My Father, Myself

Some men learn by following a father’s example. And some men learn by not following a father’s example. I learned how to be a father by doing both.

My Father-circa 1963



My Dad had one name for all five of his children; son. I’m not sure what he would have done if one of us was a girl, although my brothers often debated the point with me. Who could blame them? While they were busy reading the sports page and farting, I was eagerly helping my mother understand the importance of proper furniture placement to create engaging conversation areas.

“Now see the way this sofa is pushed up against the wall? It says doctor’s office waiting room. If we place it like so and cozy up these chairs then what we’ve got is an arrangement worth talking about!”

My father would stare at me speechless. But thinking about it now, he really didn’t have much to say to any of us. When he came home from work he would plow through dinner in five minutes, gulp down a glass of Scotch and smoke a pack of cigarettes. His quota of words was used during the work day.

“Son” My father would say and all of us would respond “Yes?”

“Get your Dad the newspaper.”

Myself-circa 1983

Starved for his affection we’d punch each other in the arm and run to be the first to get it. At an early age we learned that his quota of affection was also being filled elsewhere. When I was twelve my mother came into the living room sobbing and said “Your father wants you boys, but he doesn’t want me anymore.” I remember feeling devastated, but mostly I remember feeling surprised that he wanted me.

I soon learned that what he truly wanted was women, and lots of them. Something I couldn’t quite grasp. They were blonde, brunette, tall, short, shapely and slim. But there was always one on the side waiting to replace the current one. At my wedding there were two ex-wives, two ex-girlfriends and a current girlfriend on his arm. When I exchanged wedding vows I also vowed never to be like my father.

For twenty years I did what my father could not. I stayed married and never had an affair. Blessed with two daughters I lavished them with affection. It was all going according to plan. But as time wore on, my quota of words began to fill up. Until there was nothing left to say but "I’m gay". When my marriage ended I was broken, like my father.

I picked up the pieces and tried to reassemble them into something attractive. I attended a gay father’s support group and was picked up by a man at the first meeting. The fact that he collected vintage washing machines and proudly displayed them in his basement really should have alarmed me, but I decided to find it cute and quirky. The fact that he attended a gay father’s support group and was not actually a father? Fine by me. What really should have alarmed me was that I was too fucked up to interest even him for very long. It was over within a few weeks.

And then I met Paul. On our first date, he pulled out three perfectly crisp photographs of his children from his wallet and placed them on the table. I opened my wallet, flipped through old receipts, peeled the sticky photographs out and proudly displayed them. It was the first time all of our children would be together in one room. The second would be at our wedding.

The more time I spent with Paul the more I realized that he was the father I wanted to be: self-confident, loving, patient, funny and authoritative. Eventually, I became that father. It was no more evident than the day I received a text from my daughter “I want you to know that you are my hero. Sis and I have been talking and we both want to marry someone like you or Paul”.

This father’s day I’ll reflexively think about giving Dad a call and then remember, oh, he's gone. Deep down, I know he loved me. I just wish he could have learned what Paul taught me. In order to properly love your children, you have to love yourself.

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The Other Bill

We are two middle aged lesbians with two small non-shedding dogs. That is how it began. I was half way out, half way in and this would be my half way house; a place where I could transition from a fraction of a person to a whole.

When I began my apartment search after the end of a twenty two year marriage, I was looking for less of a place to live, and more of a place to begin a new life. Fearful of discrimination, I discarded potential apartments because of many perceived defects. The owners lived next door and would question why men stayed overnight, or the landlord was homophobic because he spoke of nothing but sports or the neighbors were so close they might hear me with someone. I must have anticipated a much more active and promising sex life than what came to fruition. In the end I was discriminating against myself. If I didn’t accept me, how could I expect others to?

Then I saw the advertisement for a basement apartment posted by two middle aged lesbians. It was close to the city, the price was well within my range, and if this was not an accepting environment what would be? I crafted a reply that summarized my life in four sentences. I was married with children. I am now separated. I am gay. I am homeless. These were not the exact words, but it all basically boiled down to the same.

