For the magazine's 10th anniversary issue, the editor of DAVID ATLANTA asked all of us to reflect upon where we were in 1998. This was my contribution.
My sister Shannon inherited my father’s ability to harness the power of the sun, producing a flawless golden tan that would last well into October. I, on the other hand, received the Scotch-Irish genetic makeup of my mother and her sisters- skin as pale as the belly of a frog which can redden to a third-degree sunburn if I have to stand in line too long at the ATM. As a child, I was always struck by the unfairness of it all- we’d go to the pool at the country club, and my sister would lounge about browning to perfection, while I bobbed in the pool slathered in SPF 50, a t-shirt stretched over my ample belly. Life was so unfair.In 1998, I visited my Aunt Merry Ellen, and was greeted at the door not by a fellow pale-face, but by a russet-toned beauty that looked like she’d just spent a week in Gulf Shores. I was flabbergasted, and she couldn’t have been more pleased.
“It’s fake,” she said with pride. “They’ve got a new tanning booth over at Shear Perfection. You just step inside in your underwear, and it sprays the tan right on ya! Took me five minutes and now I’m gorgeous.”
I couldn’t argue with this assessment. Sure, if you examined it closely you’d notice the streaks on her neck and the orange fingernails, but from six feet away the impact was remarkable.
She booked me an appointment for that afternoon.
If you’d come to Jack & Jill’s, Jackson, Mississippi’s one and only gay bar in 1998, you would have found me there sporting my new look- bleached blonde hair, goatee and eyebrows penciled brown, and skin sprayed the color of an overripe carrot. I took to piercing anything that would support a steel stud, and amassed an impressive collection of YMLA stretch tank tops and wide-leg jeans. I’d found an oasis in a cultural Gobi where I could finally be myself, and promptly set about changing everything about me. I’d buy copies of OUT Magazine at Books-a-Million and try to emulate the fashion spreads. I was a divine style experiment, the entire decade of 90’s gay fashion piled onto one person.
In that persona I remained for the better part of a year- I’d come home from work, feed my incontinent Siamese cat, squeeze into one of my flammable shirts, and hit the bar until closing. By my eighteenth birthday, I was sleeping with the manager and drinking for free. It felt like an endless party, and in many ways it was. Because there was only one bar in town, we represented every rest stop on the QLGBTI highway, and formed a small community of revelers. All of us were filled with the optimism and possibility of the era- the first time a president had acknowledged the contributions of gay Americans to the national conversation, the first time the star of a TV series had come out while their show was still on the air, the hope that this visibility would naturally segue into a cultural viability. It was cause for celebration, and we sure as hell did.
But things were about to change.
We’d asked America to acknowledge us, and when they did, our increased visibility led to increased scrutiny. Those who once politely ignored us now looked directly at us, saying, “What is it you people want?” We were forced to define that. We wanted to serve openly in the armed forces. We wanted to be protected from discrimination in housing and the workplace. We wanted our relationships to be validated, and to raise families if we desired to do so. We wanted to stand equal as American citizens. Basically, we wanted to live our lives, thank you very much for asking. And in declaring this, our “gay agenda”, the opposition became fierce and organized. Progressive politics were shoved aside by a new faux cowboy president who believed that belittling, bullying, and demonizing us would make us go back into hiding.
Eventually the maintenance on those platinum locks grew tiresome, and I began to note that I looked a little, well, orange. My hair returned to auburn and my face grew pale again. I gave my vinyl pants to a grateful drag queen. I moved away, got a real job. But the regulars in that little bar with whom I drank, talked, danced, and occasionally got naked made me understand that my sexuality was not something to be ashamed of, it was actually pretty fun. And as the national debate grew increasingly personal and perverse, they were the solid foundation of community that reminded me of why gay is good.
Ten years later we’re in a political climate placing us in a fight for legitimacy. That means holding politicians accountable to the campaign promises that won our votes, and maintaining a community that isn’t broken down by infighting. The power to be a formidable force lies before us, waiting for us to grab it with our voices, our votes, and our refusal to be stereotyped or pushed into the background. Evangelical churches are organizing vans to take people to the polls on Election Day. Why not get bars do the same thing with party buses? The key to winning the culture war might lie in our roots, and for many of us that was the gay bar that first felt like home. Today’s eighteen year-old gay boys deserve to have the optimism and support that I experienced ten years ago. Hell, I guess I still want that for myself, too.
If you’d come to Jack & Jill’s, Jackson, Mississippi’s one and only gay bar in 1998, you would have found me there sporting my new look- bleached blonde hair, goatee and eyebrows penciled brown, and skin sprayed the color of an overripe carrot. I took to piercing anything that would support a steel stud, and amassed an impressive collection of YMLA stretch tank tops and wide-leg jeans. I’d found an oasis in a cultural Gobi where I could finally be myself, and promptly set about changing everything about me. I’d buy copies of OUT Magazine at Books-a-Million and try to emulate the fashion spreads. I was a divine style experiment, the entire decade of 90’s gay fashion piled onto one person.
In that persona I remained for the better part of a year- I’d come home from work, feed my incontinent Siamese cat, squeeze into one of my flammable shirts, and hit the bar until closing. By my eighteenth birthday, I was sleeping with the manager and drinking for free. It felt like an endless party, and in many ways it was. Because there was only one bar in town, we represented every rest stop on the QLGBTI highway, and formed a small community of revelers. All of us were filled with the optimism and possibility of the era- the first time a president had acknowledged the contributions of gay Americans to the national conversation, the first time the star of a TV series had come out while their show was still on the air, the hope that this visibility would naturally segue into a cultural viability. It was cause for celebration, and we sure as hell did.
But things were about to change.
We’d asked America to acknowledge us, and when they did, our increased visibility led to increased scrutiny. Those who once politely ignored us now looked directly at us, saying, “What is it you people want?” We were forced to define that. We wanted to serve openly in the armed forces. We wanted to be protected from discrimination in housing and the workplace. We wanted our relationships to be validated, and to raise families if we desired to do so. We wanted to stand equal as American citizens. Basically, we wanted to live our lives, thank you very much for asking. And in declaring this, our “gay agenda”, the opposition became fierce and organized. Progressive politics were shoved aside by a new faux cowboy president who believed that belittling, bullying, and demonizing us would make us go back into hiding.
Eventually the maintenance on those platinum locks grew tiresome, and I began to note that I looked a little, well, orange. My hair returned to auburn and my face grew pale again. I gave my vinyl pants to a grateful drag queen. I moved away, got a real job. But the regulars in that little bar with whom I drank, talked, danced, and occasionally got naked made me understand that my sexuality was not something to be ashamed of, it was actually pretty fun. And as the national debate grew increasingly personal and perverse, they were the solid foundation of community that reminded me of why gay is good.
Ten years later we’re in a political climate placing us in a fight for legitimacy. That means holding politicians accountable to the campaign promises that won our votes, and maintaining a community that isn’t broken down by infighting. The power to be a formidable force lies before us, waiting for us to grab it with our voices, our votes, and our refusal to be stereotyped or pushed into the background. Evangelical churches are organizing vans to take people to the polls on Election Day. Why not get bars do the same thing with party buses? The key to winning the culture war might lie in our roots, and for many of us that was the gay bar that first felt like home. Today’s eighteen year-old gay boys deserve to have the optimism and support that I experienced ten years ago. Hell, I guess I still want that for myself, too.
Then the party can resume, because we’ll really have reason to celebrate.
