I honestly love you

I received this photograph the other day; it rocked my soul. That's me and Chris Shepherd, the major love of my life before I met Ransom. I don't know the details of the picture, but it choked me up to see it. There's a piece of my heart with Chris's name on it. That was true in 1978 when we started dating; it is true today, even though Chris passed away in 1994. I can still cry - and usually do - when I hear our song, "I Honestly Love You" by Peter Allen and Jeff Barry. (Cue the derisive laughter).

I met Chris when he was a senior in high school; he was dating a friend of mine. He was comfortable with who he was -- far more comfortable than I would have been at 17 -- and he was as cute as they come. It was four years later when we started dating; he was a student at UVa. For a variety of reasons he decided to take a year off from school and moved in with me in Richmond; we returned together to Charlottesville in July of 79 for his senior year. Alas, we didn't make it, and by January of 1980 he moved into his own apartment. It was without question the most painful break-up of my life, to a great extent because I knew it was mostly my fault. Of course it takes two to make a relationship work, or to make one fail, but I was far more the bad guy than he was. 

On the day of UVa's commencement five months later he called, inviting me over to see him and say goodbye. From that night on we were dear friends again and I cherished my relationship with him. His sister Ashley had a hard time tracking me down in 1994 when Chris died and in fact reached me at 7pm the day before his memorial service. I was in Connecticut but I told her I'd see her in Richmond -- nothing could keep me from trying to get there in time. Thanks to a lot of luck and the extraordinary help of my devoted friend Sally, I made it to the service. I cried a lot that day and that night and, as I said, I still cry now.

We had a rocky time of it and we were lovers for only two years, so why all this emotion? I'm not entirely sure. All I can say is that he touched me in a way that no one ever had. I love my husband and our relationship is far stronger than mine was with Chris, but Chris and I had a connection that was special. I know that, no matter what I had done better, we would not have made it; we just weren't cut out to be married -- not to each other at least. We were cut out though to be in love for the rest of our lives, and we were.

And why that song? Before he took that year off I often visited him in Charlottesville. One weekend we had had a particularly wonderful time together and come Monday morning, as he went off to class, I was feeling just too smitten to leave. So I took a day off work and went to the store for steaks and wine and flowers. I made dinner and lit candles. When he got home there was a note on the door that read:

Maybe I hang around here a little more than I should

We both know I got somewhere else to go

But I got something to tell you that I never thought I would

But I believe you really ought to know

I love you, I honestly love you.

True then. True now. 

The truth will set you free

I've been thinking a lot lately about lies. I've come to realize that it's not love that makes the world go round -- it's lies. Think about it: in virtually every book you've ever read, in every movie you've ever seen -- hell, in any piece of storytelling in any genre, it is one character lying to another that keeps the plot going. The next time you watch TV see if I'm not right; lying is the prime force of drama; it's what makes things happen.

I've already quoted Gregory House's favorite line: "everybody lies." He's right; I do, you do, we all do. But what would the world be if we didn't? (The Invention of Lying tackled this subject; alas, I haven't seen it, so can't comment).

What if Bill Clinton had simply said; "yes, we had sex and it's none of your damn business"? What if Richard Nixon had said, "yeah, we hired those burglars and we shouldn't have"? What if George Alan Rekers had simply said "of course I knew he was a hustler"?

With all this lying going on it's breathtakingly refreshing to hear someone speak the truth. Ransom Wilson, world famous flutist, conductor and teacher, directed his final concert as conductor of the orchestra of the North Carolina School of the Arts on Friday night. As one would expect at such an occasion he took a few minutes to address the audience before the final piece -- a dazzling reading of Stravinsky's Firebird.

His remarks were no less dazzling as he bid his farewell and told us why he left with heavy heart. Things are not all sweetness and light at NCSA (ok, it's officially now UNCSA, for University of North Carolina School of the Arts, a change that Mr. Wilson, its most famous alumnus, fought hard against, feeling it diluted the history and importance of this special place).