The house was a colonial at the end of a cul-de-sac in a quiet neighborhood in a suburb fifteen minutes west of Boston. When I walked to the front door I was met by two small white barking fluff-balls falling over one another.

“Rusty, Lucas!” I heard someone yell.

This did nothing to stop the dogs from barking and in fact further incited them so that within seconds they were attacking each other. A woman appeared at the door, smiled and said

“You must be Bill, I’m Nancy. Boys, stop it!” She yelled at the dogs.

She led me to the living room, the dogs stumbling and running in between my legs. As I sat down they jumped up on the sofa and Rusty nervously began to lick my arm as if it were a juicy bone. He would do this for the better part of an hour.

“Do you like dogs?” Nancy asked amused.

“I love them,” I said as I looked down at Rusty’s pink tongue darting in and out of his mouth never taking his eyes off of my face.

“Apparently they love you. We think Rusty is gay,” Nancy said and let out a laugh. That was the beginning of our friendship. Within a month, I moved in the few remnants of my ex-wife’s unwanted belongings, cast-offs from friends and items bought from a yard sale. Somehow, it all worked. I was home.

Many times I would come home from work and find a plate of food, wrapped in plastic with a note from Nancy “chili verde, nuke in the microwave for two minutes” . I would devour the food; knock on the door at the top of the steps to return the plate and spend the better part of the evening sharing beers and stories with Nancy and Brenda. Just as I devoured the food, I devoured their lives and their experiences. They were my link to the history I had ignored and the future that I embraced. I learned that they had been together for twenty five years, Nancy was an accomplished cook, and Brenda was a social worker who passed up a degree at MIT. They consoled me when life became too heavy and celebrated my milestones, no matter how trivial, on the path to recovery. Their love for each other and for me was unconditional.

One evening in their home, I found myself reading a framed handwritten letter. In the same frame was a photograph of a handsome man with blonde hair and a moustache. As I examined it, I became self-conscious. It seemed too personal.

“That was Bill,” Nancy said. “When you moved in my friends said ‘Nancy, don’t fall in love with another Bill’. But I guess I have. He wrote that letter to us on the day he died. He had AIDS.”

“I’m so sorry,” I wasn’t sure if I was apologizing for being named Bill or for bringing up painful memories from the other Bill. Nancy shared stories of her friendship with him, his humor, and his love of life, of his disease, how they stood by him when other friends vanished and of the day he chose his exit from this life. Listening to the story, I couldn’t help but wonder if that Bill could have been me if my life had taken a different turn.

Eventually I regained the confidence that I thought was lost and through Nancy and Brenda’s encouragement began to date. I found the type of love with Paul that they shared. Then one night I broke the news that I was moving out and moving in with Paul.

“I wanted you to fall in love, just not so soon!” Nancy said through tear stained eyes and together we cried for what was found and for the closeness we would lose.

A year later, when Paul and I decided to get married, I asked Nancy if she knew of anyone that could officiate. It seemed too important to have a stranger perform the ceremony.

“I know someone who would be perfect,” She said.

Four months later on our wedding day, Paul and I stood in front of Jane and pledged our love to each other. The other Bill was with us on that day. In the heart of his sister Jane who performed the ceremony that would not have been possible in his lifetime. There was a sense of completeness. Without sadness happiness can’t exist. The two complete each other. On the day my life became complete Nancy and Brenda celebrated, for the Bill they could not save and for the one that they did.

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That's What Makes You Beautiful

I have a secret to share; you do not look the way you think you look.

A mirror reflects the exact opposite of your face and a camera’s lens distorts your image. Unlike a photograph, unless you are catatonic or dead, in which case you have bigger fish to fry, your body and face are in constant motion. You cannot physically see yourself the way I see you. But more importantly? You look different to each and every pair of eyes.

My friend Sam recently posted a profile on a dating website. Because we love Sam and because an even number is easier at social functions, we offered to take a photograph that would ensure his success in attracting Mr. Right.

