Label Maker

It is stunning to me that this far into my relationship with Preppy, we’re still introducing each other to significant people in our lives. A few nights ago we met up with old friends of his from out of town to grab a few beers and maybe play some pool. Everyone else was already in a booth when we arrived. After the girls squealed and the guys gave Preppy firm handshakes, he introduced me.
“Y’all, this is my fiancée.”
This was followed by more squeals and handshakes, but my head was already elsewhere entirely. A few months ago, I proposed, gave him a ring, he said yes. That means I’m a fiancée. Shit. I didn’t change his label. I’ve still been calling him my “boyfriend”, which sounds like we’re going to prom together, not like we have a mortgage and are currently planning a wedding.
Over the next few days I tried to use the new label, but every time it sounded like I was trying to awkwardly drop a foreign expression into my speech, like when Madonna says she and her family were “On holiday” instead of “On vacation”, like any other woman from freakin’ Michigan would say.
I’m a very pro-label person. I know that’s not a popular standpoint, because labels box you in and all that stuff. My buddy Scott, the transgendered performance artist, has built an entire career writing on the subject of how you can’t label him. I tried to be open-minded about that, but in the end I’ve just labeled him “Scott, the transgendered performance artist who doesn’t like labels.” He has become defined by his resistance to definition. That’s heavy stuff.
Preppy and I have been trying out churches, to see if we can find a good fit for both of us. I fell in love with an Episcopal parish that was very polished and ornate. That sense of formality happened to be what I liked about it. I don’t want a just-folks minister who tells everyone to “Just call me Debbie.” When it comes to who has Jesus on speed dial if I need some answers, I’d prefer someone I call Reverend or Preacher over Debbie. It just sounds wrong to me, like when I hear a nine year-old call his parents by their first names. If I’d ever tried calling my father “Cleve” when I was a kid, there would have been dire consequences. Authority figures have labels, like “Dad”, or “Senator”, or “Mistress of Pain”, as a sign of respect and a nod to tradition. And darn it, I think it really helps clear things up for people if you can give them a few keywords to associate with you.
For example, I label myself as “a writer”. That lets you know I spend a lot of time in a room by myself transcribing imaginary voices, that I probably smoke and/or drink lots of coffee, that I’m a little narcissistic, and I have no money and bad credit.

All of these things are true.

I am also “gay”, which is different from saying “queer”. I called myself “queer” when I had sex with women too. Eventually I retired from that, so I updated the label. I recently acquired a car and had to stop calling myself “a pedestrian”, which marked a huge change in my life, more significant in my mind than giving up that whole sleeping-with-ladies thing, because I actually miss being a pedestrian. The ladies not so much.
And now, another label is updated. I’m a fiancée, which doesn’t quite roll of the tongue because it’s this totally unprecedented event in my life. As we set a budget, and begin making plans about locations and attendants (did I mention my wedding is going to be fucking huge, or did you already guess that?), the label begins to feel more real. It’s very likely I’ll get used to it just in time to switch again and start calling him my “husband”. And when people hear that label, it’ll tell them something very specific about the two of us and our life together, and I like that. Just like “writer”, or “gay”, or “Southern”, it’s not really a label. It’s a TITLE- proof of who I am, and what I demand the world recognize.

Like a Good Neighbor

“You’ll never guess what happened,” says my mother on the phone. “You know that big old scary house out off Highway 80 in Edwards? Someone bought it.”
“Who? The Munsters? Gomez and Morticia Addams?”
“Even better,” she says, delighted. “We got gays!”
Edwards, Mississippi is the nearest “town”, and I’m using that term loosely, to the little lakeside retreat where my parents now reside. It’s got around a thousand people, so statistically they’ve probably had a few gays silently peppering their Podunk for a while. But these gays are different. They’re out and proud, they’re from New Orleans, and they’re apparently interested in restoring stately old homes in the middle of nowhere.
“Two of the girls from church saw them at the Stop-and-Shop the other day. One of them’s older, looks American, the other one’s younger. He’s Spanish or possibly a Latin person, and he wears those tight t-shirts like your friend George. Why do they do that? It can’t be comfortable.”
“Did the church ladies actually speak to them?”
“Well, no. The girls didn’t want to bother them. We all assume the gays are just going to keep to themselves.”
“Now, Mama. If it were any other new couple in town, you’d be over there with a housewarming gift before they signed the closing papers.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she says. “But I’ve never visited any gay people outside the family. You know, you and Preppy, or one of your cousins.”
“Come on, don’t you wanna be able to say you were the first one to meet them? And at the very least you can find out their names and stop calling them ‘The Gays’, which is really tacky.”
“Well, I could do a little basket. I have some pear honey put away, and there’s homemade bread in the freezer…”
Preppy and I have lived in our house since November, and nobody’s stopped by with a freakin’ bread basket. When my next door neighbor had a tree cut down in her back yard last month, Preppy and I did stand on the back deck and watch. Preppy also gave her a nod of greeting, which is something. The small-town boy in me cries out for neighborly interactions- borrowing of cups of sugar or various forms of yard-related equipment, or checking in on household pets while someone’s visiting their sick aunt in Delaware. My parents helped their next door neighbors capture fifty or so feral housecats which had taken up residence in the neighbors’ renovation-in-progress. My sister’s neighbors brought over heavy machinery to get her yard ready for a vegetable garden.

