SpiritManSF's Open Salon Blog

To My Father _ For The Love Of Soldiers!

Sat, 26 May 2012 11:05:27 -0400

This deserves to be posted again, considering how dramatically things have changed since the first post two years ago.

I was twelve years old when I had the courage to admit to myself that I loved men “in that way!” In 1961, even that secret internal acknowledgment took a great deal of courage. It came wrapped in all the prejudices, misconceptions and fears of the time. But the awareness that brought me to that threshold was also the light that exposed the ridiculous Freudian lies of the strong domineering mother and the absent father. From the very beginning I was sure I was born that way. In the decade plus, of memories tucked away in my young mind, I was unable to find one second when I was not totally aware that my interest was of the same gender. So I lived with an internal light that carried me through a lifetime of waiting for the rest of the world to wake up to what I already knew. That God had smiled upon me in exactly the same way he smiled on everyone who accepted and nourished his beautiful gift of loving other human beings! There was absolutely nothing negative in my experience of embracing the life that was presented to me, except for the fear that those who remained in darkness would reject me and stop loving me. There was no fear larger than the fear of my own family disowning me! That’s just the way it was in the land of Ozzie and Harriet Nelson.

By the time I got the call to come home to take care of my dying father in 2001, I had plenty of experience with death. The concept was no longer so frightening it required hanging over a toilet spilling my guts, the way I had on the plane back from Berlin when my niece Cyndi was dying a year before. I was able to anesthetize my emotional pain and fear by convincing myself I was the expert everyone else believed I was. But I wasn’t really an expert on death. I was more of an expert in allowing what was meant to happen to take its natural course. I was the expert in standing out of the way of the inevitable. I was the expert in being patient enough to allow that extra moment for rational thought to appear in the face of desperation. I knew the great secret about traumatic shock. It provides enough adrenaline to keep one going. It relinquishes the need for sleep and three balanced meals each day. It allows one to cancel all the normal requirements of survival until the job is done. I learned these facts in San Francisco in the 1980s.

It is so easy to become addicted to being with death. The only moment that comes close to being so real is the moment of birth. Everything in between is a struggle to remember one or the other! Everything that’s not important fades into a whisper and everything that feeds the soul washes over us like a warm gentle rain that falls from heaven itself. There is no womb more secure than resting on the edge of eternity, where even though we can’t see it we remember it as home.

Driving from the Indianapolis airport to Danville was something I could have done with my eyes closed. I probably had on many Sunday mornings back in the 1960’s, after spending Saturday nights in Indy Gay clubs, then driving home at 3:00 AM. The scenery flashed across the windshield like pages in an album of black and white photos. Each time I would wake to the present moment, I would be startled to find that the grass was green and the sky was blue. There was something very appropriate about playing the role of Dorothy returning to Kansas from OZ. All the things I had hated about my hometown had been carried in my heart through the many decades that had passed. They had obscured anything that may have been good. Many of the good things involved the man I was returning to take care of. I kept thinking of an old photo where my dad was holding me as we both attempted to blow out the candles on his birthday cake. Sadly, that was the image that represented the last time I truly felt close to him!

It was just five months earlier that I heard my father cry for only the second time in my life. The first time was when one of his coworkers at General Motors died in an industrial accident he witnessed when I was a very young boy. The second time was just before my mother died, when he realized he was not strong enough to take care of her. The father I found waiting upon my arrival, was the same strong willed independent man I had known my entire life. Diagnosed with small cell carcinoma on the lungs and given only weeks to live, he had refused all treatment including oxygen. He was going to die naturally like a man. He said if he had a choice he wanted to die on the golf course. On one of the very last days he was able to sit up in the car, I drove him to a bench above the last hole where we waited for his buddies to finish their game.

