Just
before Christmas, I told you the story of how my little brother
outed me to
Santa when I was just 7 years old. Continuing with that theme of remembering life-moments that were
huge clues that I was a gay-in-the-making, here's another light-bulb memory of
an event that revealed the real me to others -- and to
myself.
Rummaging through a box of books in the garage one day when I
was 12 years old, I stumbled across a copy of the paperback edition of 'Weep No
More, My Lady,'* a biography of Judy Garland. Several forces drew me to the
book, not the least of which was the drama of the cover photo, plus the melodrama
of the title. That, and the little gay gene in my homo-adolescent brain that
screamed "Judy Garland, YES!!!" I had to read it.
At twelve (see photo, below left),
I was by no means the Judy fanatic I would one day grow to be, though of course
I knew Dorothy Gale from 'The Wizard of Oz.' I had seen Judy a few times on the
'Mike Douglas Show' and on 'Merv Griffin,' and loved her self-deprecating wit
and boozy charm. I'm sure there must have been a Judy album or two in amongst
the hundreds of records my mother collected, though I honestly don't remember
listening to Judy Garland at that age. Whatever the driving force was, I carried
the found treasure off to my room to feed my burning curiosity.
If you
can picture my bedroom circa 1974, it was '70s-fabu, and completely decorated by
me. I was immensely interested in interior design then and used money I made
babysitting to outfit my teen bachelor pad. I had a tufted faux-leather swivel
chair on a white hard-plastic pedestal base, a yellow parsons table with a cool
dome lamp, and a mini bar my mom helped me build from unfinished furniture which
we covered in chocolate brown stamped-vinyl tile. I had a stereo, gold shag
carpeting, touches of macrame, and a white fur bed spread. In short, it was a
perfect environment for reading'Weep No More, My Lady.'
One
afternoon, my brother was out tossing a football with the neighbors, my
4-year-old sister was doing whatever, and I was sequestered in my room drinking
hot tea (that's what I kept in the mini bar), reading tidbits about Judy's
career and her final months with her handsome 35-year-old husband whose job was
promoting disco night clubs. Someone knocked on my door which was, of course,
always closed since I was practically a teenager, and in came Dad.
I don't know what my imposing (in every sense of the word)
father wanted (that's him, pictured right), but I do remember that he looked at
the book in my hand, paused, looked at me, gave a few seconds of
life-threatening silence as he pondered his next move, and then asked, "Why are
you reading that book?"
As often happens
when you're caught being gay without really realizing that's what you were
doing, my face flushed, my ears got red and hot, and I gave the illuminating
answer most kids use when they don't really want to talk about it: "I don't
know."
"You're reading it because your mother read it," he
says, which I took to be an indictment of the utter lack of masculinity attached
to a biography of Judy Garland.
In that moment, I quickly
surmised that I had been "found out." As what, I wasn't entirely
sure, but I had a pretty good idea. "I guess I'm just interested in it," was all
I could finally get out. With that, Dad turned around, walked out and shut the
door, completely dropping the original and unknown reason for his
visit.
Looking back, I now see that my reading a biography of
Judy Garland in 1974 at the age of twelve sent my dad's gaydar off the dial --
as if my bedroom decor wasn't signal enough. That day, while the boys on the
street were playing football, I was embracing Judy Garland and she, in turn, was
outing me as a flaming homo.
UPDATE: I failed to mention that my dad eventually came around to being completely cool with my being gay. It took him a while to get used to the idea, but once he did, he embraced who I am -- and he loves my husband, which of course is the ultimate in acceptance. Kenneth/Editor
Got a gay memory-moment to share? Let's
hear it. And as always, if you have a photo you want me to post with
your comment, e-mail
it to me and I'll post it
here.STORIES SENT IN BY READERS:
Grelef sends in this ridiculously darling photo, with the following commentary:
"Here are some of the milestones when I should have been packed off to be electro-shocked back into normalcy:
-- Fighting with my sister over her doll carriage (see photo below)
-- LOVED Bette Davis in "Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte" (1964, age 13). Heard Patti Page singing to me as I mowed the lawn for several years.