It was a moving speech but given quietly and simply, with no emotional flourishes. Those who agreed with Ransom's assessment of what's wrong in Winston-Salem thought he took a courageous stand; those who disagreed thought he was unprofessional. You can read his thoughts here.

The emails have been pouring in; NSCA students have been overwhelmingly supportive; so have most of Ransom's colleagues.

It was quite something to have someone say "I will lie no longer; I will remain silent no longer; I will speak truth to power; I will instigate change."

In the interest of full disclosure let me add that Ransom Wilson is my husband. I have never been more proud of him.

Q: Where am I? A: You can't get there from here.

You might think that if you called a New Haven-based taxi company and asked that a cab be sent to Yale Station, the US Post Office in the middle of the Yale campus, that request could be easily met.

You might think that.

You'd be wrong.

I needed to be on the 6:53 to Grand Central, so after parking my car at the lot near my office I called the cab company. It's only a 20-25 minute walk but I had a backpack and was hoping to have time for a coffee, so I called. And then I walked. "I'm sorry sir, you need to call back with a street address. "But it's the US Post office on Elm Street, between High and College!" "I'm sorry sir."

Yeah, I'm sorry too. I'm sorry that computers are creating a nation of idiots. Thinking is just not something a lot of people are required to do anymore. The dispatcher knew her job; she might have even known the streets of New Haven -- certainly her drivers do -- but she was unable to do the thinking required to send me a cab.

Many of you have had the experience of giving the extra penny to a clerk when the bill is, say, $6.66. The younger the clerk is, the less likely he is to know what to do. Luckily technology allows him to enter $7.01 into the computer; otherwise, you'd be waiting for the cows.

I was in Richmond, Virginia, last week, visiting Isaac, my favorite 12 year-old. I was stunned to learn that his school doesn't require kids to learn their "times" tables. Stunned! How can anyone argue that this is not essential knowledge? Sure, you can figure it out, or Google it -- but how much of your lifetime are you going to waste doing that?

I suppose ranting about the end of civilization as we know it is what one does after a certain age. But the crumbling is happening at an alarming rate. Am I the only one to notice?

On the Road

My Gremlin looked much like this, though without the racing stripes.

I took to the road in August of 1974. I had broken up with my first boyfriend in January and had spent the summer living with my new boyfriend, Stephen. It had become an intolerable situation. I believe I still loved him but we were together virtually 24 hours a day and I was suffocating. I'm sure he was too. We had dated in the spring and then he had moved from Charlottesville to join me as the term ended. He needed a job, so I hired him at the country club where I was the maitre d'. Since he was also new to Richmond he had no friends; all his new friends were mine. In other words our lives were totally entwined at a far-too-early stage. As I say, we were suffocating.

When I was leaving he asked me how I felt about him. I honestly did not know. Yes, I loved him, but I hated the situation so much that I couldn't sort out my feelings. I jumped into my AMC Gremlin and hit the road, visiting Toronto, Detroit, Montreal, Rochester, Provincetown and New York before coming back to Richmond. It was glorious.

Toronto was a new city to me and was nearly as exciting as New York. Yonge Street was bustling with activity and the gay scene was vibrant and varied. I met Ed, the only weightlifter I have ever been to bed with. He was not massively overbuilt, just gorgeously beefy, and a really nice guy. But he was leaving town the next day so I only saw him once. Next I met Juha, a charming Swede with whom I saw the city for two days. Then it was off to Detroit to visit one of my oldest friends, TMcD, my own Little Prince. I don't remember much of that visit except that we had a great time and that Detroit had not yet collapsed.

