Where is the love?
Closing Thoughts on Pride Month
Guest Post by Jacob Swartzwelder
Once, when given a 500-word writing prompt of just the word “butter,” pages and pages of text flowed through my head. A similar prompt of “pride” and all I thought was “Hi, gays!”, the echo of a viral pride meme from a couple years ago. How can a topic I’m intimately (literally) familiar with not draw dozens of pages? After some thought, the answer became clear. I don’t have pride.
My Story
I am a cis-gay man, nearing 35 years old (or as the pride-supporting folks might infer, 85.) I told my mother I was gay shortly after I learned to formulate words. In an old house down the block, during naptime at daycare, meticulously split by gender two to a bedroom, I’d climb into my nap buddy’s bed as soon as the door closed. Was I seeking safety? Security? Warmth even? Maybe it was all those things, but coincidently or not, I found all of those things in someone of the same gender before age five.
Sitting on my racecar bed in my bedroom one night, my mother sat beside me having just finished reading a book, I proudly proclaimed, “Mom, I’m gay.” The way her back straightened was in stark contrast to the smile that she forced upon her face. “Honey, do you know what that means?”
“It means I like other boys,” I said, wondering why she thought I’d use a word I didn’t understand.
“Like how you and Johnny play together at school,” she asked without the expected upswing at the end of the sentence that makes a statement a question.
“Yes, like that.”
The way her shoulders left her ears confirmed I had said the right thing.
“Oh honey, you’re not gay,” she trailed off with an inflection that made it hard to determine if she was choking on the word I had proudly claimed as my own or if its profanity was up there with “motherfucker.”
Climbing under my racecar comforter without my nap buddy, I lulled myself to sleep by moving my feet forward and backward. Right for the gas, and left for the brake, just as any four year old should drive a racecar.
As the years passed, locker rooms felt different, girlfriends were hard, and teachers became my sole source of middle school relationships. By high school, girl-frands filled in for teachers, and open and out school peers became role-models. I still filtered, though, substituting “Jessica” for “John” when telling stories. AOL instant messenger was my only source of exposure to gay culture. ASL (Age, Sex, Location) became the way of life. The internet was my gateway to people I connected with, usually older men, talking and exchanging photos. I often joke, if I had gotten the same attention from girls I got from old men, I’d probably be bi. But attention is attention and I soaked up every bit of it.
One evening, alone in my room, I met John. John was much older than I was. I was still in high school, and John was a grown man with an ex-wife and children. John and I chatted online, sent scandalous photos in 0.25 megapixels and even had x-rated video chats. But John was safe. John lived in Michigan and I in Virginia. Much like two females walking together at night, distance from men is safety for new gays, right? One day, John casually mentioned I lived close to an amusement park he had always wanted to go to and suggested we meet up, even providing an intricate plan of how I would get there and split away from the group to meet up with him. This brought john to my backyard, almost literally, and my safety vanished with the ding of the AIM message. I thought about how weird and absurd this suggestion was; we were chat buddies, long distant one night stands. Why would he want to… meet?
By this time, I was comfortable reducing my code shifting around some people, mainly people on my cheer team. I couldn’t wait to share the newest drama with my co-captain. I sent a text laughing how comical it was that John wanted to meet and got the most peculiar reply, “If you meet him, what would y’all do?”
Still laughing about how peculiar this all was, I replied, “Fuck, of course!?” Surely my sarcasm would be apparent; I would never give up my distance-derived safety like that. I expected a “LOL” in reply but instead got increasingly specific questions, to which I upheld the sarcasm. Apparently, I wasn’t as good at sarcasm as I thought because in real life I was sending my teammate into a sheer panic. Out of love, I’m confident, my teammate notified our coach, sending screen shots of my “intentions” to have sexual relations with my AIM grandfather.
Un-coming Out
Arriving home from a summer visit at my grandmother’s in Ohio later that month, completely disregarding the whole AIM event after successfully deflecting John’s request, I was greeted by a thin-lipped mother. Later that night, after my grandmother had fallen asleep, I found out why. My mother sat me down on the couch, shoulders hunched to her ears, and inquired about my online activities. The discussion around internet safety gave way to genuine, ignorant curiosity to who I talked to and about what. Long before TV shows gave way to memes where mathematic equations swirl around the heads of characters as they connect dots, my mother patented this visual. I never really “came out” but after those dots connected for her, code shifting became a thing of the past, at least in front of my mother. I guess not getting kicked out of the house was as successful of a “coming out” as anyone could ask for in the early 2000’s.
But, this isn’t a coming out, or lack thereof, story. This is Pride Month.
Deaf Culture
I currently study American Sign Language (ASL) and deaf culture. One of the most interesting parts of deaf culture is that a person who is physically deaf can identify as “deaf” or “Deaf,” with a capital D. The former indicating the physical lack of hearing. A person identifying as deaf does not join the Deaf culture, instead opting to participate their life in the hearing world. Often, this involves surgical procedures, such as cochlear implants, facilitating assimilation among the physically hearing. Deaf (with the capital D) however, fully embrace the Deaf culture, utilizing sign language, and building their social circles around their deafness. (You can read more about the differences here.)
