Girl with a Badge

So, I’m totally late to the game as always.  The third season of the Showtime original series Homeland starts airing in late September, and I’m just now watching Season 1. Don’t worry; at the rate I’m going, I’ll be completely caught up well before the third season premiere.

It’s a great, addicting show.  And it’s great for all of the reasons that great shows are great – writing that sounds like real people actually talking, characters who are flawed enough and interesting enough to make the idea of spending another hour with them enticing, actors who aren't afraid to embrace the flaws but still seem appealing, economical direction, and plot twists that keep piquing one’s interest. It’s a pretty good recipe. And yet there’s something a tad revolutionary about this show.

The basic rundown is this (no spoilers here, if you've seen even the first episode): A US Marine, long thought dead, is rescued from the Middle East after many years as a prisoner of war and is widely hailed upon his return as a war hero. A CIA operative has learned that an American POW has been “turned” and is convinced that the returning “hero” is actually plotting to do America harm. And so, without much support from the rest of the CIA, she goes rogue and begins a private investigation, hoping to bring him to justice before his nefarious plans are realized.

Did you catch the revolutionary word? I’ll give you a hint. It’s a pronoun.

It actually took me four or five episodes of this show to catch it myself. This is a spy thriller/pot-boiler/blood-pumper of a show, and our protagonist is a woman. And she’s not a woman in relation to a man. She’s a woman in relation to her job, and her job is “kick-ass spy.”

Claire Danes as Carrie Mathison in "Homeland"

(Okay, some spoilers are about to show up for those who've never watched the show, but I've only seen the first eight episodes of a total of twenty-four, so I couldn't give away too much, even if I wanted to.)

I’d love to have heard the pitch meetings for Homeland, because I’m 99.9% sure that someone, at some point, asked if the audience wouldn't be more interested in a conspiracy theory has by a CIA operative with a penis. And really, so far in the show, there’s no reason why our spy couldn't have been male. Yes, there’s a situation where she uses her feminine wiles to get a little ahead in her investigation, but that’s a tactic. And, it’s worth noting, this is a tactic that a woman in her line of work might use; it’s not like they took a male protagonist template, put a woman in the role, and then just ignored the fact that she’s female.

I've heard a lot of people tell me that Homeland is a brilliant show. But I've heard very little discourse about the gender of its lead character, which is surprising. And I think it’s worth discussing. In an age when women make up 51% of society but only about 37% of prime-time TV characters, male TV characters (41%) were more likely to be shown “on the job” than female characters (28%), men were more likely to talk about work than women were (52% vs. 40%) and less likely to talk about romantic relationships (49% vs. 63%), it’s an important thing to take note of.

Our conventional wisdom states that only women want to see shows about women. And statistically there’s a lot to back that up; as most shows that feature women prominently have inordinately female audiences. But there’s a difference between a show about a woman and a show about being a woman. The latter will probably not appeal to men, but a show about an interesting individual – so interesting, that her vagina is one of the least interesting things about her – can have the kind of broad appeal usually reserved for programs where both the protagonist and the antagonist are vagina-free. And that’s kind of awesome.

A Dash of Bitter with the Sweet

I always thought of myself as a romantic person.  And by that I meant that I was a sucker for love, and love being in love, and would always put love first if given the chance.  And I guess that's still true.

But it also meant that I was waiting around for love to "strike."  I was raised on a diet of American pop culture, and so I've ingested more than a few romantic comedies, which all have the same basic formula: two attractive people meet, and they can't stand each other; their dislike grows the more they get to know each other until they are the chief antagonists in each other's lives; then, suddenly, they realize that they're, in fact, perfect for each other and have been madly in love from the very beginning; they didn't choose this love; love chose them.

And I just don't think it works that way. Outside of the movies, I mean. I still consider myself a pretty romantic guy.  I'm dating, and I guess I'm doing so in the hopes that I'll find love again. But I'm not expecting it to find me. I went on a few dates recently with a guy I was really starting to like. He was a bit on the shy side, and cute in a nerdy sort of way.  We went on three dates, and there was a lot of kissing and hand-holding going on, particularly on dates #2 and #3. And it was nice. But when I called him up for date #4, he needed to tell me something. Uh-oh.

He wanted me to know that while he thought I was a really nice guy and he found me attractive, he just wasn't feeling a "spark." He suspected that I wasn't really feeling a "spark" either, and - partly to avoid an even more awkward conversation, and partly because it was true - I confessed that no, I hadn't. There was no "spark" on my end, either.  The thing was, I wasn't really expecting a "spark" to occur.

I'm coming to the conclusion that you make your own "sparks" if you want them.  People feel "sparks" because they want to.  Those wanting to live in a romantic comedy often feel "sparks" around someone who's completely inappropriate for them, and they believe that they've been struck by Cupid's arrow because they want to believe that. But at some level, they made a choice.  This is why people who cheat describe themselves as victims, because clearly, love is something you can't control. And I'm about to call bullshit on that one, too.

