The Ties That Bind

I’m at the toy store, Christmas shopping for my nephew Baby Jack. Buying presents for babies really is a pure act of giving- it’s not like he’ll have any concept of who purchased the item, I just get the satisfaction of knowing he enjoyed it.

It’s probably similar to the feeling people get when they buy gifts for their pets, or senile elderly people.
I keep picking up toys that are completely inappropriate for a very small child, but would be totally awesome for me. You should see how they’ve souped up the Etch-a-Sketch! Mine just had the two knobs, and you shook it to start over when you fucked up the picture. Now it’s got like fifty different features, like somehow remembering your pictures, and engaging in intelligent conversation.
Nothing brings a family together like a cute baby, so everyone’s coming home this year to watch him play with the presents they give and keep score on which ones he likes best. It really has ignited a competitive spirit among my relatives- if Baby Jack rejects your toy, obviously you are incurably stupid and have no concept of what the child likes. However, if Baby Jack selects your toy from the pile to become his latest most cherished possession, it can only mean that he loves you best.
Of course, come Christmas morning, he will most likely ignore all the toys in favor of the boxes and wrapping paper.
When I was little, my sister Shannon and I engaged in an annual battle over who would be first out of bed on Christmas morning to see the loot Santa left. As the years progressed and the wake-up calls kept getting pushed back earlier and earlier, my mother tried to alleviate the predawn toy rush by giving each of us a Benadryl capsule before bed on Christmas Eve. But even drugging us into submission couldn’t prevent the need to be the first to see what Santa had left behind. In order to assure one could not rise without waking the other, Shannon and I eventually started binding our hands to each other with yarn. If she jumped out of bed first, she’d drag me along with her.
I know a lot of people’s childhood holiday traditions don’t involve drugs and bondage, but these are cherished memories in my family.

I slept quite contentedly with my hand tied to my sister, knowing as long as we were attached, there was no way I’d miss anything good.
Before I head back to Mississippi, I’ll have Christmas with my roommates George and Kit. Kit moves to New York at the end of December, acting on a completely selfish desire to live in the same city as the man he married last month. I just lost my buddy Slutty Mandy to New York a few months ago. I really wish that goddamn city would stop taking all my friends. Last week, this really nifty guy I’d been on a few good dates with kinda dropped me, and even though Slutty Mandy listened patiently on the phone as I wallowed in my momentary misery, it just wasn’t the same without her drinking beside me. The thought of also losing Kit in this capacity fills me with dread. I’m totally running low on people who are willing to pat me on the head and tell me I’m pretty and all men are idiots.
I guess it’s another one of those damn lousy side effects of the passage of time. Mulling over my options in the toy store, it occurs to me that Christmas morning no longer belongs to my sister and me- now it’s for the baby. We leave that particular sense of wonder and joy to a younger generation, and we move on to discover new surprises elsewhere. That’s why my friends are scattering to the four winds. I understand that, really I do. But it’s still very difficult to resist the urge to grab some yarn and bind our wrists together, keeping us attached, so I don’t miss anything good.

Stealing Christmas

When I was sixteen, one of my many roommates in California was a girl from Texas named Jenna. She’d come out west in search of fame and fortune as a dancer, like Nomi Malone in Showgirls, but things weren’t really working out in her favor. Jenna loved to dance, but not half as much as she loved to drop acid and take eight-hour baths. She’d spend the entire afternoon in the bathtub, lounging in lukewarm water, quietly humming to herself and staring slack-jawed at the wall. As long as you didn’t need to bathe, she wasn’t any trouble. It was like living with a very quiet mermaid.
Jenna had a Greek boyfriend named Nicos, who’d come over and sit on the bathroom floor next to her. Many nights I’d tell them goodnight, then get up the next morning and go in there to pee, only to find them still wide awake, sitting in amiable silence.
One day in early December, Nicos came over, had sex with Jenna, and then told her he couldn’t handle how serious they’d gotten. This was fascinating to me, as I couldn’t recall them ever having a conversation more than five sentences long. Jenna was so distraught she didn’t leave her room for the rest of the day. I worried about her being out of the water for so long.