What stuck out to me about learning this was the choice; having two culturally recognized options. The option to join the culture of people like you, or not—to choose which world you wanted to affiliate with. Queers do not get this choice. There is no “queer” v “Queer.” Yes, we live, work, shop, and socialize in a heterosexual world, much like deaf individuals do in a hearing world, but there is no option to participate in queer culture or not. There is no medical procedure that gives you heterosexual skills. The options you’re left with are living a lie or participating.
Gay Bars
One perfect example of this is the infamous Gay Bar. A mecca for Brittany-lovin’, alcohol drink’n men in too-tight clothes competing for attention. Obviously, going to a gay bar is optional for queers. There are even options as to which type of bar you prefer: leather bars, twink bars, up-scale martini bars, bars with go-go dancers, bars you wouldn’t dare look in the dark corners of. The list goes on. But there really is nowhere else you can find similar people.
When I use “similar people” I don’t mean people participating in the Brittany/alcohol/cocaine/competition culture, I simply mean others that prefer the same gender. The odds of meeting someone you have any desire to date, marry, or have a family with at the grocery store or even the local Chili’s are substantially less than at the Gay Bar. Alas, we all congregate in this “safe space” to mingle.
And mingle we do, among mixed drinks that make other bar’s drinks taste like water, we meet, chat, flirt, criticize, critique, compete, judge, and gossip. The thing about having limited gathering spots is that any size city soon becomes a small township, where the interminglings overlap in disgusting ways. I’d imagine this is present in any subset of cultures, like restaurant, hospital, corporate industries, etc., but it reigns supreme among the pride-supporting folks.
Reflecting on my own interminglings leaves me grossed out. Just a few short relationships and a few hookups have intertwined me Kevin Bacon-style with what feels like 90% of the city. I wish I could say this was a new event, but it hasn’t changed since I was 18 years old. At 18, I was excited to experience similar people, be welcomed into a culture. And welcomed I was—by your husband, and the guy who’s boyfriend had just left to go use the restroom, and the guy who told me about his same-sex fiancé and adopted daughter during sex. My first painting of gay culture was of unhealed competition, nothing to be proud of, though I didn’t understand it. I wish I had understood at the time because, maybe, instead of becoming another pine tree in the forest, I could have become a bird. A mistake seamlessly blended into the painting because someone made something of it; something different, something that still fit.
My Healing
I’ve always hated this stage I was forced to dance on; the game I was forced to play where the house rules and the deck is missing a card or two. At 31, I vividly recall my second therapy appointment , sitting on a couch in a room with a much-too-small rug on the floor, comfortable, but palms sweating. My therapist sitting across from me in a throne of a chair with a zippered portfolio neatly settled into her lap. A zippered portfolio. How HIPAA compliant. I like her, I thought. With a big soothing smile she asked, “where would you like to start?”
Recalling a recent, frustrating night at a local gay bar, witnessing “friends” gossip and judge, reminiscent of my family holidays where the topic of conversation was universally whoever wasn’t in the room, I replied, “I kinda hate the gays,” with a flat face.
“So does my wife.” she said, without cocking her neck the way you’d expect someone making a joke to.
I’ve never been good at identifying queers, “gaydar” as they call it. You would think gaydar and being gay would be a BOGO deal, but that’s not how life works, and man had I overlooked this one.
Embarrassed, I let out a soft “oh.” That same soothing smile came back as she said, “We can talk about it.”
Years of therapy have allowed me to balance the good with the bad. I am blessed to have met a few exceptional friends during my minglings at gay bars. I am grateful to the spaces I have been welcomed solely on the premise of my queerness, even if my instinct questioned the motives. Removing myself, I can see how helpful all these things—bars, friends, and culture—could be for the people that need it, similar to religion for those who need 10 commandments to know not to kill.
But, I don’t have pride. I don’t have pride for relationships that only survive on alcohol and drugs. I don’t have pride for relationships that stop at skin level, excluding unprotected sex because that’s the “gay handshake.” I don’t have pride for a culture that should be called “quid pro quo culture” instead of “queer culture.”
My Pride
A few years ago, while out at a bar in June, I watched two “friends” have the most vile verbal fight I’ve ever witnessed. At our “safe place.” The next morning, I awoke to the news that one of them had un-alived themselves. Deeply unsettled, I shared a post on social media. The meme-style photo said, “so much pride, so little love.” I may not have pride, but I do have love, and love will have to do for now.
A Note from the Author
I was fortunate enough to have a loving mother through my queerness. Although I’m sure she maxed out her patience and emotional intelligence dealing with it, she never stopped loving me. I later found out my mother grieved and processed in private for many years, but never let me see it. I am proud of the effort she put in to learn the current gay culture and how it changed from her school years. Parents are human – if you happen to have parents that don’t have the skills, emotional intelligence, or desire to accept your authentic self, below are some great resources to help you on your journey.
https://www.thetrevorproject.org/resources/
https://www.hrc.org/resources/lgbtq-youth
About the Author
Residing in Las Vegas, NV, Jacob is a director at a healthcare consulting firm, specializing in medical coding and compliance. Outside of his professional commitments, he explores a passion for wine and aviation. Jacob is also an avid student of American Sign Language (ASL) and Spanish, dedicated to expanding his linguistic abilities and cultural insights.
Check out my new coloring book and affirmations for kids, Mimi’s Big Mermaid Adventure & Affirmations now live on Amazon!