As we sat overlooking Harrison Park, I realized my father’s love of golf and fishing grew out of the same love of nature that compelled me to climb the Swiss Alps or hike the jungles of Kenya or Southeast Asia. I quickly realized that all the years of my mother warning me that my father was embarrassed by my sexuality, were simply reflections of her own discomfort. I sat quietly contemplating all the years I deliberately kept my distance, believing I was doing him a favor by not embarrassing him in front of his friends. The pain of my discovery was amplified each time he sat up proudly, introducing me as his son Bob, “who has been to practically every corner of the world!” As he spoke those words, the look on his face and the sparkle in his eyes were the one thing I had wanted my whole life, the one thing I thought I would never see!

As my father’s condition deteriorated, he and my sisters and I fell into a routine. Bedtime was the most difficult as we each took turns sitting beside him on the bed holding him as he cried, telling us he had a good life, then professing his love for each of us. Then each morning, we sat around the kitchen table joyfully bearing witness to his life, as he told stories of his time in the detached service in World War 2. He began his tour in North Africa, then was part of the first troops to land in Southern Italy as the Nazis retreated north.

My father would become animated each time he told the story of meeting Lucky Luciano in Sicily before the end of the war. He would bang his hand on the table, saying, “they told us we could never tell anyone, take it to our graves, but I tell you I sat right across the table from Lucky Luciano!” Then he would calm down as he told the story of a beautiful Italian woman who came out with a huge plate of pasta. Then he became just a little bit animated again as he explained, laughing, “the whole damned plate was just for me!”

In a quiet moment together my father reminded me he had read my letter from Africa where I expressed my envy at the sight of a father and son embraced. But he had also read my essays on my struggle to understand male relationships in the context of the fear and judgment of western and American culture. Since the subject was on the table I felt the door was open to questions. Some questions I never asked because I immediately realized they had already been answered. The letter my father had written when I “came out of the closet” in 1974, had spelled it out very clearly for me. The only regret he had about me being Gay was the prejudice I would have to endure from intolerant ignorant people. My question to him now was why he was so open and compassionate about a subject that others around him were not even willing to acknowledge. The answer surprised me. For quite a while I was not sure what I was supposed to do with the information. He answered with vague descriptions of his time in the detached service during WW2. I didn’t want any more detail than he was willing to give. I was already embarrassed to find myself in such a candid conversation about male intimacy with my father. I couldn’t help but feel I had the same crippling dogma smoldering inside myself, that had separated generations of American men from each other. This was my chance to heal the damage done between my father and myself. I think he saw it as his one chance to speak the truth before he died.

My father told me the relationships men develop during war are in a class by themselves. He admitted that it was possible he loved some of his war buddies more than he loved my mother, but in a different way. I understood what he meant. He knew I understood. He said he could never admit this while my mother was still alive. She had no capacity to understand what he had experienced without turning it into something that reflected on his love for her. When I related this story to other heterosexual veterans of World War 2, and their children, I was surprised to find so many similar stories.

So this was the gift my father gave me before he died. He made me understand that the largest group of victims of homophobia are heterosexual identified! Every man who denies himself intimacy because of what other people might think, is a victim of that prejudice. And those who share trenches, under fire, putting their own lives at risk to save their partners, know the pain of the loss of someone so dear. The tears of loss are the same whether they shared a trench or a bed. They are tears of love for another man. And the thing I regret the most are the years of intimacy I lost with my father because of this horrible prejudice called homophobia!

The Golden Gate Turns 75

Tue, 22 May 2012 23:05:06 -0400

Golden Gate Opening 1937

Before the bridge 1891

For myself

You stand majestically at the center of the universe

For many

You stand on the edge of eternity

Without judgment

You toss them over the edge

To a place where nothing can hurt them

Any longer

You are the great divider

Like magic

You hold back the rains

You embrace the thick milky white fog

You separate summer from winter ...

All in the same day

You stand endlessly in a rigid pose

Never flinching as camera after camera

Steals you away

To every corner of the earth

You are the compass

To all points North

You are the Yellow Brick Road!

