A Walk on the Beach with My Brother

A Hometown Visit

by Thomas Leland

There have been times when I've wondered whether every moment I've ever spent being involved in Gay politics was a most dismal waste of time. When I survey my past as a Gay activist in Atlanta, the Gay mecca of the Deep South, I truly cannot discern any evidence that my efforts accomplished a damn thing.

In those days, I was idealistic, passionate, horny, new to the city, and mesmerized by the rhetoric of the New Left and Gay Liberation. At the time of my most intense involvement as a Gay activist planning demonstrations, licking envelived with out leaflets, picketin which I suppose made an interracial threesome. We walked the streets hand in hand, and it seemed the wos fi found us as charming as we did streets, We smiled at everyone we meted back. At and even the redneckght on a single mathome, we snugglefy steam heat, tropical atress surroosters of David Bowie. They plants, first people I met in Atlanta whom I "werie dly felt comfortable with, but I could not for danything get them interested in Gay politics.

Politics do affect our lives. Standing up and fighting back does make a difference, though maybe not always in the way we intend.

Paul would sometimes talk like he was ineterested, but he would only come to the pareties, never to the meetings or to the odemonstrations. And Shorty would have anothing to do with any of it.

"I don't like organizations," he would tell

me.

One night, while walking past the SShriner's Temple on Ponce de Leon Street, I viwas close to losing my temper over his apaparent apathy.

"We have to organize!" I insisted heatedly. "It's the only way to protect ourselves! Can't you see that the way we're treated is wrong?"

"Sure, I can," Shorty declared rather defen✓ sively. He didn't like being pressured, and I vwas definitely pressuring him. "But I just ddon't like organizations. They're not me."

"How are we going to change the laws wwithout organizing?" I nagged. "How are we wgoing to earn the right to live without fear of Ithe police if we don't organize? How?"

Shorty didn't answer, and I looked away, angry at him. There was a wall between us, aland a chill in the air. I pulled my heavy coat a tighter around me.

Suddenly Shorty stepped up close behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck. I started to turn around, but before I could, he had grabbed me on the ass with one hand, and on the crotch with his other hand, and was kissing me on the neck.

Dozens of cars passed by, their headlights pointing at us, exposing us to hostile eyes. I freaked out and pushed Shorty away.

"See," he said. "You want to be free someday, but I want to be free now.

Our demonstrations stopped neither Anita Bryant nor Jerry Falwell. We were unable to get "Gay Pride Day" declared (in itself merely a symbolic gesture); and we were c unable to get a Gay rights billi

trapping

Klan was antise; die pole the peep shows and beating up Caomy was still punishable and the pears in prison; people were being the parks. This was Gay life in the '70s in byjurm the parking lots of Gay bars and in

Atlanta, Ga.

I remember a time when I gave up. I promised myself I would never attend another political meeting as long as I lived. I was going to focus on myself take dance lessons, do some writing, maybe go back to college. I berated myself for wasting time.

That year I visited my family in southern Georgia, sneaking out to party with my little brother. One night while driving around listening to the B-52's, we decided to head for the beach. A hush settled over both of us as we drove down a dark island road. We turned off the music and listened to the sound of the waves beating against the shore.

It was on that dark road that my brother told me he was Gay. I can't say I was surprised. He had already vaguely admitted to being bisexual, which I interpreted as meaning that if Barbra Streisand wanted to go to bed with him, he probably would, but other than that, it was guys he was after. But what did surprise me was the news that he had a steady boyfriend.

Imagine that, I thought, imagine having a boyfriend while still in high school. I thought of my own high school days filled with pain, isolation, and persistent fear. And in that instant, instead of feeling happy for my brother, I felt envious. There was an ugliness in me that made me hate the world. I had suffered, so must everyone else. Happy endings for other people were no fair.

But then I recovered from my bitter rush of jealousy, at least well enough to fake my congratulations. My brother laughed, and his laughter was clear and sweet, and we were both entranced in the magical spell of the island night. I rolled down my window, and the smell of the sea soothed my thoughts.

