I have never fought for anything in my life.
Now if you’ve ever met me, you probably just read that and called me a liar, but I must assure you that what I say is true. To clarify: while I have fought with plenty, I cannot recall a time when I ever fought for.
Is this because I have never been given the proper cause? I doubt it.
I am unapologetically in love but I cannot get married because my partner is of the same sex. Granted, this is probably a moot point because he has yet to propose- which may very well be the reason why this hot-button issue that everyone tells me should turn my hair white with rage has never seemed to ignite an appropriate fire within me. While I am slightly embarrassed to admit it, my resistance to joining this initiative is because I am a selfish prick.
Gay marriage has yet to directly apply to me, therefore, I have not been given a reason to fight. Yes, while it would be nice to be viewed as free and equal in a country that was founded upon those principles, I refuse to believe that a certificate from the government will validate any love that I feel. I don’t need them to give me a thumbs-up for me to know my love is exactly the same as theirs', despite our anatomy.
In case you have been living under a rock, let me declare that I am both gay and a Jew. Let's put it this way: if I was living in Europe 70 years ago, I would be the first to go. And maybe that's why I don't fight; maybe I’m scared. Maybe the innumerable years of social inadequacy has rendered my voice inaudible. I never want any fingers pointed at me so I will not make waves. I would rather strive to merely fit in.
A few weeks ago, I was at a Saturday matinee of THE NORMAL HEART on Broadway. If you haven’t seen the play, it centers around a gay activism group in 1981 that tried to rescue their community which was crumbling under the fist of AIDS. At that time, AIDS had yet to be identified and beautiful young men were dropping like flies caught in the mini-blinds while the government didn't bat an eye. Needless to say, the play is a weeper.
Anyway, it was a rainy afternoon so I had my umbrella tucked under my seat. An older gentleman sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked me move it because he was afraid that someone might trip. Yeah, sure, whatever- I moved the umbrella. Then, of course, a conversation ensued. Old people at the theater fucking love me; they always have. Because the theater-going audience has an average age of 92*, they seem to view me (when their cataracts allow) as if I arrived via UFO. So, this old man asked me a million and one questions before the play began about what else I’d seen and what I’ve enjoyed- real typical shit which I answered as attentively as possible. But when he asked me if I was married, I politely demurred. “No, I’m not married. To my work, maybe.” He laughed.
That question has since plagued me. Well, no, not the question. My answer.
While I didn’t lie, I admit to a pang of regret because I also did not tell him truth. This man had bought a ticket to a play about the gay community and, even with me brandishing my faggoty playbill as a shield, I found myself unable to say, “No, I’m not married... I’m gay.”
Why? Was it out of respect for his general good nature? Perhaps. I mean, it was a harmless question and he didn’t need to know all of (read: any of) the details of my life. The omission also could have been caused by my assumption that he was the product of a generation that simply didn’t speak of such things. There was no need to shock him or, worse, disappoint him.
May I remind you that I am speaking of a total fucking stranger? This is someone that I had never seen before and will likely never see again. What do I care what he thinks? Apparently, plenty. It’s been a very long time since I came out of the closet. I have no shame in who God made me and who He has given me to love. Still, my answer was bullshit. Cowardice and bullshit.
There is something very interesting that I learned in a script analysis class several years ago. When we were discussing the concept of catharsis (defined as “the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions”), my teacher made an excellent example out of the movie “Outbreak”. Now, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen the movie, but I can generally recall it being about a monkey that carries some deadly disease which causes a volatile epidemic. Let us assume that the movie is an allegory for AIDS. The problem, as my teacher explained, is that the ending of the movie is fundamentally flawed.
In the end of the movie, the disease is contained and everyone- except for the monkey, I guess- lives happily ever after. Because Hollywood prefers a cathartic rush tied up with a little ribbon on top, when the movie is over, the audience moseys up the aisle thinking, “Golly, it sure is a good thing they cured AIDS!” That emotion is not likely to awaken a dormant activist. Why bother to fight for a problem that has already been solved?
This is not the same issue I was confronted with at THE NORMAL HEART. The final moments of the play are a staggering reminder that this disease has cut and will continue to cut a deadly swath. However, growing up in the era of the “very special episode”, I believed AIDS to be a preventable misfortune brought on by a series of destructive decisions. I have since been educated (by living my life with restrained abandon) that the disease is hardly so selective. Friends within my age bracket have been declared positive and it certainly wasn’t because they aren’t good people.
Yet, somehow, at the end of the play, I was left uninspired to stand up and scream for a cure. No, it’s not because I’m emotionless; don’t get me wrong- I cried a fucking puddle. But like the “Outbreak” monkey, the disease in THE NORMAL HEART had mysteriously been contained- only this time, instead of by men with flame throwers wearing rubber suits, it was contained by a distance of 30 years. It was hard for me to walk away thinking that was then and this is now. By the end of that afternoon, I was so grateful for all the men that had fought for necessary funding to determine the specifications of this infliction. But, while that war that has yet to be won, I couldn’t help but feel that it was a fight from long, long ago.
Larry Kramer, the playwright, even addresses this concept in the play. The men of the 1960’s fought for gay equality in the Stonewall Riots. This caused the sexual liberation of the 1970’s that, eventually, led to the epidemic of the 1980’s. However, Kramer seems to claim that the men of the 1980’s viewed their predecessors from the 1960’s as people with which they had very little in common. Even though they were grateful for the work that had been done on their behalf, it was something from which they were almost entirely removed.
With the enormity of they gay-related issues that were being faced in the 1960’s and 1980’s, it is no wonder that the community banded together. A dust bunny is born, comprised of many agreeable specks. But once that dust bunny gets picked up in a breeze, who is going to notice if one solitary speck goes missing?
The discovery of these inadequacies has made me slightly disappointed in the man I have become. Who knows? Maybe one day he’ll put a ring on it and I’ll want to march on Washington with 10,000 of my new best friends. Until then, I am condemned to be but dust, sequestered in my lonely speck-dom.
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*not an accurate statistic
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