I was sad when my shy, cute, nerdy guy basically told me that he wasn't interested in a fourth date, despite my being really good for him on paper (my words, not his). Not sad because the love of my life was casting me aside, just a little wistful because I thought he was a nice guy, not unattractive, and a good kisser to boot. The fact that I wasn't mentally picking out china patterns after only three dates was, to my mind, a sign of progress - not an indication that a "spark" would never occur just because it wasn't there after three evenings out. I was perfectly willing to feel a "spark" - when and if I was ready for it. And now, I won't get that chance.

I'm going out with someone tomorrow night.  It's something of a blind date; we found each other online.  But I liked the way he described himself, and his photos display a handsome man with a devilish smirk. And dimples.  Dimples are a plus.  I hope we find something to talk about. I hope he's as cute as his picture. I hope he likes me, too.  But I'm not hoping for a "spark." I simply trust that it will be there if I want it to be. I guess I'm not as romantic as I used to be. And that's okay, too.

Different, Nonetheless

I came out of the closet, to myself and everyone else, at the age of 25.  In my generation (born in 1970, I’m in my early forties as I write this), that’s generally considered a “late bloomer,” especially the part about coming out to myself, consciously realizing that I am gay.

Why I was in denial for so long and what that looked like might be another post for another day, but today, I’m struck by that moment of realization.  It was a positive moment for me, full of joy and relief.  I didn’t fear being thrown out into the streets, as I was gainfully employed and paid my own rent.  I knew that some members of my family wouldn’t be thrilled, but I never dreamed they’d reject me (happily, they did not).  In many ways, my life suddenly made sense – my seeming inability to truly fall in love with the wonderful women I’d dated, the conflicted feelings I harbored about the cute boys in junior high and high school, the fact that my best friends had always been female, even my love of old movies seemed to fit the new me moreso than the old me.

But the thing is, there was a new me.  Suddenly, I had a new identity, and unlike almost all of my other identities – white, male, employed, able-bodied, Christian (at the time) – this was lived on the “oppressed” side of the privilege divide.  Which thrilled me, actually.  My liberal guilt was actually relieved to be on the receiving end of societal hate for a change, and not always identified with the side that was dishing it out (of course, coming into real contact with homophobia wasn’t the lark in the park I expected, but that’s yet another story for another day).  And having a new identity also meant that I was part of a new club.  I had a tribe now.  And I was eager to learn more about them.

For twenty-five years (or however long it had been since I'd formed a political identity), I had identified as a socially liberal straight dude, and I had pretty much bought into the idea that gay people were just like straight people in every conceivable way, except of course who they slept with – and, by extension, who they dated, who they created families with, etc.  But in every other way, they were just like us.  Except that now, I was a “they” and no longer an “us.”  Did it follow that we were just like them?

I was able to accept the fact that being part of an oppressed minority naturally changes you.  It’s perfectly appropriate, I thought, that gay people would seek out each other’s company.  It’s safer, first of all.  Who wants to open themselves up to homophobic remarks and slights by hanging out with straight people all the time?  But beyond that, I believed, there was nothing really to distinguish us and them.

One of the first conversations I had about my newfound identity was with a lesbian couple I had met as a young actor.  One was a director and her partner often served as stage manager.  Upon hearing the news, they pretended to be shocked for about a millisecond, then immediately invited me to Rehoboth Beach the following weekend, where they’d introduce me to all of their friends, including some gay couples who had been together for almost thirty years.  It was a wonderful weekend (detailed here by Fay Jacobs, one of the wonderful women who eventually became my adoptive lesbian moms).  When I arrived in town, one of their friends, who I’d met before, gave me a hug and said to me, “Here, I want you to take this piece of paper and write down all of the words you don’t understand.”  Everyone around me laughed.  I didn’t get it.

The joke is from Auntie Mame, from the opening party scene, when Mame meets Patrick for the first time and is introduced to a glamorous collection of eccentrics he’d never encountered before.  Being part of a big gay community for the first time, I was like little nephew Patrick in a lot of ways, which is part of what made the joke so funny.  But mostly, the joke was funny because everyone in that room had seen Auntie Mame – everyone but me.

I’ve seen the movie since, many times, and I love it.  And I’ve learned that gay people – the men, especially – generally seem to love it.  It’s shocking, elegant, epic, campy, and fun – and the whole thing revolves around an indomitable, ferocious, whip-smart, self-effacing diva.  Gay men like all of these things – not all of us, but many of us – enough of us that it’s become part of the culture.

Admitting that there’s such a thing as gay culture seems to completely contradict the conventional liberal wisdom that states that gay people are just like straight people in every conceivable way, except of course who we sleep with – and, by extension, who we date, who we create families with, etc. Wrapping your head around gay culture forces you to admit that we’re different from straight people – not less than, not less worthy of dignity and equal rights, certainly … but different nonetheless.