Dammit, he deserves a boyfriend, I thought. He's my little brother, and he's beautiful and kind and has a good heart. He deserves his happiness.

"You know," I told him, "part of me feels jealous of you having a boyfriend, when I was so unhappy and lonely in high school."

He reached out his hand to touch me. "But it was because of you that I was able to like myself," he said. "I knew that if my brother was Gay, then it had to be okay."

Toward the end of my visit, my lover came to meet my parents and take me back to Atlanta. Before we left, we went out on a double date with my brother and his boyfriend, a gangly, athletic teenager. The four of us walked for a long time on the beach, finally coming upon one of the hotels that had a long boardwalk, complete with a dark, deserted veranda. My brother and his boyfriend abandoned us, to go make love in that veranda.

I turned away and walked to the water's edge.

"How are you feeling?" Don asked, putting his arms around me.

"Just remembering a lot of things." "Your brother seems like a very special kid. He reminds me of you.'

33

I was silent, gazing across the dark waters, and when I spoke, I was half in the past. "You know, I used to come here back in the old days. This is where we always had our parties; this is also where I came when I wanted to walk alone under the stars and think about my life."

Don held me tighter.

"And this is also where I came to think about killing myself. Joey, the boy I loved, didn't want me any more. He said that being Gay was weak and that you had to be strong to survive in this world. He rejected me, but if I made any move to go, he would beg me not to leave him, would cry and hold on to me. "He had a girlfriend, and it almost killed me. One night I saw them making love and I

PASSAGES

vanobri

wanted to break every window in the house. Instead, I came here to this beach. I stayed here three days, just me and a blanket and a bottle of bug spray. I walked along the beach talking to myself and writing romantic, suicidal poetry. I would sit in that veranda where my brother is now and torture myself with fantasies of How It Could Have Been."

"I'm glad you didn't kill yourself," Don whispered, pulling me closer to him, reassuring me with the strength and warmth of his body.

"Me too," I said, a little surprised to find that I really meant it.

You see, Shorty was right, but he was also wrong. Politics do affect our lives. Standing up and fighting back does make a difference, though maybe not always in the way we intend (and sometimes even in spite of ourselves). Sometimes the difference is made in ways that could scarcely be understood as "politics" by most people.

The primary message of the Gay movement has always been to "come out," to stand tall, to be open and proud of who we are. It was this visibility on my part that helped my brother choose a healthier identity than I had. (I think sometimes of what a difference it would have made to me if my favorite uncle had been openly Gay instead of just a "confirmed bachelor.")

There is still a lot of work to be done, but our efforts do make a difference. This realization is my brother's gift to me.

So Long, My Friend James

When the trees are dancing

in the wind, and a song is

in the air, as I walk in the world,

my friend, I will remember you;

You danced, you sang, and

that is how I will always see you, dancing, dancing like the wind.

With love, and laughter,

oh how we laughed my friend

that's how I will remember you. Your eyes flashing, bluer than sky, your voice that Southern twang still in it, all of that and more I have now,

and I will remember you. Somewhere, the Goddess is dancing, and there you are too,

like the waves, like the birds

and everything in Her way,

dancing, dancing, laughing and singing. My friend, I will remember you.

Though I will be sad, going through my mortal days without your smile,

I know, yes, I know, you are somewhere

at peace, playing like a child

your mind clear, your soul whole and free. My friend, I will remember you, Blessed Be!

Shani Dirzhud-Rashid

October 21, 1988

In Memoriam

Roger Ward

October 26, 1961-October 1, 1988 Roger appeared as Jay in Alice B. Theatre's production of Life of the Party in September of 1987 and supported the theatre as a volunteer. We regret that Roger's talent, charm, intelligence, and independence was taken from us. He was only 27 when he died from complications from ARC.

He is survived by a large family, and a larger family of actors, dancers, and artists. We miss him, and wich to acknowledge his bravery in death, as in life.

A party in Roger's honor will be held on Wednesday, October 26th, his birthday, at 8 p.m. at Maiden Lane Manor, 239 39th Ave. E. All are welcome.

Seattle Gay News • 19