Postcard from New York: “I Do”

In the final act of Oscar Wilde’s play ”The Importance of Being Earnest,” Lady Bracknell describes her nephew Algernon as being  ”an extremely, I may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man.”

Young, I am not.  Eligible is questionable.  But ostentatiously unattached — I lay claim to that distinction; I am perpetually, some might say obstinately, single.  So much so, that the last time I was remotely “attached” at all, it was indeed remote.  For a little over a year, I maintained a long distance relationship with a young man who lived in…  Shanghai.

“Of course,” my friends said at the time, “when you finally get a boyfriend, he would have to live in Shanghai.”  After having seen every tourist site there was to see in Shanghai over several week-long visits, the affair was over, somewhat to my relief, though I don’t regret the impetuousness of it for a minute.

So it may seem incongruous that I would be thrilled at the passage of legislation this past Friday in New York State allowing same-sex marriage.  I am the least likely person I know to ever, ever want to be married.  And yet, for more than one reason, I embrace the issue enthusiastically and celebrate its favorable resolution in my home state.

For starters, I love the issue for how it demonstrates discrimination, pure and simple.  There was a position publicly expressed by many that said, “I’m willing to grant gays all the legal and financial accommodations and judicial recognition of marriage through the institution of a civil union… but ”marriage” is a status reserved for a man and a woman.”

However you justify that position — on moral or religious grounds or just the way life is– you’re giving one group an entitlement that you deny to another.  That’s the definition of discrimination.

But more importantly to me, it’s the particular nature of the discrimination around the marriage equality issue that appeals to me, because it strikes at the very heart of what it is to be gay.

When I first went to gay pride marches in New York in the late ’70s, the tone of those events was strident and defiant -  we were demanding equal rights and an end to discrimination in housing and employment.  The Stonewall Riots of 1969 that were the iconic launch of the gay rights movement were not that far behind us.  Coming out was the great act of personal activism.

Then in the ’80s, with the advent of the AIDS epidemic, the marches had a desperate edge to them.  “SILENCE = DEATH” was the slogan; a pink triangle — the badge for homosexuals in the Nazi death camps — on a background of black, the symbol.  We were fighting for survival.

But sorrow and pathos were the prevailing emotions.  I recall one year, standing in the middle of Fifth Avenue, as hundreds of thousands of people the length of the parade route together observed a moment of silence to remember those who had died.  All that could be heard was wind whistling through the canyons of Manhattan.

AIDS prevention and treatment, at least in the developed world, gradually lessened the urgency and the political activism surrounding the disease.  The attention shifted to the issue of gays in the military and the absurd “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy that had been adopted in 1993.

Somewhere in there, I stopped going to pride parades.  I suppose I had a bit of a ”been there, done that” attitude about them.  And the issue of gays in the military — while always a bristling example of homophobia — was not one of personal salience; I wasn’t itching to get to Afghanistan in an armored personnel carrier.

But then came marriage equality.

Several years ago, I went to a double-bill screening of two documentaries at the annual gay film festival.  The first was about the mayor of the tiny village of New Paltz, New York — a 26-year old straight man named Jason West — who solemnized the marriages of 25 same-sex couples at the New Paltz Village Hall on February 27, 2004.  The second was about another young mayor — this one of a tiny village in Spain where same-sex marriage was already legal — performing same-sex marriages in his village.  What was not apparent at the beginning of the film, was that he himself was gay.  And at the end of the film, he was married to his boyfriend who lived in another village, in a ceremony attended by family and friends.

There is nothing unusual about people crying at weddings; declarations of love are deeply touching.  I’ve wiped tears from my eyes at many weddings.  But what struck me in both these films were the number of couples not just crying, but actually sobbing as they said their vows or heard their marriages proclaimed.

The young Spanish mayor in particular — who was shown throughout the film performing ceremony after ceremony for other same-sex couples – was convulsed with sobs as he walked down the aisle hand-in-hand with his soon-to-be husband.  I wept in my seat.  And I realized then why I loved the issue of marriage equality, despite my having no interest in ever getting married myself — because it is about love.

No one cries at a wedding because they now can share their partner’s medical benefits or make decisions about their healthcare, should their partner fall ill.  No one cries because they can now inherit or continue to live in their house when their partner dies.  No one cries because they can now file their taxes jointly.

We cry at weddings because our love — that deeply personal butterfly that has unfolded its wings inside us and which flutters happily toward someone else to be held in their hands; that private, vulnerable thing – has been made public; has been validated, honored and celebrated.

And if the very nature of our love is invalidated every day of our lives,  when publicly we finally can declare it and have it validated… we sob.