You are my longtime friend

You are the last one I see when I go

And

The first one I see when I return Home

Why have I taken you for granted

Until now?

Happy Birthday

My dear, dear friend!

I Love You!

Seventy-five Photos for Seventy-five Years

Only someone who has lived in the Bay Area can understand the intimacy we develop with this bridge. I had the pleasure of seeing the bridge out of my bedroom window for nearly a decade!

Me in 1988

The Katona Twins

Ah Yes! The traffic jam!

Free at last

MOTHER'S DAY

Sun, 13 May 2012 10:05:23 -0400

There's no sense to try to improve this or write something new. This came through me. So I have no choice but to repost it once a year!

MOTHER

Why I Care About Marriage Equality

Thu, 10 May 2012 10:05:49 -0400

I am motivated to write the following blog because of several recent events. First is the 25th anniversary of the Names Project (The AIDS Quilt). The second event was the presentation of a “Champions of Change” award at the White House, to my friend Cleve Jones. Third is the release of documents from the anti-gay organization, National Organization for Marriage, that outlined an incredibly insidious plot to pit African Americans against the LGBT community! Fourth, President Obama’s open support of Marriage equality. And last but not least the success of North Carolina’s Amendment One!

After posting my recent OS blog entitled Excuse Me For Living, I was surprised at how many people revealed their amazement at the number of times I was subjected to violence and discrimination because of being “openly” gay. I left out dozens of other experiences to come up with the few that would most effectively represent the relentlessness of the abuse I endured. Those experiences are examples of why so many other gay people have chosen silence over being as open as I was. When our friends began dying from AIDS in the 1980s, silence was no longer an option for most of us!

As difficult as it is for me to relive much of what I’m about to share, I believe it is necessary at this time! Especially in light of the despicable members of the National Organization for Marriage who searched high and low for those few members of the African American community willing to be their shills. Civil Rights is not a competition! I will not lower myself to engage in the ridiculous notion that one minority has exclusive rights to the concept of equality. I will be the first to admit that within the LGBT community, you will also find racism! I know first hand from the days when I fought against Gay bars who required three IDs to enter if your skin was dark. And I humbly profess my gratitude to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and all those African Americans and their supporters who put their lives on the line so future generations of oppressed peoples could follow in their footsteps! The NAACP has come out against the NOM efforts to pit our communities against each other!

I lost my first close friend to AIDS on March 12, 1983. On that day it became personal. Something more than just a headline in a newspaper. This forced me to ask the question that I had avoided when I saw that first headline about the “Gay Cancer!” Could I possible die too? Five months later an obituary appeared in the local Gay community newspaper announcing the death of another friend, James. Then the stories began to appear in the local press with regularity. Because they were stories about strangers, I was able to lull myself into denial again. Most of us became very adept at concealing our terror that fed on the absolute lack of information about the source of the disease and how it functioned.

On October 17, 1984, our neighbor Frank Lobraico died. Frank’s death was very emotional for Rob and I. Frank and his husband John were the first gay couple Rob and I met when were new arrivals in San Francisco. They represented the future to us. A future where two men might have the possibility to share a life together with the blessings and acceptance of their neighbors and community. Now one of them was dead and the other would possibly follow.

At the end of November we attended a celebration of Frank's life at the amphitheater near the top of Mount Tamalpais in Marin County. When we arrived it was cold and foggy so we huddled together to keep warm. As we entered we were all given silver helium balloons attached to silver ribbons. On cue we were instructed to release the balloons as a symbol of releasing Frank's spirit. As the balloons rose above the amphitheater the fog rose with them. I was chilled by this spectacular synchronicity with nature. It would be repeated over and over again in the months and years to come. We were no longer allowed to live in the world of material illusion. We would be given the gift, through our continued relationships with death, of seeing beyond the dense physical world into the world of spirit.