I was tempted to go in her room and mist her down with a water bottle, like they do with beached whales.
Nicos called later in the day, but it was just to tell me he’d left his wallet in her room when they had the pre-breakup sex, and he’d be by later to get it. I decided to improve the mood in our house and make Christmas cookies. Our oven had never been used, so it was a pretty big moment. As my first batch was baking, Jenna appeared in the doorway.
“Do I smell cookies?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I walked over to the Fairway and got some baking stuff, you know, for the holidays.”
“Did Nicos call?”
“Yeah. He left his wallet.”
That brought a new wave of tears, interrupted by the oven timer. Then we stood in the kitchen, scalding our tongues on freshly baked peppermint cookies.
“Dude, this is so perfect. We needed some motherfuckin’ Christmas up in this dump, ya know?”
Suddenly, Jenna perked up. She had been fortified by the Christmas cookies.
“We need a tree! And ornaments!”
“And if we had money, we would get them.”
“Dude,” she said, smiling. “This one’s on Nicos.”
We hopped in Jenna’s convertable, and went down the mountain to the Target in Hemet, spending all of Nicos’ cash on ornaments, lights, tinsel, and ribbons. Then we went to a roadside Christmas tree farm and picked out a tree. That’s when Nicos’ MasterCard was declined.
“That motherfucker didn’t pay his credit card bill,” said Jenna. “I knew he’d find a way to screw me over one more time.”
We left, disheartened. We had all the trimmings, but no tree. I tried to look at the bright side. We could still deck the halls, so to speak, and then hit up our roommates for tree money. Jenna came to a stop in a supermarket parking lot.
“I’m gonna get cigarettes. Will you drive us home? I’m exhausted.”
I climbed into the driver’s seat as Jenna went into the grocery store. She returned seconds later and banged on the window, yelling for me to put the top down before running away again. I got the roof down on the convertible just in time to see a fir tree running full-speed towards the car. Jenna threw the tree in the back seat and jumped in beside me.
“I found a tree! Haul ass!”

Apparently the supermarket was selling trees out front, and had made the regrettable error of leaving it momentarily unmanned. We considered it divine intervention.
Later we sat in the living room, eating cookies and admiring our work, when there was a knock at the door. It was Nicos, whom we’d held such ill will toward a few hours ago. But his unexpected generosity had cheered us up considerably, and brought holiday joy to our home. Now we would give a gift in return: A life lesson about leaving your wallet at someone’s house when you break up with them.

Bending the Rules

“You don’t understand. That is a twenty dollar bottle of moisturizer.”
“Sorry, sir. It’s over the three-ounce limit.”
I’m standing in the airport security line, flying for the first time in a few months. Somehow, I missed the latest memo on insane travel restrictions. As a result, I’m now locked in a standoff with a man who has obviously had this conversation umpteen million times.
“If I bend the rules for you, I gotta bend ‘em for everybody else,” he says, and tosses half of the contents of my shaving kit into a trash bin.
I’m on my way to Vegas, to serve as Man of Honor at my roommate Kit’s marriage to his boyfriend, which will be perfectly legal in all fifty states.
It’s complicated.
Kit is a guy who was inconveniently born with girl parts, but he’s been working with medical professionals lately to correct that little error in manufacturing. His boyfriend Terrence was also born with girl parts, but he took care of that a few years ago. So now Terrence has a driver’s license identifying him as “M”, while Kit is still at this early stage classified as “F”. We’ve got an “M”, we’ve got an “F”, and we’re ready for Vegas. The best part is, even after Kit becomes legally classified as “M”, the marriage will still be valid. So I’ll finally have the satisfaction of seeing a legally married gay couple- it just took a pair of tranny boys to figure out how to do it.
Pause for a moment, and picture how long it took me to explain this to my mother.
A few hours later, I’m smoking under a palm tree outside the Las Vegas Marriage License Bureau, watching Kit and Terrence through the plate glass window. It’s almost midnight on a Saturday, so the cast of characters inside is pretty entertaining. One window down from my couple is a very drunk pair of college kids that stops talking to the clerk every ten seconds to make out. And one window down from that couple is an Asian businessman who appears to be marrying a middle-aged whore.
Speaking of middle-aged whores, my cousin flew to Vegas once and then drove all the way out to The Mustang Ranch with the express intention of losing his virginity. He had grown tired of waiting and really wanted to get the first one out of the way, so he engaged the services of a professional. Apparently the one he selected was having a really bad week, because she started crying before they even got undressed. They offered to get him a new girl with a sunnier disposition, but apparently nothing kills a hard-on quite like a sobbing hooker.
But I’m digressing. Back to the transsexual wedding. The next morning, we’re up bright and early to head over to civil court and get this marriage thing taken care of before brunch. The judge performing the ceremony looks exactly like one of the Skeksis from “The Dark Crystal”, if it were going as Bea Arthur for Halloween.
Even though we know we’re here on a technicality, thanks to that “F” on Kit’s license, it’s still very jarring to hear him called by his legal (female) name. And Judge Skeksis keeps saying that name over and over, as if reassuring herself that the “bride” really is a “woman”. In all the planning of this blessed event, I don’t think any of us ever considered the fact that Kit would be referred to as someone’s “wife”, which is patently absurd. Kit’s twice the man I am, in half the size, which technically makes him four times the man I am, I think. Math is hard. But then it’s done. Kit and Terrence are legally married. The fact that these two people could marry, but only when one was finished with his gender change and the other was just getting started, speaks volumes about how insane the whole argument against gay marriage really is. But today is encouraging, because my friends got what they wanted, and we got to bend the rules a bit.