Even if I’ve never been married and, what’s more, am perpetually single — it doesn’t mean I’ve never been in love.  I have.  More than once.  And I cherish the memories of each of those loves.

Until I recently redecorated my bedroom,  I had a slim volume of poetry on the bottom shelf of a night table next to my bed.  One poem in the volume, entitled “I Love You,” is highlighted in yellow.  The book was sent to me by my first love, a college friend, almost 30 years after our brief, mutual adoration, which ended rather badly.   He subsequently married and fathered two children.  This is an excerpt from an email he sent me in 2001:

“You were my first love. You are forever entangled in the mystery of my fantasies and dreams. I want you to know that. So powerfully that I cannot begin to describe. In dreams I kissed your eyes, I felt your lips. I wish…that I had not been so confused, so scared. I am truly sorry I ever hurt you.

I just did not know how to love you.”

Homosexuality has been and still is — even in many places in the United States — illegal.  I guess that’s because you can legislate against sexual acts, against the behaviors of sex.  But you cannot legislate against love; only against the public and legal validation of it.

Using the word ”homosexual” to define myself as the way that I’m different from the majority of people actually seems to miss the real point.  Even common phrases like “I don’t care who you sleep with” or “it doesn’t matter who you share your bed with” are using euphemisms for the sexual act.

Perhaps I do myself a disservice by allowing myself to be labeled a “homosexual.”  The word reduces me to an animal constantly in rut, humping my own gender.

I think we should return to an older name for homosexuality — “the Love that dare not speak its name.”  The phrase is actually a line from the poem Two Loves by Lord Alfred Douglas, who was Oscar Wilde’s lover.   And perhaps I’ll start referring to myself as “homo-amorous.”

Because when all the rights to this and that are lined up end-to-end, isn’t there one that stands in front of them all — the right to love in the way that’s natural to me and to have that love recognized and validated?

This weekend, in New York State, the Love that dare not speak its name has spoken up.  And it said, “I do.”

PS: For those who like a love song to accompany something about love, here’s one of my favorites.  Terrific, despite the cheesey ’80s video.

Postcard from New York: Reclamation

There is always something incredibly wonderful about that first perfect weekend in Spring.  If the weather is cooperative and actually gives you one at the appropriate time.  New York is notorious for nasty weather in April — rainy days and temperatures in the 40s.  I always lower my expectations by telling myself, “Wait until May.  May will be lovely.”  

But occasionally the weather gods smile on you.  And this first weekend in April had a perfect forecast — mostly sunny with a high in the 60s.  I was determined to get outdoors for some part of at least one of the weekend days to augment my Mexico tan, which had started to fade and peel like the paint in an abandoned building.  

I had a second motivation.  My sister and I are doing another hiking vacation in Scotland this summer, and while I’ve been training at the gym on the inclined treadmill since January, there’s nothing quite like just getting out and walking for hours in your hiking boots.  Even if it is on flat Manhattan concrete.  

I left the house a little after noon, properly equipped: a quick-dry, wicking T-shirt and shorts; my hiking boots; a Camelback sippy-bottle of ice water in a Peruvian water-bottle sling I’d bought at Machu Picchu; some cash  and debit and credit cards (you never know); a public transportation Metrocard, in case I wore myself out and couldn’t walk home; aviator Raybans on a neckband; a small Canon Powershot camera, strapped to my belt; and, of course, my iPhone with earphones set on a  Genius playlist based on the Dixie Chicks’ cover of Landslide.  (We’re a little country, a little bit rock-n-roll.)  I’m sure I looked completely ridiculous for a Saturday afternoon in Manhattan.  But at this point in my life, I’m past caring about such things.  I just do what I gotta do.  

It’s a hop, skip and a jump from my apartment at 16th and 5th to one end of the High Line at 20th and 10th.  Much has been written about the High Line and by much better-informed critics of urban planning and architecture than I could claim to be.  But I can say without any hesitation that the High Line is  the greatest example of urban reclamation I’ve ever seen anywhere in the many cities I’ve visited around the world.  And I’m proud that it’s in my hometown of New York.   

The High Line was an elevated freight railroad, built on New York’s far west side in the 1930s in response to the high number of accidents and deaths resulting from street-level railroad crossings.  It ran for about 13 miles from 34th Street in midtown down to Spring Street in SOHO, a downtown neighborhood of factories and warehouses (not the trendy shopping and residential loft district it is today).  Rail traffic began dropping in the ’50s as interstate trucking took over the shipping industry.  The last train to run on the High Line came through in 1980 to the meatpacking district in the West Village with three carloads of frozen Thanksgiving turkeys.   