-- LOVED Geraldine Page in "A Christmas Memory" (1966, age 15). Inspired me to paint a "portrait" of her in a primitive-surrealistic-abstract-impressionist style.
-- LOVED Barbra Streisand in "Color Me Barbara" (1966, age 15). Don't ask."
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Here's a hilarious and adorable story from a reader who didn't want me to share his name. Thanks, S!
"Outed by a squeeky mattress.
In 1975, maybe 76, I lived in a large-ish ranch style house. The main living areas of the house were at one end and the bedrooms were on the opposite end of the house. I'm sure that it wasn't actually very far from one end to the other, but when I was 9 (or 10?) it gave the illusion of privacy.
One fine day, my best friend - who shall remain nameless, he turned out the be straight - and I were doing some naked comparing and exploring. We were playing a game called, truly, "slap the butt and watch it wiggle." Sort of cringe-inducing these days, but it was fun at the time, especially for me. I'm not sure that Tommy cared one way or the other. I think he may have been more interested in any kind of rough-housing, while I clearly remember being fascinated by his butt.
We were playing this game, for some reason, in my sister's bedroom, which anchored one end of the house and had originally been the master suite; it had the only door in the house with a lock. My friend and I quickly grew tired of getting our butts smacked and decided to jump on my sister's bed - still not sure why, but at the age of 11 she had a king-sized bed, perfect for trampolining. We didn't bother putting back on our clothes, but there was really nothing overtly sexual about our play. It was very German nudist magazine - just some kids playing around without clothes on.
The fun came to a screeching halt when I heard the pounding on my sister's bedroom door. We pulled on our underwear as quickly as we could and I went to the door - hoping to find one of my brothers, or maybe even my ultra-tolerant Mom. No such luck. My Dad had come home to check on us between appointments, had heard a ruckus coming from my sister's bedroom, and investigated. I was 100% busted.
My pal was sent home, and I was sent to wait in the living room - the most formal room in the house that was generally verboten to the kids. I was still in my underwear. My Dad came in the room, sat down next to me and asked me to explain what we were doing. Trying to stick close to the truth without damning my buddy to a phone call to his parents, I said we had been jumping on the bed in our underwear.
My Dad, who was a big drunk and womanizer, prone to screaming and a variety of forms of psychological aggression took a deep breath. He lifted my chin so I was looking him in the eye and said, "Now you know what (your friend) looks like in his underwear. Don't jump on your sister’s bed. Don't lock doors in this house. Now put on some clothes and go outside to play with your brothers."
In that moment I knew two things: my interest in other boys wasn't going to be a deal-breaker for me at home, and my Dad wasn't all bad."
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* A Smidgen of Background
on 'Weep No More, My Lady'
'Weep No More, My Lady' was the
second biography of Judy Garland following her 1969 overdose of barbiturates.
Published in 1972, it was co-written by her fifth husband, Mickey Devinko, aka
Mickey Deans. Mickey Deans, one of three gay men whom Judy Garland married, was
the person who found his wife's dead body in their London bathroom. They were
only wed a few short months, which was sad since Judy told people, "This is it.
For the first time in my life, I am really happy," she said. "Finally, finally,
I am loved."
Some Judy Garland fans weren't sure if he
really did love her since he left one of the 20th century's greatest
entertainers in a temporary crypt at the funeral home for more than ayear after
her death. 22,000 people attended her funeral, but her husband claimed he had no
money for a burial. His book has been largely panned as a self-promoting
opportunity to bank off his famous wife's name and grab some cash, but at the
time the public was hungry for a peek into the life of Judy Garland, especially
by someone who was there for the very end of what everyone knew was a tragic,
addiction-filled life
story.