And remember what the airport guy said: If they do it for some people, eventually they’ll have to do it for everybody else.

I'm a Big Boy Now

My mother knocked on my bedroom door one night when I was fourteen, and asked if I could spare a few minutes for her. I assumed she needed something from a high shelf, which was my standard purpose in the house. So I agreed, having no concept that I was falling directly into an elaborately planned trap.
I followed her to her dressing room, which was normally completely off-limits. It was painted storm cloud gray, with matching marble countertops. No matter the environment elsewhere, that room was always cool and quiet as a tomb. As we entered, I saw she had prepared for my arrival: There were little bottles and jars carefully laid out on the counter.
“Don’t be upset with me, but you are getting older, and that means you have to pay more attention to your skin.”
Here she gave a sweeping gesture to supplies she’d laid out. She then patiently explained how to properly wash my face and apply astringent, then opened a jar of oatmeal mask and demonstrated spreading the sweetly rancid glop on her face. I followed suit, and we stood back, waiting for it to dry. I watched my features harden in the mirror under the mask.

This was fun. Weird, but fun.
“You know,” she said, gathering a shallow breath. “You’re growing up... so fast. I can hardly believe it. Um, and if you have any... questions... about, oh, you know, anything... you can ask me OR YOUR DADDY, and we can. Talk. About it. It’s fine. Really.”
My God. Mama obviously had lost some sort of bet with my father, and had been forced to find a way to have the Sex Talk with me. And by making connections only my mother would find, she had determined the best way to handle it was combining the Sex Talk with the Skin Care Demo.

I wondered what expression I would have, had my face not been completely immobilized.
“Son,” she said, her eyes growing larger as cracks began to appear in her whiteface. “Do you have any questions?”
Oh boy, did I ever have questions. When Randy Devers came over and let me give him head, why did he always run to the bathroom just before he came? And why would he never talk about it? If I liked boys, did that mean I’d grow up and be a hairdresser? Should I be planning for that? What if I liked girls, too? Did I have to pick, or would one or the other just stop one day?
But I didn’t ask any of these questions.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I can’t think of any.”
So we rinsed our faces, and that was the end of Skin Care/Sex Education at my house. The next afternoon, I returned from school to find a copy of “What’s Happening to My Body? A Book for Boys” waiting on my bed. It was a compelling text that I read with great interest. I learned nocturnal emissions were quite normal, but you should strip your own bed when they occurred. It was a book on puberty for WASPs that placed high importance on making certain you don’t inconvenience anyone in the process of becoming a man.
I craved having someone with whom I could speak openly about all the confusion, terror, and exhaustion I was experiencing. But teenage boys don’t talk like that with their families, or even with each other. Instead, I read my book and waited for it to end.
My roommate Kit just took his first hormone shot, marking the unofficial start of his own journey towards manhood. He’s always been a guy, but his birth certificate unfortunately disagreed with his assessment. So, proactive spirit that he is, Kit is setting out to make the outsides match the insides. I don’t pretend to understand the complexities of what trans people experience, but I do remember a thing or two about bouts of raging testosterone. So when Kit returned from his first appointment, he found a copy of a book on his bed: “What’s Happening to My Body? A Book for Boys”.