Abandoned and sprouting grasses and wildflowers between its rusting rails, it was saved from demolition by a grassroots effort, and became a public park, run in cooperation by the City and a private foundation.  It opened last year, after several years of design, rebuilding and landscaping.  

Sitting at about the 3rd or 4th-story level, it provides an open-air view of the surrounding neighborhoods and of the city itself.  A view you realize you’ve never had before, at least so expansively.  Heretofore it’s only existed from the narrow perspective of a 3rd- or 4th-story window.  Now you can walk from Gansevoort Street in Greenwich Village to 20th Street in Chelsea (the remainder to 34th Street is under development now) in full appreciation of the unique perspective.   

On this first spectacular Spring weekend, the High Line is thronged with strollers, local and touristic — I hear several different languages as I patiently wend my way downtown among the crowd.  Cameras are as omnipresent as the plague of modern existence — cellphones.  I’ve snapped the best views before, but I can’t resist taking some of the Standard Hotel, which straddles the High Line in the old meatpacking district.  Rumor has it the Standard (which has a reputation for super-trendy sleaze that dates back to its flagship hotel on Sunset Boulevard in LA) encourages exhibitionists to display themselves (with company or not) in the floor-to-ceiling windows.  How you encourage such behavior is a mystery to me, but apparently it’s not working, as nothing even remotely risqué is in evidence on this glorious Spring afternoon.     

Standard Hotel on the High Line

I’m having a bit of personal reclamation myself.  When I had knee surgery to take care of a torn meniscus just over two years ago, the surgeon said to me, “The best thing you can do for your knees is to lose the weight.”  Not “some” weight, but “the weight,” as if the amount in question were obvious.  It took me a year and a half to act on that advice — during the meantime I did just the opposite.  But with the help of Weight Watchers Online for Men (god forbid we should do an unmanly thing like “dieting”), I’ve lost 20 pounds since November of last year.  And counting.     

The benefit was hugely apparent to me on this year’s visit to Mayan ruins in Mexico, compared to last year’s at the same time.  I’d had some inkling of what I’d gained: I was no longer wheezing at the top of subway stairs, and I could walk distances without pain in my ankles and knees.     

But in Mexico, I was climbing up and down pyramids like a gazelle.  (That’s a really bad analogy, since gazelles aren’t indigenous to the Yucatan, but you get what I mean.)  So I practically leapt up the three-storied stairway onto the High Line.  And hot-footed it down the same at the end.     

Less-heralded but actually much more signficant given its scope, is the reclamation of the Westside riverfront of Manhattan from midtown all the way to the end of the island at Battery Park.  Leaving the High Line at Gansevoort Street, I cross the West Side Highway to this riverfront park to walk all the way downtown to the construction site of the former Twin Towers.     

The riverfront has been re-purposed and landscaped for bikers and runners and rollerbladers and sunbathers.  There are tennis courts, basketball courts, a trapeze school, kayaking rentals and hot dog stands.  Once abandoned piers that extend out into the Hudson have been re-designed as playgrounds and sunning spots.  To walk along this stretch of shore is a total delight.     

I confess that part of the delight for me today is the sight of shirtless male runners, working themselves out in the glorious warmth.  It’s Spring; the sap is running, what can I say?  I’ve always thought that Valentine’s Day in the middle of February was a waste.  Why not wait until early April, when Nature finds its release from Spring fever to celebrate Love and Attraction?     

I’m too shy to catch those hunky runners in stop-motion with my camera.  But the men’s fashion underwear industry knows our bent and the season and is only too happy to provide some Spring  stimulation on the streets of downtown Manhattan.     

Phone Kiosk Advertisement at 23rd Street and 8th Avenue, Chelsea

I check my time walking when I get back to my apartment — three hours in motion in total.  That’s 9 activity points in Weight Watchers — points you can either eat against or let stand as progress toward your weight loss.  Coming off my day of Springtime stimulation, I review my options for some company this evening.  It’s an age-old truth:  age matters not a whit when it comes to desire.  And Spring stokes it in all of us.  So to paraphrase Cole Porter’s lyrics on the effects of Spring –

“And that’s why birds do it, bees do it
Even guys with wobbly knees do it
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.”

5 Before 56

Today is my birthday.  And many thanks for all the kind wishes I’ve received today.

I’m 56.  My childhood friend Tom — we have re-discovered each other on Facebook, of course — said “are we REALLY approaching the 6-0?”  Indeed, we are.  But for some reason, that’s not holding any particular dread for me.  (Although you might want to check back with me in three or four years.)

Who knows why, but somehow, having reached 56 feels more momentous to me.  So much so, that I feel I should have something sage to say about it.  And I do.  I’d like to share my personal list of  –

“Five Things You Should Have Done By The Time You’re 56.”