It was September 24, 1985 when the second member of our sacred Castro family died in his sleep at his family home in Wisconsin. Tommy Zalewski was another gay refugee who had escaped to the promised land from the Midwest. Tommy owned Tommy’s Plants on Castro Street. Tommy and I became good friends, sharing the special experience of growing up gay in the Midwest. In 1985 the epidemic had become an integral part of all of our lives. At this point we all knew several people who had been diagnosed. Some were already suffering related ailments. All of us were scared. There were few if any at that time who did not consider the diagnosis a death sentence.

1985 marked the first time I had visited the special AIDS ward at San Francisco General Hospital. Rob and I had been invited to the wedding of our friends Michael and Wilfredo. As we made our way through the hallways, I recognized familiar faces in the beds we passed. It was a terrifying moment, but we were there to celebrate, not to grieve. Michael held himself up by placing his left arm around Wilfredo’s shoulders as we all toasted their union with champagne while holding back the tears. That day I learned that the sanctuary of the Castro, a safe space, had been extended to that special ward of San Francisco General Hospital.

On my 37th birthday on January 20, 1986, the true severity of the epidemic could no longer be ignored. Two of my very close friends were in the last days of their lives at the same time. I had to choose who I would be with at the risk of losing the other without saying goodbye. I chose Douglas because he seemed to be the closest to death. But while I was fully involved with Douglas, my childhood friend Lewayne died before I was able to see him. On top of the anxiety and fear that now consumed my everyday life, I added guilt. But that guilt never got to be resolved. There was no time for the different stages of grief to play themselves out. In 1986, I was on a runaway train with no brakes.

My childhood friend Lewayne Matthews

Douglas Wright

Douglas Wright's "Out"

Nothing could prepare me for the surprises! I had received the latest issue of the Washington Blade in the early summer of 1986. It was now routine to turn to the obituaries first. The moment I saw Eddy’s picture I dropped the paper onto the floor, ran into the garden and sat on the ground sobbing! There had been no letters speaking of illness. There was no warning! Suddenly a black and white photo and a few carefully chosen words ripped another important friend from my life forever!

Eddy on our spring break together

Hopetown, Bahamas

But not all of the surprises were so impersonal as an obituary. One day Rudy just appeared at my front door with a potted palm and book in hand. It was obvious he had lost weight. He had sold his house in Noe Valley and he and John were moving to Florida to be closer to Rudy’s family. We spoke of the days when we first met in Washington, D.C. We never mentioned AIDS or death. But before he left we held each other about as tight as one can without breaking ribs. I thought of those dramatic moments in war movies when loved ones embraced, knowing there was a chance the soldier would never return. But this was not really the same. I was sure Rudy would never return!

Rudy and John

Just after my birthday in 1987, I learned of the loss of another close friend through the Blade obituaries. I was stronger and more experienced then. I simply sat down, closed my eyes and allowed my heart to break silently. What I did not know on that day was that the runaway train was about to crash, and the causalities would be unimaginable!

Following is a partial list of the 130 plus friends I lost during the epidemic. I want you to understand that had they lived, the world would be a better more beautiful place!

1983

March 12, Woody (Taught me the inside of politics)

August 10, James Moore

1984

August 15, Bobbi Campbell (A Hero)

September 24, Tommy Zalewski

October 7, Frank Lobraico (neighbor) States Street

1985

Spring, Smoot Harris (neighbor) D.C.

