I’m about to turn 64. It feels strange to write these words; in my mind, I’m still in my thirties, with my life before me, the possibilities limitless. It’s not that I think my life is over. I have ample role models for living well in older age. My mother is a vibrant 92. My father lived well into his eighties. Two friends embody the slogan “It’s never too late”: In his sixties, John morphed from a flooring contractor into a hospice nurse and his wife Ann is getting an MSW in gerontology from Cal this year at age 61.
Still, I’ve faced the fact that it’s not likely I’ll get to all the places in the world that I’d planned to visit or do all the things I’ve hoped to do. I’ll be limited by time, money, and energy.
Barack Obama was sworn into his second term yesterday. Sitting with a crowd in Saul’s Deli, watching intermittently on the big screen while talking to a friend, I couldn’t help but hear the mention of “our gay brothers and sisters.” I was glad my wife Tanya was taping the speech at home so we could watch the whole speech later.
I remember when this phrase from our President would have been unthinkable.
I remember when Tanya and I pretended to be straight at work.
I remember when I worried that I would lose clients in my law practice when I became pregnant with our son Cooper in 1985.
I remember when Tanya and I never touched each other in public for fear of retribution.
I remember when she would disappear when I ran into clients, so I wouldn’t have the problem of how to introduce her.
I remember when I’d introduce her as “my friend.”
I remember my joy and discomfort when I first saw two women walking down the street holding hands.
I remember the energy and unleashed power of the early gay rights movement.
I remember the freedom I felt living in San Francisco, where I knew I had a chance to be who I am.
In the beginning, I was a member of the gay community. Gradually, the word lesbian became more acceptable. Now I’m a member of the LGBTQIA community. For the uninitiated, that’s lesbian, gay, bi-, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex, asexual. And there’s one more that I forget.
If we simply added an S, for straight, we’d include everyone and admit that we’re all just people who love whom we love, and god love us if we find love at all.
My almost-twenty-seven-year-old son Cooper is in therapy now. Ever provocative, he says to Tanya and me over brunch, “How do I know you’re more than friends? It’s not like you were sneaking off to the bedroom all the time when I was a kid.”
Ever-ready to accept responsibility for everything that’s wrong in the world, especially his world, I launch into a rap about homophobia, how we were careful to refrain from publicly displaying affection for reasons that made lots of sense at the time, about how he would get embarrassed if we were affectionate in front of his friends. I told him, with ample sarcasm, that I was sorry we weren’t proper heterosexual role models.
Ever practical and not prone to guilt, Tanya listened quietly for a moment and said, “Cooper, I haven’t seen you have sex and you haven’t seen me have sex. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
Still, Cooper has a point. If you spend years hiding a part of yourself outside your home, it’s bound to affect things inside the home.
Homophobia was rampant when he was a child.
So here I am, an almost 64-year-old LGBTQIA person, married to Tanya, the other mother of our son who’s in the first generation of lesbian-raised children. A two-time cancer survivor. A happily-retired mediator. A writer. A reader. A friend. A gardener. A Zentangler.
I look forward to posting flash memoirs on this site.