(a brief drumroll is heard offstage)

1.   You should own an expensive watch.

Preferably one you’ve bought for yourself.  And, please, no sidewalk suitcase Rolexes.  This needs to be the real thing.  Mine is a Baume & Mercier classic tank that I bought in Paris, while on sabbatical from work in 1997.  (More about that in #2.)

There is a very practical reason for this.  You can be dressed nearly in rags or head to toe in Old Navy, and still walk in almost anywhere and be treated like a prince, if you’re wearing an expensive watch.  Good leather shoes and expensive sunglasses help,  but I swear they’re not necessary.

I put this belief to the test once.  I wanted to buy a trinket (all I could afford) from Prada as a Christmas present for my friend Kay.  I asked another friend if he wanted to go with me.  “I can’t go in those places,” he protested, “I always end up feeling ugly and inferior.”  I laid out the Expensive Watch Theory and persuaded him to accompany me.

We went to Prada.  I found what was probably the tiniest item there; I believe it came close to maxing out my credit card.  I looked like hell:  bad blue jeans, a T-shirt that didn’t fit well, dirty tennies that weren’t even a cool brand, and nothing like a stylish haircut.  But sporting the Baume & Mercier.  And while I was signing the credit card slip, the slender, handsome salesboy dressed impeccably in Prada black with the perfect haircut said to me, “I just want to say, that that’s a lovely watch you’re wearing, Sir.”

True story.  I rest my case. 

2.  Have negotiated and taken a sabbatical from work.

Ideally you should do this at a critical point  in your career.  Late enough, so that you’ve got the leverage to guarantee success in the negotiation.   But early enough to achieve its purpose.

Take at least a month, unpaid if you must.  Six weeks is even better.  Or whatever you can get.  You need some time.

And while you’re on sabbatical, ask yourself this:  “I’ve been on a path professionally that’s gotten me here.  And the pathway is clearly marked ahead of me.  Do I really want to go there?”

You might surprise yourself with the answer.  And here’s why the timing is important.  It needs to be early enough in your career, that you can still change paths, if that’s what you decide.

In 1997, when I was securely the Director of Advertising at Chase Manhattan Bank, I took advantage of a generous Chase policy that allowed me to take an unpaid leave for “educational purposes” with a guarantee of a return to my position.  So I enrolled myself in a French language school in Paris; rented an apartment one block off the Seine; thought about my life; and came home six weeks later with a decision.  I wanted to work at an ad agency; I wanted to be a strategic planner; and I wanted to work internationally.  It took a while to realize that dream; but the rest is history.

Paris from the Rooftop of Samaritaine, 1997

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

3. Go somewhere you’ve always dreamed of going.

Do it before your joints give out.  Because it’s likely to be someplace exotic, and you’ll want to be able to walk around and enjoy it.  Generally, fantasies are better than their realities.  (Or maybe that’s only true for sex. ) But if you’re lucky, your dream place will not disappoint, and you won’t be 60 (god forbid!), saying, “I always wanted to go to ______.”

I am extremely lucky.  My dream place fulfilled my expectations in every way.  I was breathless most of the time (and not from altitude.)  And I actually got to go back a second time (it was just as good)– courtesy my dear friend Dan from Toto Tours.

Morning at Machu Picchu, 2007

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4. Figure out what you want done with your remains and make the arrangements.

Everyone cringes when I tell them I’ve done this.  Get over it!  Trust me, (having two parents and a childless aunt gone) —  you will be doing your children, nieces and nephews, or whoever it is that gets stuck with you a great favor by figuring it all out in advance.  They will thank you.  And be realistic; “I’d like my ashes scattered atop Mount Everest” is not going to be helpful to anyone.

I see you cringing.

 

And last, but not least.  (Another drumroll is heard offstage.)

5.  Do something absolutely stupid and crazy, which defies all reason, and which only an idiot would do…   for love.

If you don’t do any of the other four, do this one.  I suggest getting it out of the way when you’re younger.  Don’t wait until you’re balding, driving around in a convertible, and dressed inappropriately for someone your age.  It’s just not becoming.

Preferably, it should end badly.  Much more cathartic that way.

Personally, I think I’ve probably surpassed my limit on this one.  But I have no regrets.

But anything I’ve done is small potatoes (and tasteless boiled ones at that) compared to what one of my friends did.  She will remain nameless, as I’m sure she’d prefer.  But I am humbled with admiration for the audacity of her act; and I consider it the epitome of doing what’s right in this regard:  she stalked a boyfriend all the way to Argentina, god love her.