1986

January 31, Douglas Wright (friend D.C. and SF)

March 2, Lewayne Mathews (childhood friend)

May 23, Eddy Johnson

June 23, John Willig

September 27, Rudy Pino (friend D.C. and SF)

1987

January 16 Jack Guidone friend since 1977 DANCER

April 4, Wayne Kazakos (worked together 1979 March on Washington)

April 26, Bobby Reynolds ( A Hero)

June 16, David Cascone

July 11, Tom Waddell (A Hero)

August 12, Rod Meth

September 3, David Mount

November 10, Alan Rockway

November 8, Martin Weber

November 19, Ed Nash (American Hand, Georgetown)

1988

January 20, Carmen Alessio

January 25, James Manness/Don Montwill

James was pushed in wheelchair by Whoopi Goldberg at front of

1987 March on Washington

February 2, Matthew Ward

April 20, Neil Stansky

May 19, Jim Mock

June 13, Lyn Frizzell friend since 1977 (Wrote Hurricane Anita)

June 22, Leonard Matlovich (A Hero) friend since 1976

July 1, Dave Hornemann

July 1, Robert Baranyi

July3, Kent Brown

July 15, Billy Porter (Rob's close friend Urban Yoga)

July 18, Thom Long

July 26, Toddy Balderson

August 2, Ron Balin

August 21, Clark Henley

October 30, Myles Storcamp

1989

January 5, Gary Flynn

January 21, Stephen Spade

March 11, Chasen Gaver (Poet my first friend in D.C.)

March 19, Terry Lynn Peterson (neighbor) States Street

June 1, Rick Albright (neighbor) States Street

June 17, July, Mike Twinn, Fred Heramb (neighbors) States Street

July17, Ricky Crawford

September 11, Douglas Kimball

September 22, Larry Layden

October 22, Steve Swanson (neighbor) States Street

October 24, Jeff Carillon

November 8, Joseph Durant

November 19, Joe Puccio

November 23, David Kimple

November 24, Nick Mathwick

December 12, Max Walter

Richard Vincent

1990

February 4, Russell Silva

A letter to Russell:

Dear Russell,

It has been almost five years now since the day I sat holding your hand in the Intensive Care Unit at San Francisco General Hospital. As you know, I talk to you often. Your death a few days later was a turning point in my life. My life today is as different as it possibly could be from the life I had when you knew me. I must admit that I have changed my life in part to get away from the death which consumed me for ten years. I will never forget this and have not run away as some have suggested. The enormity of what happened in San Francisco will affect me until the day when I join you. Today you are very much on my mind and there is a good reason I am compelled to write to you now.

This is the fourth season I have lived in a small tourist village in the Greek islands. When I first came here I struggled with my concepts of life and death contrasted to this place where shepherds kill and skin their goats and sheep just a few feet from my door. To adjust in the beginning I forced myself to watch the skinning of a goat. I had to accept that much of the world lives a life very different from mine, so believing in a strict vegetarian point of view is more than impractical, perhaps it’s even arrogant. I have been able to some extent heal my repulsion to the process of killing and eating animals. In watching the process and the attitudes of those engaged in the process I have learned much about myself and the culture I was raised in. I do not and probably never will share the idea that animals are just ignorant beings for us to exploit. I cannot help but see a parallel to this idea in the way some humans treat each other. I have come to understand the hunter spirit of the male psyche now, but honor it only in the context of respect for nature and our own place in the universe. I can see the difference between those who honor a ritual in their killing to sustain life. Many in my world have merely adopted the macho sport of killing to prove their manhood though. For myself their meat is poison.

I have retained my habit of befriending animals and giving them human names. For three years I fed a goat everyday near the castle ruins above the village. I named her Lucy because she reminded me of my dog Lucy in San Francisco. Lucy was very mischievous, an expert in unzipping tourist’s backpacks to steal their food. This spring the shepherd told me she had died during the winter. The shepherd and others in the village find it difficult to understand why I have her photo hanging above my door. I suspect Lucy was really killed by the shepherd.

This year I made friends with the pure white wild cat I had seen in past years. She took to sleeping outside my door at night like a sentry there to protect me. I gave her milk in the mornings and other scraps of food during the day. I had convinced her that some humans could be trusted. After a considerable effort on my part we came to that point of love/respect that one only feels in a relationship with an animal. I was ready to give her a name and enter the kind of human-animal relationship the villagers find impossible to understand.

