April 29, 2009

Sins of Omission

If you’d like to recreate the experience of visiting the Midwest, stand in the middle of a football field and turn on a wind machine. Productions of “Oklahoma” should include cowboy hats flying off heads and dancers being knocked on their asses by malicious tumbleweeds. En route to a post-performance party in Kansas, I note turbulent waves suitable for surfing in a hotel swimming pool.
Despite the bracing winds, the area does have its charms. Everyone I’ve met in Kansas is downright cheerful. And not that fakey Southern "Bless-Your-Heart" cheerful. It’s a genuine placid contentment I can’t help but envy.
My costar Jef and I arrive as the guests of honor in a lovely home thematically dedicated to rabbits. Seriously. They’re everywhere. Cloth, ceramic, wooden, any material you can imagine. My mother does this with roosters, so I’m not gonna judge. We are feted and fed, enjoying the rare chance to interact with the folks who paid to see us onstage.
“Alrighty,” says our hostess. “Which one of you is getting married?”
My biography in the show’s program mentions I’ll be getting hitched when I’m done with the tour. I include this info because I’m very proud of it, and as an unexpected bonus, mentioning weddings makes most of the women in the audience like me before the show even starts. Straight baby boomer women love weddings.
“That’s me,” I say. “I’m very excited. I like your concrete rabbit table. Did you paint it yourself?”
“Tell us all about the wedding! Where is it?”
“Coast of Massachusetts.”
“Is that where she’s from?” asks another woman, joining us.
“Both from Mississippi,” I say, artfully dodging a pronoun. A crowd is forming. They all start peppering me with questions about my intended bride, her dress, if she’s driving me crazy with all this wedding nonsense…

I maneuver around every awkward question with evasive dexterity Anderson Cooper and Queen Latifah would envy.

I never lie to these people, not once. I do, however, end up with a few odd sentence constructs, like when I’m asked if my fiancée is in theatre as well, and I say, “No. Retail manager.” I sound like Captain Caveman.

When a woman asks what the bride’s name is, I take a long sip of my soda and admire another rabbit until I can take the next question.
Back at the hotel, my sense of accomplishment begins to fade. I confess to Jef that the entire exchange left me feeling deceptive.
“Yeah, no offense, but there’s no way I would’ve done what you did tonight,” he says.
“Well, you wouldn’t ever have to,” I snap. “If you and Lucy ever get married no one’s likely to fucking hate you for it.”
“Whoa. I don’t think anyone in there would’ve hated you, Topher.”
“Really? The gay marriage ban passed in Kansas with seventy percent of the vote. Seventy Fucking Percent. Statistically, a good number of those party guests don’t believe I have the right to get married. And no matter what moral code those nice people or Miss California or whoever wants to wrap that up in, it is still a kind of hate.”
“Then why didn’t you just change the subject?”
“Because I didn’t wanna be some fag shooting the shit about bunnies with bigots! I’ve never had the chance to just talk about the wedding and get marital advice from strangers, and I thought it would be nice to feel normal for once.”

"Well, was it nice?"

"No, Jef. I felt like a fraud."
It’s exhausting feeling like I have to be an activist every time I leave the house. I didn’t want to go to all the effort of selling them on the validity of my life with Preppy. And yet when I decided to remain silent, I ended up feeling like a sleazebag because I never gave them the chance to hear the truth. Maybe the reason a lot of Kansans voted against equality is because they hadn’t met and liked anyone who was personally affected by it. If I’d told them the reason we’re having a destination wedding is because we have to travel to someplace legal, it’s possible I could have changed someone’s mind.
The day I decided to live my life openly and honestly, I accepted the responsibility of defending it. Sometimes that means standing on the steps of the Capitol, and sometimes that means having the balls to speak up in a rabbit-filled Kansas living room. Next time, I will. My life is worth talking about.