The highpoint of the trip turned out to be Montreal. I had never been, knew no one and couldn't afford a hotel, so I hoped to meet someone who would offer me shelter. I was at a gay bar growing increasingly more frustrated by the fact that everyone I tried to talk to spoke French, a language totally alien to me at the time. In those days it took all the courage I could muster to approach a stranger; after hesitating for 20 minutes imagine my disappointment when all I could do was shrug my shoulders and mutter "sorry" after he said "Je ne parle pas anglais." After a couple hours of this I spotted a young man by himself; he was attractive, not drop-dead handsome. More importantly though he was mouthing the words to a song playing on the jukebox, "The Night Chicago Died" by Paper Lace. It's a forgettable, even regrettable, pop song, but it saved me from being homeless that night.

I introduced myself to John Campbell and we started talking. He told me later that we was not particularly attracted to me at first but came to like me as we kept talking. I took that as a compliment. He invited me home. It was Friday night.

Saturday and Sunday we hardly left his house. We talked, ate, had sex, talked some more, ate some more, watched TV and talked. Mostly we talked. Seriously. It was one of those encounters where you feel you've met your soul mate. When Monday morning rolled around he went to work; I had planned to leave Montreal then but agreed to stay one more day; we would meet at 5 after he got off work. He wanted me to call him at noon and tell him what I was up to. When I made that call he said "stay where you are; I can't stand it; I'm coming to get you." I almost cried it was so sweet. We got together for one last afternoon and night and when I finally did leave the next day we both cried.

John and I wrote letters for a few years but eventually lost touch. I'll never forget him though.

The rest of the trip was to Rochester to visit family, to Provincetown to check out the crazy gay scene there -- I hated it -- and to New York to see movies and visit another friend. I came back to Richmond to move into a new apartment, go back to school, and bask in the glory, and heartache, of a month spent on the road.

Remembrance of ships past

The QE2 as she sails out of New York harbor for the last time, Oct 16, 2008

As I said, I celebrated my sixth birthday on a ship, heading across the Pacific; Mom, Ray and I were rejoining Dad, who had spent six months in Korea and was now stationed in Tokyo. The crossing was memorable for a severe storm that threw me from the top bunk; I loved it. Even more memorable was my birthday party, when the Mr. Potato Head game we were playing was interrupted by an urgent call over the loud speaker. Today it would be something like "Code seven, code seven;" back then it was the more honest "Man overboard!" The captain stopped the ship, ordered dye thrown in the water to mark the spot and sent out a boat. The jumper was never found. Rumor had it that it was a heart-broken GI on his way to Korea, but we never knew for sure. The tumult of everyone rushing to the side of the ship has stayed with me.

I crossed the Pacific again by ship in 1963 after our second tour in Japan. I had just finished ninth grade and shared a cabin with my brother and a friend. There was a fourth bunk but it was, fortuitously, as you shall see, never occupied. We had a great time; two weeks on the ocean, living more or less on our own as our parents had their own cabin in another part of the ship. The USNS Patrick was no luxury liner of course but it was a great playhouse for a 14-year old.

Before we arrived in California we stayed up all night and, with shoe polish and a sheet from that unused bed, fashioned a crude skull and crossbones. Just before dawn we hoisted it under the American flag and, remarkably, no one noticed it for quite some time. We sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge flying a pirate flag! It was magical. Just on the other side of the bridge we heard the captain bellow, "Mate, bring that flag to the bridge." We knew we were in for it and we assumed Dad was about to be busted a rank or two.

At the gangway the Captain was saying goodbye to the families. When the Foerys approached he asked us to step aside for a minute. Holy shit, here it comes. Instead he thanked us for giving him his most memorable crossing and asked if he might keep the flag. My parents eyes flew open wide as their jaws nearly hit the deck. He shook our hands and wished us a safe journey.

