Tag: memories

Sucked/Didn’t Suck

A post from ‘Nathan made me think of my years of oppression education in the school system. How do yours pan out?

Kindergarten–didn’t suck
First grade–didn’t suck
Second grade–sucked
Third grade–sucked
Fourth grade–didn’t suck
Fifth grade–sucked
Sixth grade–sucked
Seventh grade–didn’t suck
Eighth grade–sucked
Ninth grade–didn’t suck
Tenth grade–sucked
Eleventh grade–didn’t suck
Twelfth grade–didn’t suck

Thank goodness for kindergarten, it helped “didn’t suck” pull ahead by one. Dear Linda Bishop (and I’m talking about the REAL one, not “Linda” or the one who got that name in THREE FORTUNES), I’m sorry I stole your crayons in kindergarten. That theft was almost immortalized in a TJB novel, but we wrote a different book. Who knows. One day, it may yet be retold.

Synchronicity

In February of ’98, fourteen months after John died, his boyfriend James decided to accompany me on a trip to New York City. It was my first trip there, and I would be meeting my on-line friends (and new writing partners) Tim and Timmy face-to-face for the first time. James had lived in New York years before, and his sister was still living there, so he planned to help me navigate through my first couple of days in Manhattan, then spend the rest of his vacation with her.

Before our trip, I decided to do something special for him. I had part of a shirt that had been John’s, made of a crimson, velvet-like fabric, that James had loved and cut up, giving a portion to me. I used a cuff, with its button and buttonhole, to make a tiny bag. I went to Wild Earth (a local metaphysical store) to look for some special stones to put into the bag. I love stones and crystals, and James and I had given each other a few in the past.

When I was shopping at Wild Earth, I ran into James. We exchanged a panicked look and a mutual, “What are YOU doing here?” Clearly, we were on a similar errand. We both sort of got lost from each other and never mentioned it again.

Until we boarded our plane a few days later. Once we were settled in our seats, I reminded James that I’m not a good flyer. His idea of comfort was to say, “If we go down, at least we’ll die together.” Of course I smacked his arm. Then, only minutes from departure, I reached into my purse just as he reached into his bag, both of us saying, “I wanted to give you something before we leave…”

Then we laughed, because he’d made a small bag for me from part of the collar of that same shirt of John’s, and tied it with gold thread I’d used to string together dried rosebuds from John’s memorial service. We traded our little red pouches, and he examined the stones and crystals I’d selected for him, while I smiled like an idiot and thanked him for this.

Is AIDS still part of the plot?

One of the panels I was most eager to attend at Saints and Sinners was “Is AIDS still part of the plot?” Moderated by Thomas Keith, the panelists were Jameson Currier, Martin Hyatt, Robert Taylor, and Patricia Nell Warren. I was pleased to see a good turnout, and a lot of excellent points were made by those in attendance as well as by the panelists.

I’m still mulling over those discussions. AIDS was the biggest reality of my life from 1990 to 1997, at which point, like many people (most of whom endured a hell of a lot more than I did), I had to back away. Exhaustion, grief, rage, caregiving, activism, despair–all took a toll on those who survived the massive losses of the 1980s and first half of the 1990s. Two major changes required new approaches to the epidemic–the affected population and the appearance of protease inhibitors, and those new approaches needed people with fresh energy and commitment.

I would still donate a voice–I’ve never stopped advocating on behalf of those with HIV/AIDS–and I would still donate money, but it was necessary for me to take some time to grieve for my own personal losses. I knew many people who died, but four of them were among my dearest friends. Although those four had encouraged me never to shut up about the things I’d seen and the things they and their friends and lovers went through, they also wanted what anyone wants for those they love–that I be happy.

When the last of the four was gone, I was left wondering if I’d ever laugh again the same way. Feel joy. Hope. Optimism. If I’d ever know friendships again with that kind of intensity and loyalty and depth.