And now I can be the sympathetic ear I craved when I too was becoming a man.

Performance Anxiety

Mrs. Callahan stood before us, wearing one of the many theme sweaters from her wardrobe. All of Mrs. Callahan’s sweaters were works of misguided creative abandon. They made their first appearance right around Halloween, when she strolled into our fifth grade classroom wearing a cardigan emblazoned with a witch on a broomstick, cackling as she crossed a full moon. I quickly sketched the design so I could describe it in full, glorious detail when I got home. But the witch sweater was no fluke. In the ensuing weeks and months, Mrs. Callahan would reveal the full extent of her theme sweater collection. Scary sweaters led to harvest time, with cornucopias cascading nature’s bounty across her breasts, then pilgrims brandishing muskets on her back, and of course, the holiday sweater spectacular. It was impossible to listen to a word the woman said the entire month of December. Every time she turned her back to write on the blackboard, we would be greeted by a gleeful Santa, a frolicking reindeer, or the entire cast of the Nativity, ‘round yon Virgin.
It was now January, and Mrs. Callahan was wearing a relatively subdued snowflake sweater. It was safe to assume that this was merely her wardrobe pausing for breath before the Valentine’s Day series in our near future.
"Class," said Mrs. Callahan. "I have a very exciting assignment for all of you. I want you all to read a book, any book you’d like, and then give a one-page book report. But, for this book report, I would like you to present it..."
She paused, letting the suspense build.
"AS A CHARACTER FROM THE BOOK!"
She was quaking with excitement. She had implemented a whole new method of book-reporting, perhaps gleaned from an article she read in American Teacher while airing out the week’s sweaters.
My mind reeled with possibilities. I had recently stolen my sister’s copy of Flowers in the Attic, and thought it might be nice to play one of the children who died of arsenic poisoning. There was also a legion of characters from Steven King novels, but I was certain someone else would do that.
And then it hit me. The performance that would surely impress all of my ten-year old classmates beyond words, and finally reveal the depths of my talent:

I would portray Betty Mahmoody, the heroine of the spellbinding memoir Not Without My Daughter.
I’d found the book on my mother’s nightstand, and was quickly enthralled with the story of an American woman trapped in Iran by her abusive monster husband, and forced to overcome seemingly insurmountable odds to escape with her beloved little girl. This, I knew, would be the most powerful book report the fifth grade had ever seen.
I spent the next week crafting my performance, going through multiple drafts of Betty’s emotional monologue, in which I would recount the details of my harrowing escape while cradling a Cabbage Patch doll. I told my family nothing about the project, fearing they might try to interfere with my creative process.
My sister Shannon drove me to school on the day reports would be presented. The doll was in my backpack, as was a navy blue bedsheet I intended to wear as a burkha. Finally, I could contain my enthusiasm no longer. As we pulled into the drop-off lane at Upper Elementary, I told her all about my impending premiere. Her reaction was unexpected.

She began to cry.
"Oh, God, Topher. Please, please, do not do this. Everybody already makes fun of you, and they make fun of me because of you... They always ask me why my brother’s so weird, and I try to say you’re not, but then you pull stunts like this..." her voice trailed off.
"But I have to," I said. "It’s for a grade, and it’s all I prepared."
"You read all the time, you can do another book," she said. "A real kid’s book. And be a boy. Please. You’re making things so much harder for yourself."
We sat in the Camaro in silence. I knew my classmates told their older siblings about the bizarre shit Topher Payne was always doing. I knew my sister caught hell for it, and in their own way, so did my parents. I felt awful.
"Okay," I said. "I’ll be Encyclopedia Brown."
Later, I sat in Mrs. Callahan’s class, my Trapper Keeper holding the report on a Beverly Cleary book I’d hastily scrawled in the cafeteria. I watched my classmates, one by one, doing their mediocre interpretations of The Babysitter’s Club and the Hardy Boys. I tried so hard to fit in with these people. I’d played baseball, joined Cub Scouts, and suffered through year after year of Summer Day Camp, all in a fruitless attempt at blending with the majority. And for whatever reason, it hadn’t worked. I was different, and I’d always known it.