Nothing onboard has ever topped that adventure but there have been many good times on many ships: my first sailing as an adult on the Queen Anna Maria, with my lifelong friend Don; three more sailings with Don, first on Costa's Carla C, then on Carnival's first ship, the Mardi Gras, and finally on Cunard's glorious QE2; two sailings with Ransom and his orchestra, Solisti New York, on Holland America; two QE2 transatlantic crossings and a QM2 Caribbean cruise; a sailing with my dear friend Elaine on the ill-fated Norway (former SS France); a nasty week aboard the Norwegian Dawn; and finally, four lovely sailings on Celebrity.

There are stories about all of those sailings but the one common thread is the simple joy of being on a ship on an ocean. Over time I have become content to simply relax, eat well and enjoy the ocean. Ransom and I don't go to the shows or the casino and we rarely partake of the daytime activities. Cruising for us is about being together and conserving our energy for the next battle with the real world.

And it's about the ship. And the ocean.

Life onboard

In St. Maarten; the Solstice, on the right, is the same size as the Serenade of the Seas; the perspective makes it look smaller.

Celebrity is our favorite line; this is our fourth cruise with them. Their food is a big step above every other line we've sailed; the only real competition was the Princess Grill on Cunard's QM2, a revelatory experience we lucked into via an inexplicable but welcome free upgrade. Equal to the food though is the understated elegance of Celebrity ships. Clean lines, attractive decor without the fuss or fantasy of many other ships. Garish is a word that comes to mind when I think of Carnival, Norwegian and even Princess ships; on Celebrity I think soothing, architecturally pleasing, refreshing.

The Solstice epitomizes this approach. She is beautiful. I have not yet seen a single thing I object to and I have seen many things that are near perfect. As I said last time, Ransom and I don't do a lot. We eat breakfast and lunch in the buffet room -- many and varied choices ranging from stir fries to pancakes at breakfast and Mexican, Indian, Italian and everything in between at lunch. Dinner in the formal dining room is a lovely 90-120 minute affair with multiple courses, lots of silverware and service and, on this ship, excellent food. Exquisite lamb chops and chateaubriand one night, fantastic lamb shanks and coq au vin another and intensely flavorful seafood risotto last night -- all with enticing appetizers, salads, soups and desserts.

I attended a port lecture yesterday which was, unfortunately, more about shopping than anything else, but then an informative presentation on the language learning software Rosetta Stone today. I have not been tempted by the dance lessons, trivia games, bingo, cooking demonstrations and myriad other activities -- but it's all there for anyone who wants it. What has tempted, and seduced me, is the beauty of the ship, the pleasure of reading on my balcony while we sail the Atlantic, the refinement of Michael's Club -- our favorite lounge on ship, where we gather before dinner -- and, as mentioned, the meals.

Our worst cruise experience ever was on the Norwegian Dream; imagine spending a week of Saturday nights at WalMart in Mississippi. The passengers  were fat, loud and dressed for a night out at their local trailer park. Here, they are generally quiet (for Americans anyway) and reasonably well dressed. Scottie and Mary Rachel at the table next to us are quite charming and we are enjoying their company a lot.

But mostly it's being on a ship that I love the most. I celebrated my sixth birthday on a USNS (United States Navy Ship) crossing the Pacific; I guess it's in my blood. I love these huge sea creatures.

On board Celebrity Solstice

Taken Tuesday, May 4, 2010, San Juan, Puerto Rico

This is my 23rd sailing, my 12th with Ransom. What is it I/we like about cruising? It seems easier to list the things we don't like: loud, boorish Americans who dress badly; herds of people moving slowly through the ship; mediocre musicianship; glitzy shows that are long on razzle, short on dazzle; higher and higher prices for things that often used to be included; and, oh yeah, loud, boorish and badly dressed travelers.

But then there's the ocean. The glorious, comforting ocean that gently rocks us to sleep at night and daily overwhelms us with its majesty and seeming limitlessness. There's the ship itself which, at least as far as Celebrity does it, exemplifies beautiful design and sleek accoutrements. And the kitchen (galley in ship talk) which amazes with its ability to provide huge numbers of excellent meals day after day.