Of course, I have. Along with those who supported me during the hard times, I met friends who were willing and uniquely able to help lift the baggage I came with. Oh, even more. Friends who were willing to let me open those bags and show what was inside over and over, as often as I needed to, until finally it wasn’t baggage at all. It was part of my history and part of what kept four men I loved from being only names on Quilt panels.

I think it’s vital that people write their AIDS realities into fiction. I often read blogs of people who survived those first fifteen years; they are riveting. And their stories still provoke discussion and arguments. Those are the stories wherein AIDS is often the entire picture.

From the last ten-plus years, we also need stories wherein AIDS is, as Patricia Nell Warren said, “part of the mosaic.” Not the whole story, but part of the story. The storytellers need to come from all of the affected populations and speak to all of the affected populations.

Writers of gay fiction faced a challenge in that readers were tired, so tired, of tragedy and heartbreak. Just as my friends hoped for me, people wanted to laugh again. To feel joy. To read about love that wasn’t doomed and sex that wasn’t fatal.

Although in the six novels I’ve helped write, we’ve lost an important character because of AIDS and referred to the deaths of several others, I, personally, have never been able to fictionalize what happened to me between 1990 and 1997. I think there’s one circumstance in IT HAD TO BE YOU and one line in HE’S THE ONE that came directly out of my experience. Beyond that, the most I have consciously done is make safer sex and HIV/AIDS part of the awareness of the characters I write.

The way that I do honor my friends, the living and the dead, and all the friendships that were written about and so profoundly affected me from that first AIDS fiction, is to write about people who are fiercely loyal to one another. Who are there for each other across many years. Who transform their breakups and their rivalries and their misunderstandings into forgiveness, support, and friendship. Who still believe in love and hopeful endings. Those are the qualities of the friends I knew and lost. They are the qualities of the friends I still have.

If it’s an organic part of what we, or I, write, I hope that HIV/AIDS will always be some part of our novels. I only want to make sure that it’s written authentically.

If I’d gotten nothing else out of Saints and Sinners (and I got more than I ever imagined I would), the thoughts this panel provoked about my writing made it worth it.

The End of an Era

Things have changed here at the Home Office.

When Tim first moved to Houston (just after IT HAD TO BE YOU was published), he accessed the Internet via dial-up in his apartment. In the Big House, we’d recently made the transition from dial-up to cable modem, and we had a couple of computers linked in a network. Tim frequently used the second computer to write (mainly to keep documents software compatible), then permanently after his Mac died. We sat face to face, but we couldn’t see each other because one of the desks had a high back with shelving on it. That was the situation when we worked on HE’S THE ONE and THE DEAL.

When Tim got his new Mac, he used dial-up in his apartment for a while, and I’M YOUR MAN was finished during that time. Then we needed the Home Office for temporary housing for my mother, so the cable modem was moved to Tim’s apartment. For a while, we worked side by side upstairs, but our hours weren’t compatible, which meant I was often interfering with Tim’s sleep. So we dropped a line downstairs, and we finished writing SOMEONE LIKE YOU and THREE FORTUNES IN ONE COOKIE on different floors in the same building.

After my mother moved out, we set up the Home Office in a way much more conducive to two work spaces, and Tim and I have sat side by side for about a year and a half. We changed to wireless (secured, you Stalkers!), which means my laptop often serves as a guest computer, but Tim’s Mac didn’t have wireless capability.

Now we’re working on TJB FIVE, and Tom and I just gave Tim an early birthday gift–whatever thingie (I don’t do geek talk) he needed for his Mac to be wireless. The wireless signal is more than strong enough to reach the apartment, so Tim can now office in his own space.

It remains to be seen how this will affect progress on TJB FIVE. I’m sure Tim will be happy not to deal with the ten million questions I ask him a day (his brain is like my encyclopedia), and Rex and the girls will get some time apart, which should help their socialization issues.

But this is the first day, and it’s kind of lonely over here.