And I was so fucking tired of running from it.
"Topher," Mrs. Callahan said, a snowman waving at me from her torso. "It’s your turn."
I rose from my desk, removed the sheet and doll from my bag, and approached the blackboard. I wrapped myself in the sheet and faced my peers.
"My name is Betty Mahmoody. My husband held me prisoner for eighteen months in Tehran. He beat me every day. I wanted to run away, but... not without my daughter."
I told them of my demoralizing experiences in a foreign land, and described in vivid detail my escape via Arabian horseback into Turkey.
"I found my inner strength," I concluded. "I got away."
Here, I pulled my child close to my breast and had a private moment, reflecting on all I had overcome. I looked up, at the blank stares from my classmates. Mrs. Callahan was completely nonplused.
"...thank you, Topher," she said at last. "You may take your seat."
All of my sister’s warnings proved devastatingly accurate. At recess that afternoon, I was taunted and bullied more than ever. A huddle of teachers engaged in discussion, occasionally gesturing to me. But it didn’t sting as much as it usually did. It felt as though my skin had thickened, ever so slightly. I was no longer seeking their approval. I knew their opinions of me were not likely to improve, so why waste my time? Although I didn’t know it at the time, I was experiencing the first stirrings of personal pride.
It is my great fortune to live in a time and place where people with stories like mine (okay, not JUST like mine, but equally bizarre) gather together in a celebration of what makes us so damn special. And while the strides our community has made in mainstream culture should be recognized and honored, that’s not what Pride’s all about for me.
What I love about Pride is the feeling that, despite all odds, we are a community that is unapologetic about being ourselves. We chose not to assimilate, thus ignoring the weird, wonderful elements that define us. It was not an easy path in life. Many of us have been forced to forfeit the families, friendships, careers, or religious beliefs that we were told would sustain us. But one weekend a year, we gather and remind each other that it was worth it, and we have each other.
The ten year-old in me rejoices every year when I see, to my great relief, that it is not just me.

What's New, Pussycat?

When my life is a little more stable, I intend to get a dog. It will be a small dog, perhaps a Jack Russell or one of those little wiener dogs, and I will name him Benjamin. I heard once about a breed of dog that is incapable of barking. That sounds quite promising. Perhaps Benjamin will be one of those. I want something adorable that doesn’t invade my space, won’t make unnecessary noise, and will love me without question.