When I first started sailing I used to try to do everything and be everywhere on ship. I was up early so as to not miss anything and I was up late, dancing in the disco. (For those of you who might not know, a modern cruise ship runs a daily program of events that starts at 7am and goes past midnight. It is not possible to do everything on the list; at 2pm for example there might be three or four things happening in different venues around the ship.)

Over the years my tastes have changed, and I have slowed down. Ransom and I partake of almost no activities and are very content to hang out in the cabin, often just siting on the balcony watching the world float by. We usually eat lunch at one of the buffets around the ship and then have second seating dinner in the dining room. By the time we finish it's 10:30 so we stroll out on deck for a bit and then head back to the cabin to perhaps watch a video, perhaps just sleep, or perhaps to . . . well, never mind.

It's a lazy, hedonistic life. There are no cell phones ringing, no dogs needing food or a walk, no laundry to do, nowhere we have to be. It's just us, being together and recharging the batteries.

Us and the sea. Nice.

Celebrity Solstice, Wednesday, May 5, 2010, Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, VI

Coming Out, part 2

Image by Keith Haring (May 4, 1958 – February 16, 1990). Thank you for all you did.

I was back in Richmond, VA, in September of 1971, sleeping on my friend Wayne's living room couch. My first gay love affair had just ended badly but I was not yet out of the closet. During the four months I lived with Wayne I began to come out and eventually moved from his apartment to my own, partly to have a place to entertain guests (read: bring home men). Through all of this Wayne was totally cool and his reactions made it much easier for me to come out fully to other non-gay people.

It was at Richmond's far-from-glamorous Dial Tone, the only gay bar I knew, that I met Sandy, in January of 1972. I had been meeting men and occasionally sleeping with them but had had no ongoing relationship yet. Sandy was blonde, attractive and drinking coffee -- all three not so usual at the DT. We began a passionate relationship that night; I was 23; he was 19. That we lasted two years is, I think, quite an achievement at that age. He was my first serious male relationship; I was his second. When we threw in the towel in 1974 we told people that we loved each other too much to keep trying to make the marriage work. Sounds trite, but it was true, evidenced by the fact that we lived together for another 6 months or so as roommates.

By mid-1974 then I was out to a certain extent, but not as much as I might have pretended. In fact the VCU (Virginia Commonwealth University) Cobblestone had titled an article I had written about being gay at VCU "One foot in the closet, one foot out." I was pissed off, thinking I was totally out -- but that was not true. Sure, lots of gay friends knew, and a few close straight ones did too, but there were plenty of people in my life who thought I was straight: my family, my boss, most of my straight acquaintances. (As I reread that sentence prior to posting it occurs to me how absurd it is that most gay people had to hide such a basic part of themselves from the people who, supposedly, were closest to them.)

Coming out was a process and I wasn't done with it yet.

I took the final steps in 1975 when I joined the Gay Alliance of Students at VCU. The group was in its infancy and had just been denied official status as a student organization by VCU. There was talk of a law suit and when in fact one was launched I became a plaintiff. In short, we won part of the argument in the District Court, but the university won as well, most importantly winning the right to deny us recognition. We appealed and, in October of 1976, won in the U. S. Court of Appeals for the Fourth Circuit. And I won my freedom as an out gay man.

My parents had been living in Florida when the first suit was filed. By the time we were waiting for the Circuit Court's decision they had moved back to Richmond. By then I had already been on the radio and TV and had been quoted in the papers. I knew that I needed to come out to my folks or there was a good chance they would learn about me by watching the evening news. So we had the talk in their apartment on the east side of Richmond; it went very well, though their full acceptance was a gradual thing -- just as mine was.


(Author's note: the above was posted from Ft Lauderdale where we are about to board the Celebrity Solstice for a week-long Caribbean cruise. My next writings will be about that trip but may not be posted til I return, depending on connectivity.)


(Author's note 2: scary night to be in New York City! [I was not]).