Today my new friend appeared in my doorway at about 2:00 p.m. She looked at me as if to cry out for help. She twisted her head half way around then suddenly her body followed. She was lying on her side, legs shaking as foam came out of her mouth. Every minute or two her whole body would convulse, then she would try to cry out to no avail. She kept pointing her body toward my door as if she wanted to come to me for help. I stood paralyzed with terror, trying to understand what I should do.

As I listened to her choking I was transported back to that moment in ICU when the nurse would push the catheter down your throat. I could feel your hand squeezing mine as I watched you shaking your head in vain, trying to be heard above all the fears and possible law suits which made us all blind to compassion. I stood watching the suffering for at least thirty minutes before I finally understood the plea you have sent through the cat. Five years later I have had my chance to redeem myself.

I stood above the cat with my rolled-up beach mat in my hand. I gently pressed one end of the mat on her neck. At the moment her body stopped shaking I felt myself at peace. Now the fear and judgment seemed ridiculous in contrast to this right thing I had done. I locked myself in the bathroom and sat on the floor crying for quite some time. I wasn’t crying because I had killed someone I loved. I was crying for all of the moments I had let slip by while I wasted my life thinking about what was right. I cried for every time I had rationalized away what I knew in my heart all along.

I buried my friend below some rocks overlooking the village. Those who sit upon these rocks will be inspired to mention the sacredness of this place. They will remember their connection to the primal spirit the material world has distracted us from. It is those some see as inferior who have the most to teach us about what is real.

March 10, Perrin Shafer

October 7, Jim Cox

November 6, Vito Russo (The Celluloid Closet) friend since 1981

Above are the obituaries I could still find. But in my head I can still see the faces of Michael, Lucas, Scott, Gary, Dennis, Patrick, Jason, Rick, Bruce, Roland, Jerry, Albert, Reginald, Anthony, Craig and Tom O’Connor!

Each time marriage equality is debated, I get a lump in my throat and my blood pressure rises! For those of us who have survived the 1980s, this debate is about the history of the oppression of LGBT people that we have lived through! We have watched biological families come in to steal the belongings of couples who lived together for decades, but had no legal protections. We have witnessed hospital visitation discrimination, end of life decisions denied to partners, and on and on. So I wanted people to see the faces of my loved ones who are no longer with me. I want people to try to understand the painful memories and loss that are up front in my mind as evil hateful people talk of us as if we are less than human without feelings!

Also see The Death Of Rob and Bob

Obamacare Is A Republican Compromise!

Tue, 27 Mar 2012 17:03:26 -0400

I refuse to jump on a bandwagon in this divisive, totally dysfunctional, deliberately manipulated political debate about the healthcare mandate!

I do not understand anyone who defends a mandate that requires individual citizens to throw their hard earned money away in a system that would be better named "sickcare!" To legally require people to participate in health insurance "for profit" is immoral in my book! From the beginning I have stood for a system that would resemble Medicare for all. The public option was never even given a vote. All of the aspects of so called "Obamacare" that are most unpopular were in FACT originally Republican ideas. First they proposed it, now they are against it! This is all insanity. Where is rational thought in this debate? In the latest polls the aspects of the new healthcare law, that actually care about real human beings over profit, are overwhelmingly popular!

I say throw out the mandate! Good riddance! In reality it was simply a windfall for the health insurance industry, which in my opinion should die a quick death. Their only purpose is to stand between the payer and the services required and steal the money! That is why so many intelligent people advocated for a single payer system.

READ MY LIPS: "As a culture, as a country, as a political system, we are acting pathetic!"

Turn off the television and turn on your mind! The real enemy is vulture capitalism that allows corporations to profit from people's pain! The real enemy is a system that forces people to choose between health and having a roof over their heads and food on the table. Money is the root of all evil if we allow it to be God! We need to focus! The constitution was not written to protect profits, it was written to protect PEOPLE!