the University of Utah]

JANUARY 6, 1979: Update: subject—sex, what else. I don’t understand. I don’t understand! What am I going to do about my attraction to guys? (Here comes that sick feeling again.) I like them. I can’t help it. Why is it this way? I find myself attracted to women/girls only in a distant detached way. I notice their beauty and sexuality, admire and am pleased by it, but without any gut attraction. Only very seldom does that happen. The thing is, I’ve come to the point now where I don’t really want to change. I like being this way.

JANUARY 14, 1979: I have some things to say tonight about homosexuality, and then this will be the last time that I ever again mention it in my journal. This sick feeling is going to haunt me no more…. Homosexuality is not a good, wholesome thing in the long run. I do not condemn experimenting with it, but any sort of long range sexuality in this area or any experimenting that would distort a healthy preoccupation with the opposite sex is very wrong!

I have had many good arguments for homosexuality. I wanted to find it OK so badly, wanted it to be logically and morally right. It had to be, because I wanted it to be. But it’s not. Gradually, one by one, much to my despair, I broke down those wonderful arguments. One by one they crashed before my eyes. They had seemed so sound, so logically perfect, but they had one flaw–they just were not realistic. Their perfectness just doesn’t fit the real world. I have to admit that I am grateful to my parents for being so open with me and willing to discuss the subject in the way they did, most of all for their not finding it repulsive, only non-productive, a Pyrrhic choice.

So, now it shall begin—my struggle to do not what I want to do but what I know I must and should do. I want to make plain that just because I feel this way about the matter does not mean I can readily bring this about. I must still contend with that pounding, obliterating drive, that hunger for sex. And I must still live with the layer-upon-layer effects of eight years of habitual thought. I pray to the Lord that he will help me in this. He has given me the knowledge I need, and now I must supply the determination, the guts, to move this unmovable mountain.

FEBRUARY 1, 1979: In the last entry I vowed not to write about sex, homosexuality really, anymore. But I don’t know if I can do that. It’s what I’m thinking of probably three-fourths of the day, every day. It’s constantly on my mind.

FEBRUARY 4, 1979: My vow to never discuss homosexuality in here again was unrealistic. As little as I would like to admit it, it is very much there, good or bad, and somehow I must come to terms with it. To not be able to write about it would be to deny myself of the one outlet that I have to get the heaviness off my chest. Since I do not feel that I could openly discuss what I feel with anyone I know, this journal must lend its open, unjudging ear.

To be very honest though, I wish this journal could judge what I write once in a while. I guess what I’m looking for is complete acceptance of such a lifestyle, someone to pat me on the back and say, “It’s all right, homosexuality is not wrong. Be at peace and live as you would like.” I wish my journal could do that for me. It seems that I don’t want to take no for an answer.

I have met many people here. Most of them I like very much. I make friends with a few new people, and they in turn introduce me to their friends, and they again, until one knows a good number. That is how I met this guy named Edgar. A little background. He’s from Puerto Rico. He’s about twenty-six years old. He lived in New York a few years before coming here. He’s in the dance/ballet program. A dancer. He’s about my height and weight. He also has a pierced ear and wears a diamond in it. Not so long ago that would have really bugged me. If he wasn’t Puerto Rican I think it would bother me now, but that seems to make it all right for some reason.

I don’t know if he is gay or not. There are not many of the usual signs pointing either way. He’s not effeminate, but he moves with some grace, in a very masculine way. He moves like a dancer. I enjoy watching him. He’s quite a good looking guy in his own way. He’s also very hyper most of the time. He reminds me of myself in some respects.

We get along very well. I ask myself if I have some kind of crush on him. I find myself hoping that he is gay. I find myself wanting to sit down with him and tell him about everything I feel. Should I? He represents a lot of things I’ve wanted in my life. I like his being bilingual. He seems to be able to make his own stand on things. He dresses with a chic carelessness that I think is nice, but it is not something he seems aware of.

I think the fact that he is a dancer is the biggest thing. To me that is a mysterious world only a few are privileged to enter. He seems to be a door into that world. He and I went to the Ballet Ensemble last night. It was so good, so interesting. I felt a great contentment being there. And the fact that Edgar knew the dancers and that I even knew several of them was good too.

There was a group of mostly guys and a few girls (women) sitting on the floor in front of us watching the informal performance. From their talk and movements, they all seemed to be dancers. Some of the guys were so effeminate, masculine looking, but fems. Everything they said or did was a show for everyone around them. It turned my guts over. They were everything that I don’t ever want in myself or those whom I consider good friends. But Edgar is not like that. Ballet West is putting on “Don Quixote” in two weeks and we’re going to see it. I look forward to that immensely.

MARCH 9, 1979: I feel a general confusion about so many things. I just don’t know what I want. Mom, Dad, and now Edgar have told me over and over just to be patient. Things will work themselves out in their own time. There is no hurrying them or worrying about when. I feel a great impatience for something. Just what I can’t say. Perhaps it will always be like this, always wondering what’s coming next and never being satisfied.

… I can say one thing—there are more gays running around here than one would ever believe (or some would want to believe). Nevertheless, I’m still not sure gay life is the life for me. I keep thinking I want something more. But what more? Children perhaps. An open relationship that needn’t be hidden from the world. Things like that. Edgar says that giving such things up is the price you pay. He, for one, thinks it is worth it. I, for one, have not yet marked my ballot.

MARCH 10, 1979: I seem to vacillate between a complete acceptance of my homosexuality and then a quiet no. I have a feeling that for now it is going to be the first. I feel more and more lately that too much of a big deal is made about the subject. I’m tired of fearing myself, tired of analyzing this over and over. Straights don’t have to wonder and worry constantly about why they are the way they are. They don’t have to wonder about dominant mothers and submissive fathers. They don’t have to worry about being condemned. They don’t have to spend time in this lonely, fruitless searching through themselves. They don’t have to worry whether their love is socially acceptable and whether they can show affection to their lover in public.