I want stories like that.
But after a decade of urban living, I’m just at a complete loss on how to get that ball rolling in the suburbs. I briefly consider the possibility of putting together my own gift basket and knocking on doors, but come on, y’all. That’s REALLY gay. I mean, like Clay Aiken-level gayness. I just don’t know if I can muster that kind of energy. I remember once when I was living in Midtown all the neighbors came out when a house caught on fire, and we all introduced ourselves. Someone showed up with beer, and it was a pleasant evening.

But I think my boyfriend would frown upon me resorting to arson just to get a block party started.
So basically, barring some sort of unifying disaster, I’ve gotta wait for a motivated lady to come knocking. I wish there were some way to get the word out to straights that it’s better for them to make the first move.
The next day, Mama calls me again.
“Well, get THIS,” she says. “Rodrigo, the one in the tight t-shirts, is an actor and model, though I don’t know what in the world he plans on doing with that in Edwards. Our entertainment industry isn’t exactly thriving, but I did tell him about the community theatre in Clinton. And they couldn’t have been sweeter, said they’d wanted to meet the neighbors but couldn’t decide how to approach it. And the other one, Frank, is a famous landscape architect. He designed Ann Rice’s private garden, and he’s coming over to look at our yard! I’m so EXCITED!”
“Well,” I say. “That sounds downright neighborly.”

This Is Woman's Work

We’ve seen Obama's “Hope for a brighter tomorrow” campaign before. Our very own Jimmy Carter was another idealistic Democrat who ran a campaign based on optimism and dreams for America’s future. Carter’s election was part of America’s recovery from Watergate- a complete changing of the guard in Washington. Carter didn’t play those political games. He was a plain-spoken peanut-lovin’ God-fearin’ sweet Southern gent who was gonna shake things up.
It didn’t work out that way. Those political games continued to be played, only he wasn’t qualified to participate. They handed him his ass and he was out of office in four years.
Idealism is all well and good, but we need someone who can do the damn job. I mean come on y’all, anyone who’s ever had fumbling, awkward sex with a virgin will tell you: experience does matter.
This year, we have the option of an experienced candidate: Senator Hillary Clinton.
Hillary has been stigmatized for her years of public service as First Lady. The comparison has been made that by Hillary’s standards, Laura Bush would be ready to lead our country on Day One. Well, no. Hillary used her position to further public policy, including broadening our reach internationally and her attempts to revolutionize the American health care industry. Laura has spent eight years sneaking Parliament Lights in the Rose Garden and perfecting an expression of glazed compliance Pat Nixon would have envied.
Hillary’s not perfect. No politician is. Hell, no person is. But she’s an advocate for us, and for so many other Americans who have spent the last eight years being completely ignored.
And then there’s Barack.
In one of the first Democratic debates, back when there were still like sixty people onstage vying for the nomination, the moderator brought up the subject of AIDS. Senator Joe Biden stressed the importance of everyone being tested, as both he and Barack Obama had done. Obama jumped in, clarifying that he had been tested for HIV with his wife, not with Senator Biden. Everyone onstage had a good chuckle at this, except for Hillary, whose face seemed to mirror my primary thought: “Was that really necessary, dickwad?” I mean, was there an actual risk of anyone thinking Barack and Joe had a little something kickin’ on the DL? Is it not okay for two straight guys to get tested together?
Oh, I get it. He was kidding. One of those little “gay panic” jokes which give people permission to laugh at us. I remember those from junior high. They’re an expression of fear and ignorance. Ha fucking ha.
Hillary Clinton has been the punch line of an endless number of dyke jokes over the years, and yet she doesn’t treat them as insults. Childish and pointless, but not hurtful. She still marches in our parades and defends our community. Plus, her fundraisers don’t include entertainment by a gospel singer who preaches about God delivering him from the “curse” of homosexuality, unlike Senator Obama’s tacit approval of Donnie McClurkin.
Like many of the straight people in her generation, Hillary’s still learning about us, and acknowledging mistakes of the past. Based on analysis from military advisors, her husband enacted the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy in our armed forces during his administration. The result was a disaster, and Senator Clinton is the first to admit it. It is far past time to honor the patriotism and sacrifice of gays and lesbians serving our country.