“Bill, put your arm around Sam, then we’ll crop out your head and people will wonder who that mystery man is,” Paul said this ending in a whisper that implied intrigue while he directed the photo shoot.

“All right, now read the newspaper; you’re smart, you’re a man on the street. Work it, work it!” He said.

We congratulated ourselves on his professional portfolio. Several months later over drinks a group of us asked Sam how the online dating thing was going. Our friend Ron had a strong opinion.

“Those pictures make him look like Bill Gates. Who wants to fuck Bill Gates?” Ron said.

Crickets. We took a sip of our drinks and said nothing, because none of us wanted to fuck Bill Gates. And I’m pretty sure that even Mrs. Gates was ambivalent about performing that duty. But, she’s got a bed of money to lie on while he tinkers with her operating system.

Now to be sure, Sam looks nothing like Bill Gates. No, he looks like Danny Gokey from season 8 of American Idol; adorable Danny with the good hair and glasses. That’s Sam, but with a Boston accent and a trashy mouth. Danny could kiss his mother with his squeaky clean mouth, not Sam. But then I began to wonder, if Sam looked like Danny Gokey to me but looked like Bill Gates to Ron what did the rest of the world see?

Recently Paul and I bumped into a street artist. He created clay sculptures of a face in twenty five minutes for thirty dollars. A bargain! I thought it would be incredibly romantic to have an image of Paul’s face at this point in time for the rest of our lives. When Paul finally agreed to sit for the artist, an older Asian man with thick glasses, the artist exclaimed “Oh, you brothers!”

I prepared to deliver my marriage equality speech, but when I looked at Paul, his eyes said just don't, so instead I said “No, we’re partners.”

“Ah, but brothers, you look alike.”

Yes, we both have two eyes, a mouth and a nose and they are relatively in the same spot, but that is where the similarity ends. I worried that my thirty dollars would net little more than a play-do representation of a Mr. Bill look alike.

As he sculpted Paul’s face, I found myself standing behind the artist thinking that the cheeks should be smoothed a little more, the eyes should be level, and his nose was more architectural. I knew Paul’s face better than anyone. But the face I knew was not the one I saw molded in clay.

I thought back to a night with Sam at an open artist’s studio in his neighborhood. We filled our plastic cups with cheap booze and walked from studio to studio inspecting the artwork and as the alcohol took effect, inspected the men.

“See that one Sam? Cute, tall, thick hair, dressed nicely.” I was playing match maker again.

“The preppy dude? Dameron, he’s your type. When you look at that guy, that’s what I see when I look at my guys.” I thought about Sam’s guys. When he pointed them out to me and my friend Cary, we reacted as if a bug had just hit the windshield.

It was a revelation. We are each a walking piece of art; even Bill Gates. When you look in the mirror and wonder if your nose is crooked or your eyes are too close together or your boobs are too small, consider this. There are seven billion pairs of eyes on this earth that see something you don’t. A fraction of those eyes see a beautiful piece of art.

Wouldn’t your time be better spent looking into the eyes that see perfection instead of the ones that don’t?

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Object of my Desire

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The Best for Last

Paul is cheerfully marching ahead of me, wearing a backpack, shorts and sneakers looking like a very tall and very mature school boy. I stare at the back of his head. I know it well. When God gave us our legs he was in a joking mood. He made Paul’s extra-long and toned and mine short and spindly, so that I would always be playing catch up.

“Just four more blocks sweetie!”

Behind the glitzy lights, dancing water fountains and high end retail stores lay vacant lots of arid gravel baking in the desert sun. On the distant horizon red mountains ring this dustbowl. If I had been blind folded, hog tied and thrown into the back of one of those trucks that endlessly drive up and down the strip advertising “Hot Babes, direct to you!” and subsequently dumped here, I would not be able to discern the difference between this place and Mars. But you cannot say that you have been to Las Vegas if you have not walked three miles in the hot sun to a grocery store with a five martini hangover.

“Maybe you should have worn sneakers.”

