Sweet Baby James

I’ve once again returned from my desert paradise, and on the ride down, on my playlist, a song came on that brought back memories of my very first boyfriend in San Francisco. It was a time when I was much younger and full of hope of what my life would become. 

It was a classic covered by the country band Highway 101, the James Taylor song, “Sweet Baby James”  – and, when Donald played the song for me, he changed two of the phrases. “Dreaming of women” became “Dreaming of The Women” (because I was obsessed with the 1939 classic) and “Glasses of Beer” to “Glasses of wine.” I was a young cowboy then, deep into the country music scene and he called me his sweet baby James. Each time I hear that song, I am transported back to a night overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, a candle in a hurricane lamp so it would not blow out in the cold San Francisco night and a man beside me who thought the world of me. How could defenses hold fast against  such a show of affection?

I’m not sure when it all ended  - maybe it was the night in Hawaii when he told me not to  worry if he finds me sexy or even that we weren’t having sex on an island full of lovers, because he can sleep with any one of the men that “the world finds attractive,” instead he chooses to focus on “only those that I do.”  Did that mean I should be lucky to be with him because the world would reject me? It was a drama filled night that fell further with the worst turbulence of my life across the Pacific. My only thought was that the plane was going to crash into the ocean and I recited the Hail Mary over and over until we were safely on the ground. (It is perhaps, the last time I have recalled that programmed prayer with any fervor.)

It seems that all my attempts at relationships in those years were filled with drama. Maybe I thrived on it – perhaps it was all I knew? When you ended what you thought was something special, the screaming matches and hatred were what made it easier to end things, right? I can still see myself, standing in the middle of Castro Street in yet another chapter– my tear stained face still as vivid today. There were others that I thought would be the love of my life and when those too ended in chest pounding anguish, I took a long break from the world of the plus one. 

Looking back on all those dating experiences, I realize that the present will repeat the past if I let it. Growing older has put an end to the drama in my life, and taking control is empowering, because what matters most, in any facet of life – is action. So when I recently called a halt to my latest attempt, it felt mature and the right thing for me. There were no screaming matches, no words of hate to make the other person feel lower than you to raise yourself up, just a simple statement that the two of us were on different planes. And I, for one, don’t want the turbulence. Sure, there was a tinge of sadness, but I am Sweet Baby James, and since that over look at the Golden Gate, there are more than ten miles behind me and for sure, not ten thousand more to go before I reach what I know is waiting for me.   

Battling The Alpha Male

Just because you leave high school doesn’t mean those years ever leave you. In fact, I would argue that even the scars of elementary education are carved deep in your psyche. Case in point, I have been working out religiously for over a year and I am a far cry from the fat and underappreciated young man who was religiously targeted during bombardment and tormented during flag football. Yet, even at the ripe old age of 47, it still takes effort and perseverance to get through some days. 

As long as I can remember, I have been battling the alpha male. And comparing my performance to someone better and stronger is second nature to me. It goes back to when I was last to finish the 500 yard dash and sprawled on the mat, out of breath during the horrible four weeks of gymnastics. (Really, Medford High School? The pummel horse? The rings?)  

And even outside of the gym – I’m constantly comparing to see how I measure up – how did that person get that lover? Why don’t I own a fabulous home and travel the world like him? Why don’t I have that job? The temptation to saddle up beside these people and feel inferior is so easy to do and childhood is waiting there, whispering in my ear, ready to pull me back in time if I let it. And that is the key that I continually forget – if I let it - if I listen to the taunts and teases of the past. Like the scars of childhood, the alpha male will never go away - but I can continue to work every day to compare only me to me. It’s a work in progress that I continually make an effort towards every day.  Like running that 500 yard dash or what has now, on cold 5:30 am mornings, morphed into a 2 mile run –I’m determined to not come in last ever again.

Sipping Coffee

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My mother is my  hero times two. Yet until I was an adult, I saw neither the strength nor the courage that exits within her.

When I was a child, my heroes were always found in the pages of my comic books; the Fantastic Four, The Avengers, The Adventures of Superman. And while most boys my age wanted to be Captain America, I dreamed of being the Scarlet Witch. As long as the comic books remained open and the comforting figure of my mother sat at the kitchen table reading the latest edition of The Boston Herald, I was invincible. But childhood ends quickly, heroes stay within the ink-colored pages, and I wondered if my mother would grow tired and leave.

The superheroes had alter egos. The Scarlet Witch was also Wanda, but despite looking the same, no one noticed they were the same person. Was it simply because Wanda wasn't wearing a red hat and suit or because the writers decided to make it so? Perhaps it was because people only see what they want to see. I empathized with her divided psyche and the failure of others to notice.

Since then, I have realized that it takes time, knowledge, and a willingness to learn and share before you discover the person within the person.

I still remember the day I told my mother. A coming-out story I'd found in the Glad Day Bookstore, Are You Still My Mother? was beside my bed. As she walked into my apartment, I thought how awful I was to, in one split second, turn her world upside down. I stumbled over the words and when I finally spit them out as if they burned my tongue, I watched her turn into a rubber band in my arms. It seemed as if I'd transferred all the pain of my childhood onto her with one single sentence. She cried for hours and the tissues I kept by the couch disappeared in minutes.

She took the book with her, and I expected the worst. But the next day, she returned with a list of more than twenty questions for me to answer. And so began my mother's education and the shifting of a relationship that has flourished to new levels.

My mother does not belong to PFLAG, nor does she march in gay pride parades with signs declaring her feelings towards me. Instead, when she visits, she sits with every one of my friends and calls them her sons (or at times, her daughters, depending on the time of the year and the outfits they've chosen)  When I joined the ranks of drag queens and began performing in small clubs, she was the loudest in the crowd. My music would start and I would become Celine Dion or Sheena Easton. Then, I'd look up and see my mother jumping to her feet and cheering. It is a memory that is forever etched into my mind.

"Are you his mother?" someone asked her one night during a show.

"Yes, I am," she replied.

Giving her a bear hug, the man kissed her and said, "You look so proud. Good for you."

The baby books could never have prepared my mother for all of the ways she has seen me grow. And I, in turn, have watched a different kind of hero, one who does not need to rescue me every time I'm in danger, but only has to be who she has always been: My mother. Without her, I would have been lost - perhaps a runaway, a junkie or a kid escaping childhood by escaping life. If I hadn't felt confident during my  youth that she would be there to catch and lift me up, I would not be here today.

And when I return home, as I climb the stairs to my old house, she is still there. Quietly sipping her coffee and reading her paper. With one silent smile, she conveys every ounce of pride she feels. And I know, that if she wants to, she can make a hell of a lot of noise.