As Clinton herself said, “Soldiers need to shoot straight, not be straight.”
I don’t think Obama’s The Great Satan. I think he genuinely loves this country and has a lot of good ideas. But I fear that’s all they’ll ever be. We need a woman of action, with proof of her dedication.
Hillary fought to extend the Victims Compensation Fund to the partners of those who died in 9/11, an unprecedented act recognizing the lives we lead together have value. She piloted the mission to stop Republicans from writing discrimination into the Constitution. She intends to grant full federal benefits to same-sex couples (while leaving marriage laws up to individual states), and will assure nothing stands in the way of us adopting children in need.
She respects us. She represents us. And if all goes well, she’s got my vote.

Match Game

I’m sitting at my desk, on the phone with my sister Shannon.

We’re both reading personal ads on the internet.
“Ooh! This one sounds perfect,” says Shannon. “Stephanie likes NPR, Red Stripe, and Gators games.”
“The Gators are football, right?”
“Yes, you big mo, Gators are football. I like Stephanie. Go look at her picture.”
I click on Stephanie’s picture. She has 80s mall bangs, like Joan Cusack in Working Girl.
“Shannon, I refuse to consider any woman whose bangs require a round brush and a half hour of Aqua Net application. Just on principle.”
“I think you’re being too picky.”
“I liked Monica better,” I say. “She’s a single mother. That means lots of dates at her house. And Stephanie doesn’t smoke. Nelson smokes.”
“Wait, let me go back and see if anyone responded to our flirt messages.”
My cousin Nelson, who lives with my boyfriend Preppy and me, has been treading water in the dating pool for the last few months. I’m not sure what happens when he goes to a bar by himself, but lemme tell ya what doesn’t happen: fucking. Preppy and I figured that since all of our gay friends have at least one straight girl on speed dial, we’d have Nelson paired off with a hot chick in no time, but no such luck. So Nelson’s been spending a lot of time at home going stir-crazy, asking Preppy what he’s doing every thirty-five seconds and preparing elaborate sushi dinners at nine in the morning.
It’s not his fault. He went to an all-boy’s school, which my buddy Zack says sounds just heavenly, but did little to improve his game with the ladies. He’s a nice guy who happens to struggle with the initial approach.
So, inspired by my Aunt Trish’s recent foray into online dating, Shannon and I have opened a personal ad in our cousin Nelson’s name. I know I’ve said I’m against matchmaking, but the situation called for desperate measures. We answered the questionnaire as honestly as possible, determining how Nelson would describe himself, and then improving that statement ever-so-slightly. I also edited his profile pic in Adobe Photoshop. Nothing on the Mariah Carey scale, I just fixed the lighting a bit and gave him a tan.
A few nights later, I report our efforts while I’m out having drinks with the boys.
“Hi, my name is Topher,” says my buddy George. “And I have serious control issues.”
“I do not! I’m trying to help him meet people! Preppy will tell you, Nelson needs to get out more.”
“It’s true, he does,” says Preppy. “But not if he’s gonna be hanging out with chain-smoking single mothers from E-Harmony just so we can have a night alone. And what will these girls do when they find out all the great e-mails they’ve been getting are really from you and your sister?”
“We’ll work it out. It’ll be like Cyrano.”
“Darling,” George concludes. “You can’t assign a plotline to Nelson’s life.”
“Damn it George, I’m not assigning a plotline. I’m just introducing new characters.”
Back at the house, as I inspect the desperately eager faces of the girls who’ve responded to our carefully-constructed personal ad, I begin to feel a small pang of guilt. Maybe Nelson should be getting a girl on his own, even if it takes a little longer and I’m apprehensive about the results. Plus, if I remember correctly, both of the guys in Cyrano wound up dead at the end of the story, and that’s not promising.
Unless…
What if I found him a girl, and TOLD her that we’d created a fake profile for him? And then I could introduce her to him as some friend of mine, whom I’ve never mentioned before for a reason I can’t determine just yet.
“Dear Stephanie,” I write. “I know this will sound strange, but I’m not the man whose picture is posted on this profile. I’m his cousin. But you seemed really nice…”