Over the years I’ve had several friends who are gay. One I'd known since we were both toddlers and his parents ended up divorcing over their son’s sexuality. Another guy I thought I knew well in college didn't come out of the closet until after his elderly mother died. By then he was in his sixties and his coming out was an ‘aha moment’ that made pieces of my own life fall into place. We had dated for several years and while we talked about getting married, I’m grateful that we didn’t. I can’t imagine the pain a woman goes through when she thinks her closeted spouse is rejecting her in the bedroom and she has no clue why.
And then there was my work friend and ski buddy in the '60s who agonized over telling his military-career father that he is gay. I'm not sure if he ever did. He moved out of town to put distance between him and his family and we lost track of each other. These three guys are the defining factors in why I fully support working towards a world where sexual orientation is no longer a “dirty little secret.” Secrets hurt both the teller and the ones being sheltered from the truth. Live and let live, that’s my motto.
Sidebar here: I thought ‘live and let live’ was a proverb based on Bible scripture but Google corrected my misconception. The phrase is a Dutch proverb and it’s earliest appearance in print was in a 1622. “The core idea of tolerance and peaceful coexistence is central to its meaning” and that’s something our country would do good to resume working toward. (Rant off.)
Back on topic: Another related event involving a gay acquaintance happened in the same time frame as when I met my husband. I joined a women’s bowling league on the advice from newspaper columnist Ann Landers. I had sent her a letter bemoaning the fact that I was 27 and still wasn’t married. Blah, blah, blah. Apparently, it wasn’t an unusual problem because I got a form letter back telling me to not sit at home waiting, get out and do things I like doing and I’d meet someone. I leaned into that advice as if my life depended on it. I joined clubs and gyms and took night classes. The only thing I didn’t try is church.
It did work—it’s how I started dating Don—but not before I accidentally went on a date with a gay woman. She knew we were on a date. Naive me, didn’t. I figured it out the next league bowling night when afterward I went to the attached bar with my future husband, who I’d met the week before. She came in, sat down next to me and put her hand on my thigh possessively. I removed it. That was repeated a few times before she said words to the effect that she thought I liked her. “I do, but not like that!” I replied. To this day, I don’t know what gave her the wrong impression—I was the most boy-crazy person I knew. That “date” we were on? I thought we were two lioness out for an evening of making ourselves available for the King of the Jungle to find us.
Where is all this going? I just went on my second gay date. Not really. It wasn’t a date but I did go to an off Broadway play with two gay ladies. I don’t know whether to call it a stroke of luck, a happy accident or a $209 fluke or something else. Here’s how it happened. I play Mahjong with one of them and she mentioned that she and her partner had tickets to see Water for Elephants and I expressed how much I loved the book and the movie. Both are on my list of top favorites. “How are they going do a story that features an elephant?” I asked. “She’s a major character in the story.” “Puppets,” she replied.
The next morning, I got phone call from Ms. Gay Friend and her partner. A woman they were going to see the play with that night couldn’t go and she was offering me the ticket for free. I hemmed and hawed, listing every excuse I could think of to talk myself out of going. Not because of who I’d be going with but because I was having a bit of IBS at the time and I knew those seats in the theater are in long rows of 30 to 40 seats and their bathrooms not the easiest to find.
I’m also not a spur of the moment person but no matter what excuse I came up with, Ms Gay and her partner came up with a solution or answer I couldn’t refute. Finally I caved, promised I’d take an anti-diarrhea pill and two 500 mg of Tylenol and all would be fine. They promised to take good care of me. Said they wouldn’t leave me alone to have a panic attack—which, the older I get, I’m more prone to having in new situations. Not serious panic attacks, mind you—it was just a tiny stretch of the truth I used to wiggle out of going. But once I said it, I was locked into that little gray lie.
If you’ve seen Water for Elephants on stage, you already know that the large cast was full of feats of acrobatics, puppetry and cirque soleil style action. There was so much going on you didn’t know where to look first. I LOVED it! I’m not sure if a person who didn’t already know the storyline would be able to follow it. That part was a little sketchy, I thought, but the 20-something girls sitting next to me had not read the book nor seen the movie and one of them said she liked the production better than she thought she would. She, by the way, was on a very obvious gay date—but unlike me fifty years ago, she knew it.
I recently came across a quote by an American photographer, Sally Mann, that nailed what I feel about storytelling. “The thing that makes writing so difficult is you don't have the element of serendipity. At least with a photograph, you can set up the camera, and something might happen. You might be a lousy photographer, but you can get a good picture if you just take enough of them.”
And sometimes, life hands you a story so full of serendipity, all you have to do is write it down. ©
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