Basically the same qualities I want in a boyfriend.
I will be traveling a lot in the coming months, and then the lease is up on my apartment and I’m moving, which might be limited by bringing an animal with me. So the timing’s not right for a pet.
A few days ago, when I opened my front door, a cat wandered into my living room, curled up on the rug, and began to purr. I was completely bewildered. She was more comfortable in my apartment than I am. I checked her tag. Her name, it informed me, was Frisky. I called the phone number below her name, and left a message informing them of Frisky’s whereabouts. Fearing for her safety, I allowed her to stay until the owner returned my call.
I sat down to write. Moments later, Frisky joined me on my lap. This was a sweet kitty. Not that I wanted a kitty. But if I did want a kitty, I’d want one that did this.
I realized Frisky might be hungry, so I gave her tuna, which she ate with greedy enthusiasm. Then I realized with horror that she would need to relieve herself at some point, but I couldn’t let her outside. What if I let her out and she ran away? And then the frantic owner called, only to discover I’d let their beloved feline slip from my grasp? I would have to buy a litter box. But what if my leaving for the store caused Frisky such distress that she peed all over my furniture? I called George, and asked him to buy me a litter box, and more tuna. And some sort of toy on a stick, to amuse her. Maybe some catnip.
George is not a cat person. But, he conceded, if he liked cats, he would like this one. Frisky responded to this appraisal by rolling on her back and encouraging George to scratch her belly.
"She doesn’t look like a Frisky," I told George.
"You can’t rename someone else’s cat, Topher, it’s tacky," he chided.
Despite this, George and I began calling the cat Linda.
Linda slept on my bed that night, close to my head. I fell asleep to the sound of her purring. The next morning, I got the call.
"She’s an indoor-outdoor cat," said her owner, who lived around the corner. "She likes to explore. Just let her out, and she’ll come home."
So, I let her out. She had a home, and I didn’t want a cat anyway. That night, walking about a block from my house, I saw a bouncing ball of white fluff crossing the street. It was Linda. She followed me all the way home.
"Go away, Linda," I told her. "You don’t live here."
Then I gave her more tuna, and entertained her with the feather on a stick.
"Topher, she’s not yours," said George, watching me with disdain.
"But, maybe she’s not happy with her current owner," I replied. "Maybe they don’t appreciate her, and she wants a new life."
"Oh my God, you’re a fucking homewrecker. If I ever get a boyfriend, I’m never leaving you alone with him."
George was, of course, correct. It was obvious from Linda’s disposition and appearance that someone loved her very much. Someone completely oblivious to the risk that a crazy fag might kidnap her sweet kitty and refuse to give it back.
I picked Linda up and set her outside. She meowed at the door for a bit, confused by her abrupt departure, and then gave up and took her leave.
"I miss her already," I said, watching from the window.
"I know, darling," said George. "There’s nothing quite so bittersweet as the end of an affair."

I Should Be So Lucky

Once, I had this lucky bracelet. It was a small fabric cuff I bought years ago at Urban Outfitters, and I loved it dearly. My lucky bracelet was on my wrist throughout cancer treatment, was used as a costume piece in my first movie, and joined me on my first trip to Europe. I loved that damn bracelet. Last fall, I left it in the bedroom of a one-night stand. I didn’t have a phone number for the guy, and despite all my best efforts, I never got it back. My friends told me there was a life lesson to extract, something about letting go and that accessories cannot really bring you luck. But it’s hard to ignore the evidence: It’s been six months since I lost that bracelet, and I still don’t have a boyfriend. Coincidence? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Last week, I was at a bar with George and Slutty Mandy, celebrating the birthday of a mutual friend. The revelry was in full swing, and everyone present had reached that point of inebriation where every exchange, even with strangers, begins with, "I just...love you...so much."
My buzz, however, was about to come to an abrupt end.

As I scanned the room for any interesting possibilities, my gaze landed on a fella standing by himself, apparently three sheets to the proverbial wind himself. In an instant, I felt stone sober. I nudged my companions.
"Topher, I just... love you..." Mandy began.
"I love you too," I said. "Now, look over there, by the stairs."
They followed my glare.
"Go for it," said George. "You could have him."
"That’s just it," I said. "I’ve had him. That’s motherfucking Bracelet Guy."
"You’re kidding me," said Mandy, getting up. "Okay, I’m settling this shit once and for all."
"No no no," I pleaded, blocking her path. "If you scare him off, I’ll never get it back."
"And then we’ll hear about that damn bracelet for the rest of our lives," said George.
"Exactly," I said. "I’ll handle this. All I need is an invite back to his place, and I can get it back."
"Wait," said Mandy. "You’ll sleep with him again just to get the bracelet?"
"I don’t have to actually sleep with him, he just has to think I will."
"And then what? You’ll escape?"
"If possible, yes."
"You know, Topher," said Mandy. "Sometimes it’s like you live a really gay episode of I Love Lucy."
"Here’s a thought," interjected George. "He might not have it anymore. What then?"
"Then I will steal his cat."
And with that, I let my hair down, picked up my drink, and crossed the room, boosted by slurred cheers of encouragement.