Coffee Cups and Kings of America



This morning’s coffee mug is brought to you courtesy of my old job as a bookseller. Our manager, Tim W., decided it would be more economically friendly to drink our water out of mugs than styrofoam cups, so he purchased Bookstop (Anyone remember Bookstop? It was Bookstar in New Orleans.) mugs for all the staff and wrote our names on them with indelible pen. Over the years, my name is disappearing little bits at a time, but my memories of being a Bookstop assistant manager really are indelible. The store changed my life in so many great ways, as it brought not only fantastic people to me but was my doorway into AIDS awareness and queer writing and politics. Would I be a writer without Bookstop? Yes. Would I be published? Hard to know. That time of my life provided the place and support I needed to find and develop my voice.

And for future reference, if you read A COVENTRY CHRISTMAS, the bookstore manager in that novel is in NO WAY based on Tim W., who was never anything but good to me and for whom I feel the greatest affection.

Now, about this king thing… I first saw a reference in FARB’s blog, then it was all over my AOL welcome screen, that W thinks brother Jeb should run for president. Let’s just nip this in the bud now, shall we? I have a plan.

I freely admit that I’m an Anglophile. It’s true; I love many things British. So I agree that we should gently put aside our nation’s silly founding notion that we didn’t need a king. I’ve been watching the British royal family for years, and as far as I can tell, they make a lot of money and cut a lot of ribbons, have interesting horses and dogs, and occasionally trot out to publicly tsk tsk something they think is in bad taste, but for the most part, they are harmless figureheads who do some good in the world and often make people feel better about bad things.

If the Bushes want to be our nation’s royal family, I’m all for it. Paying them a salary equivalent to what the British royals make would cost boatloads (and when I say boats, I mean BIG boats, like the size of the Queen Elizabeth or the Queen Mary or whatever all those bigass boats are named) LESS money than the Iraq war has cost, for example.

Some of the Bushes already look kind of funny in that inbred British way, and others are attractive and would look good on PEOPLE magazine just the way Diana and Sarah Ferguson always did when they were photographed at Ascot. The matriarch already has chests full of pearl necklaces, so we won’t have to buy those, just maybe a crown or tiara or two to match, and I know someone at Mikimoto who might be able to negotiate some good prices on that. Hopefully, they also already have their own mansions, because it’s really hard to get the government to furnish new housing quickly, just ask the people on the Gulf Coast. Or I guess we could move the royal Bushes into some of our national landmark homes, if they promise to keep the dogs off the furniture.

And just like the British royals, they wouldn’t have any real power–that would still rest with the government, or at least the corporations that are funding the government. And the Bushes already know how to peel off those reassuring statements along the lines of “Good show!” as W proved with such bracing comments as “You’re doing a heckuva job, Brownie!”

So please, by all means, make Jeb king and keep this family busy playing whatever is their version of polo, or providing the tabloids something to write about, while everyone else tries to fix some of this country’s messes.

Little tribute

Timmy is sad because he had to get a new backpack.

I admit, I’m sort of fond of Timmy’s old backpack, too, mostly because I have this photo of it from a visit the TJB writers made to Houston’s Cancer Survivors Plaza, I think back in early 2001.


This is not my favorite photo from that day, but I’d have to get permission from the guys before I could post any of the others.

tax day

Back in 1980ish, I was living in a small Southern town. The main post office is on a four-lane boulevard that connects several towns over a thirty-mile or so stretch. These were the days when nothing was opened on Sunday, and all commerce–except restaurants–ended by six every other day of the week.

I was driving through town about ten one night when I noticed a crowd of people inside the post office. This was so far beyond normal that I circled back to find out what was going on. The post office was open until midnight for people who needed to make sure their tax returns had an April 15 date stamped on them.

There’s not much to do in small Southern towns, so this began a tradition for me. Every tax day, I’d drive by the post office of wherever I happened to be living and watch people frantically completing their tax returns before midnight. It was like a once-annually social club. People laughed, talked, helped each other fill out forms. They wrote out checks and bitched about taxes, or congratulated whoever was getting refunds.

Even in Houston, there are certain post offices that keep employees working until midnight to take mail by hand as people drive through. But even with machines that will dispense dated stamps, I haven’t seen a crowd at our two closest post offices in a long time. I think Turbo Tax put an end to tax socials.