Essays: January 2006 Archives

I am in a place far far away, a long time ago. I’m getting ready to go to Wildwood Resort, way up in the Russian River country, north of San Francisco, for a retreat of the Dick Kramer Gay Men’s Chorale. The year is 1980, twenty-six years ago. I’m a young handsome man, so sure of himself outwardly, and feeling that I have my whole adventuresome life ahead of me.

My mother is still alive. She calls to ask how I am doing. I tell her I am fine. She asks what I am doing for the weekend. I say, “Nothing really. How are you?” I was an artist at changing the subject back then. My Mom didn’t know me. Not really. Only Kent did. Other than the outburst years before at Thanksgiving dinner, my Mom had no idea that I liked men. It was never something that was talked about. I tried to come out to my family before. I wrote letters to two of my aunts and a cousin. My cousin was accepting, my aunts were not, one making me promise never to tell my Mom I am gay, because “It would kill her.” That was a nice ego booster. She made me promise, and I did. I kept my promise. And my Mom never knew Kent as her son-in-law. Peace was preserved in the family. I don’t know who lost out more, me or them.

So I tell my Mom, I will probably be going up north to Napa Valley for the weekend. I didn’t mention to her I was in a gay chorale, and that we go away to be with each other to practice and for the fellowship. Strange, my joy would have caused her such anguish.

Wildwood was a gay resort. It was isolated deep in the hills of the Russian River. Once you entered the property, there was no need to be anything, other than yourself. You were safe. There were no closets, only friends. We never talked of our families, because we were our family. We loved each other unconditionally. I miss those days. I miss the guys. I miss being around people.

I’ve never written of this. I have buried it deep in my thoughts, as though it has a sacred value. It exists only in my dreams. Only one picture has survived, along with countless obituaries I have of these wonderful men who were my family.

I am the one in the back row, right in the center. I remember this photo as though it was yesterday. We had just finished lunch. Afterwards, some of us went outside to a gazebo. The view from the gazebo looked out over the mountains. It was a great time to just enjoy each other.

Lunch was another issue. At Wildwood, all the meals are included in the price. This made good sense. Many of us went in car pools and had no car. We were also isolated up in the mountains. There was no where else to eat. But, the chefs came up with great meals, and to a very green young man like myself, a bit on the adventuresome side.

This picture is taken after lunch, and after we’ve had time to visit at the gazebo. We are being called back to rehearsal by Dick Kramer. We took a few seconds to snap this photo.

Vexila regis pro de unt fulget crucis.... I don’t know how I remember the words to Vexila Regis. We were doing a concert of sacred music for men’s choirs. It was John’s (front row, center) favorite. He loved that piece. I told him, “I won’t sing it at your funeral.” He replied, “You don’t like it?” I said, “It’s luscious and beautiful, but I’ll not be singing that day.” I teared up and he said to me, “Yes you will. You will sing for the memory of it, and be happy. Promise.” I promised. He smiled back, as though the conversation was just for fun anyway. Why think such deep morbid thoughts? It was beautiful out, we had our company together, singing this beautiful music that was very spiritual. Why be morbid? He was right. How was I do know what was going to happen? None of us did.

And after all these years, why on earth would I remember this? I woke up, and the memories were fresh again. I got out of bed and looked in my special box that I haven’t opened in years - the box that keeps my very special things. This photo was inside, along with their obituaries.

I love you guys. I miss you.

And I remember.

From a piece that I composed over a year ago, but never published. I thought it was time.

We went to see Brokeback Mountain recently. I had seen it once before, but Kent wanted to see it. So, last Sunday, I went for my second viewing of the movie. My reactions to the first viewing and the second viewing were different.

The first viewing of the film left me very sad - sad for the characters really, and their hopeless situation.

The second viewing of the file left my angry. I was angry at Ennis, one of the characters in the movie for not trying to make the love work. But, as he said in the movie, that is how people get killed. He’s right. I was almost one of those people who lived in Idaho. In the Midwest it’s very conservative and almost impossible to be yourself if you are gay, without severe consequences.

So, you learn to lie. You lie to everyone, even your family. Perhaps, especially your family. Brokeback Mountain is the story of two cowboys who met as sheep herders. Jack Twist and Ennis Del Mar are the two characters who really share a lifetime together never proclaiming their love. As Jack declares to Ennis at one point, after being together for twenty years and only seeing each other four times a year, “I can’t live on four high-altitude fucks a year!” They would meet at their secret location to be together. Afterwards, they would go back to their homes - one in Texas and one in Montana, to live their real lives where they had real marriages and fake relationships, all for the purpose of public display. What a way to live.

Here’s another way to live... my uncle Clive. He was also a sheep herder, just like Jack and Ennis in Brokeback Mountain. He would come home from time to time between work and help out around the house. My father had died and Clive was kind of like my Dad to me. He never married. He never dated. He never once introduced any of us to any women he had met. He never once let us meet any of his “friends” from his real work. He never brought them home. He never talked of them.

But I know there was someone - someone special in his life. There is a scene in the movie where, after Jack was killed, where Ennis goes to Jack’s parents home. The movie leads us to believe that Jack was savagely beaten to death with a crow bar despite the fact that his wife told another, more sanitized story. Ennis offers to take his ashes to Brokeback Mountain, as Jack had wished. It was not to be. Jack’s father insisted that Jack be buried in the family plot. Jack’s mother tells Ennis that he’s welcome to go upstairs to Jack’s room if he wished too. He accepts. While there, Ennis finds a jacket that used to belong to Ennis and inside the jacket is a shirt that belonged to Jack - the sleeves of the shirt extending into the sleeves of the jacket, as though they are joined together forever. You will have to see the movie to know the significance of this. This is the point that Ennis is overcome with regret.

My Uncle Clive died of alcohol poisoning. I believe that he killed himself. Spiritually, he died alone - with family - but his love was not there. After his death, I was there when we went through his place. My aunts wanted to distribute his things to those who might want them. He didn’t have much. He left no will. I came across letters very similar to those that Jack and Ennis would write to each other. They really said very little. They were all from the same person; a man. They were a way of arranging to get together. The letters were taken from me, and were most likely destroyed.

So I’m left wondering if my Uncle Clive was “Jack”, or was he “Ennis”? I guess I’m mad about it because of all the crap we seem to have to go through in the United States; gay bashing, death, and the denial of our relationships in civil law. In this great and free country of ours, there were some of us who felt we had to deny any form of passion, love, or any form of a relationship at all. This still happens today, and that is still just fine with many Americans.

No one should be put through a lifetime of that. That was my Uncle Clive.