Paul says this as he glances over his shoulder at me. I shoot daggers with my eyes at the back of his head as I pick up the pace. My flip flops barely hang onto my feet and my arms flail up and down like a baby bird’s wings.

“Maybe we should have eaten breakfast first.” I say in my most feeble and pathetic voice sounding as if I may faint at any moment. But he doesn’t buy it.

“Come on, we walk further than this in the city before breakfast. It’s worth the walk. We’ll make our own drinks and avoid the fifteen dollar drinks by the pool.”

Paul has been to Las Vegas with a couple of his previous boyfriends. Those relationships ended shortly thereafter, one actually ended during their stay in Las Vegas. I begin to understand why.

Even in the relationship department, Paul had a head start on me. On our first date, he relayed his method for remembering each of them.

“Take the first initial of your last name and give them a nickname. My last name starts with a B, so I have the Boozer, the Bastard, the Biscotti, the Bald Eagle, the Box boy…” My head began to swim. The number of serious relationships I had didn’t need a mnemonic device to recall them.

Over the years I have learned the details of Paul’s relationships. The Boozer was his first after coming out. Not surprisingly, they met in a bar. From all accounts he was a very outgoing and fun guy, as long as the liquor was flowing. Their relationship took a sharp turn for the worse when he drank the entire weekend away in their Las Vegas hotel room. While Paul was out winning at the gambling tables, the Boozer grabbed Paul’s wallet and plane ticket and left him.

While the Boozer may have been his first relationship with a man, the Bastard was the first man he loved. I know this because it is not in his nature to hate anyone, but the nick name says it all.  The Bastard was wealthy. He had two beautiful homes, a lucrative career and a fine southern family that refused to acknowledge that their golden child was gay. Paul was just a friend in their eyes. Consequently, the Bastard hated himself and ruined his relationship with Paul by cheating on him. Their relationship ended shortly after Las Vegas. Perhaps the fakeness of Vegas too closely mirrored the Bastard’s own life.

Always a meticulous photographer, Paul has recorded scenes from these relationships. Before we travelled together, he travelled to all of the destinations we now love with someone else. Here is a photo of Paul and the Boozer on Miami Beach, here is a photo of Paul and the Bastard in Las Vegas, and again in Key West, San Francisco and New York. Because he was always one step ahead of me, I have had a glimpse of my future.

Even on the plane ride home, he sits in the seat in front of me and my immediate view is again of the back of his head. I know it so well that I could pick it out of a faceless line up. It is lovely, really, perfectly shaped with a whorl of thick salt and pepper hair. It is perhaps divinely ironic that even though I am always one step behind him, I will in all likelihood reach the finish line first because I am several years older. Knowing this I once asked him what his nick name will be for me when I am gone. He thought for a second then said “The Best”.

I think it was more than blind luck. Maybe God made Paul’s legs longer so that he could walk ahead of me to learn that even though the path is the same, it looks completely different with the love of your life.

And anyway, everyone knows, you always save the Best for last.

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This is the way

This is the way I make the bed because this is where he will sleep.

This is the way I clean the kitchen because this is where he will eat.

This is the way I vacuum the floors because this is where he will walk.

This is the way I fluff the pillows because this is where he will rest his head.

This is the way I scour the shower because this is where he will wash his body.

This is the way I clean my face because this is where he will kiss me.

This is the way I watch the clock because he is not home.

This is the way I drive the car because his plane has landed.

This is the way I can't stop smiling because I see him.

This is way I love him because this is the way he loves me.

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The Marginal Way: 100 Words

There is a place where water, sky and earth meet. On a narrow strip of craggy rocks, a path meanders for one and a half miles dividing lush green lawns on one side and the lonely beauty of the New England Sea on the other. Pink beach roses nod in the sun and mist. A grove of sentinel cedars bend to form a shaded canopy. Under this shade couples have paused to search for answers in the deep blue green sea. And the sea’s response is as slow and sure and steadfast as the rising and falling tides.

 “Look within.”

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