A week later, I’m out at my regular haunt, but without George, who’s at home, knocked flat by "a thing". It’s some sort of wretched virus, or food poisoning, or something. When you don’t have health insurance, every illness is a mystery. You just have "a thing" until you don’t anymore.
A dark-haired stranger sits down next to me. We strike up a conversation. He’s actually doing most of the talking, because I’m too busy staring at his biceps to pay close attention. This guy has the arms of a superhero. And come to think of it, he looks a little like Clark Kent. Quickly, I envision a half-dozen scenarios where he has to rescue me from peril- I’m trapped in a burning building... I’m walking through Piedmont Park, and a tree falls on me... A robot monster is destroying Midtown... When I return from my reverie, I notice he’s having trouble lighting his cigarette.
"Cheap lighter," says Superhero. "Only works half the time."
I take it from his hand and give it a try, producing a flame on the first attempt.
"How ‘bout that," he says. "You must be good luck."
"Better keep me around, then," I say.
"For my own protection," he agrees.
I look down to my wrist, at the frayed brown fabric cuff that has returned to its rightful home. Damn if it ain’t working already.

I, Claudia

If the most overused pickup line was once “What’s your sign?”, the current top contender in the Atlanta bar scene has gotta be “Where you from?”. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but pretty much nobody’s actually from here. Some gay men came to our fair city from other bustling metropolitan areas that were overflowing with arts and culture they now bemoan losing.
“The bars here suck,” whines the big city transplant. “This isn’t how things were back home.”
As I once saw on a bumper sticker on Peachtree Street, “We don’t care how you did it in New York.”
But a large portion of our gay populace came here from small towns throughout the Southeast- idyllic little hamlets with town squares, children on bicycles, bake sales, the whole shebang.
At some point, these small town boys reached a moment of decision that would determine their fate. I’m not referring to when they realized they didn’t fit in. That generally happens very early on and is confirmed incessantly over the years. I speak of the instant they realized they didn’t want to fit in. They wanted to leave.
For me, that moment arrived courtesy of our church secretary.
In my Mississippi hometown, the highlight of the year is the annual Easter pageant, “His Last Days”, presented by the Methodist church. Thousands of people from throughout the state come to see the outdoor drama, starring the entire congregation in Biblical drag. The climactic moment is Jesus ascending to Heaven in one of those cherry pickers like the phone company uses, amid a flurry of strobe lights and fog. It’s awesome.
It is, of course, the story of Jesus, but when I was growing up, the real star of the Easter pageant was Miss Ginger, the church secretary. Miss Ginger played the role of Claudia, wife of Pontius Pilate. Claudia’s a fairly minor character in the Bible, scoring one line in the Book of Matthew regarding a dream she had about Jesus. But Miss Ginger managed to take that one line and turn it into something utterly fabulous.
All of the members of the cast had costumes and makeup done by a group of volunteers from the church, except for Claudia, whose signature look was created by Judy from the Hairport.

It was like those old movies where the credits list “Joan Crawford’s gowns by Adrian”.

With supreme care, Miss Ginger would be fitted with a hairpiece, draped in gold lame and purple silk, and adorned with bangles and baubles on every available inch of her body. Her makeup was quintessential 1980s overstatement- the New Testament meets Dynasty. When the process was complete, our mild-mannered church secretary had been transformed into a glorious vision of glamour.
I would stand in the street with bated breath, waiting for her big scene. Claudia would make a grand entrance, robes sweeping, bracelets jangling, as she descended the stairs.
“Pilate,” she would command. “Do not become involved in these people’s guilt!”
Later, I would sneak into my mother’s Christmas closet and retrieve supplies. I’d stand in my bathroom mirror with silver garland on my arms, draped in the velvet tree skirt, striking an imperious pose.
“I have had a dream about this man,” I’d say with dramatic flair. “This… Jesus.”
It was amazing. Miss Ginger was this nice, conservative lady who made homemade pickles. But for three performances each Spring, she was transformed into what I would later learn was called “A diva”. This was obviously the person she was meant to be. She should be wearing a crown to the grocery store. How could she hang up this garb and go back to jumpers and sensible shoes after Easter passed?
Gazing at my reflection, a pudgy young boy covered in tinsel, I realized I couldn’t live in a place that only let people be fabulous three nights a year. I wanted to live gloriously, and make a grand entrance everywhere I go. So I came here, like so many others. And like the big city transplants, we might also look around a bar and say, “This isn’t how things were back home.” But when we say it, we mean it as a compliment.