I’ve been an out gay man for over fifteen years now, and here are just a few of the things I’ve noticed about gay culture.  This mostly applies to the guys, as that’s been my particular experience, but I’m pretty sure at least some of these apply to lesbians as well.

Shock! We as a people are known far and wide as being funny, and the world’s most famous wit – Oscar Wilde – is famously gay.  But when we’re alone, what makes us laugh more than anything else is something that we find shocking.  The jokes we tell can be unbelievably crude, but it’s not the vulgarity that excites us and moves us to uproarious laughter – rather, it’s the shocked expressions on the faces around us, and – if the joke is really good – the audible gasps. 

Diva Worship. Gay people – especially the guys – are consistently moved to fall in love with strong, fierce women who speak to our collective soul.  The divas change with each generation, but they’re always there, from Sarah Bernhardt to Judy Garland to Diana Ross to Lady Gaga.  (I’ve discussed this before – read more here if you’re interested.)

Sex, sex, sex. It’s true, we think about sex and talk about sex … a lot. Conservative gay-haters would have you believe that we’re simply sex-obsessed, and that this obsession is tied to some form of mental illness that made us gay in the first place.  I prefer the philosophy of Margaret Cho, who famously stated, “I think if you're oppressed over who you want to sleep with, when you actually go and do it, you're gonna have a really good time. If you are hated for who you like to fuck, you're gonna kick up your heels and fuck ... and it is such an inspiration to watch.”  (Psst – see the previous two paragraphs if you don’t think that’s funny and want to know why I do.)

A sense of style. There’s a reason that Charlotte took her sarcastic gay bestie Anthony Marantino to help pick out a wedding dress, and not any of her female fashionista friends.  Gay men – not all of us, but many of us, enough of us that it’s become part of the culture – know what looks good.  We can help you pick out a wedding dress, place settings, and furniture that is both modern and inviting.  And then when you leave and we’re by ourselves, we take out the glitter and the peacock feathers and the sequins and the high, high heels that are only outdone by the height of our enormous wigs.  Yes, Mama!  A dear friend of mine likes to quote a dear, departed friend of his in reference to his annual holiday decorations: “It’s not done until it’s overdone.”

The sister-walk. I’m just going to say it: some gay men act like girls.  A friend of mine calls it the sister-walk, because it reminds her of the stride also employed by her empowered black female friends.  It’s a strut that’s defined by the use of one’s hips and a certain rhythm that permits everyone who sees it to hear a disco beat (oom-ch, oom-ch, oom-ch, oom-ch) even when there’s no dance club for miles.  And it’s not just the walk, it’s a complete attitude, with an accompanying vocabulary.  It’s the freedom to blur the gender lines that comes when you realize that you’re a gender outlaw, and you’ve already broken the biggest rule of all, so you might as well have fun with your feminine side.  Perhaps it’s accentuated by a Disney-Princess culture that all little kids are subjected to, where all the stories we hear end with the girl getting the guy, which little gay boys see and immediately without thinking put themselves in the role of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Ariel, Belle, or whoever gets kissed by the handsome Prince at the end of the movie. Or perhaps it’s something even more innate, with us since before birth, that allows us to revel in femininity if and when we so choose.  Whatever it is, it’s under attack, moreso from within our own community than outside of it.  Professor David M. Halperin, author of How To Be Gay, sees more than a little danger in the ways in which we collectively are muting the fiercer, more fabulous parts of ourselves in order to be more acceptable to the straight majority around us.  “For all its undeniable benefits,” he says, “gay pride is preventing us from knowing ourselves.”  And yet, get us in a room together, and you can still watch the feathers fly.  You’ll have to trust me on that one.

I feel a song coming on.  Yes, this is the part about musicals.  Gay men love musicals.  Not all of us, but many of us  – you get the idea. And to get to the bottom of this one, I had to wrestle with the question, "what's not to love?" People love a good story, and people love good music.  When you put those things together, how can it be bad?  And I think that those who don't like musicals, both inside the community and outside of it, don't like the degree to which they must suspend their disbelief when watching a musical.  When someone is so filled with joy or sorrow or angst that an unseen orchestra begins to swell just as they burst into spontaneous, joyful/sorrowful/angst-ridden song, it's almost ... embarrassing to some.  And then there are the rest of us, who realize that this is not the way life is, but know in our souls that it's how life should be.

Our moms.  Okay, this is the one I didn’t even want to write about, because it’s so cliché and almost offensively predictable.  But whenever female friends of mine are discussing their sons and contemplating the idea that one or more of them might be gay, I’m always quick to remind them: “Well, if your son turns out to be gay, it works out really well for you: until the day you die, you will be the most important woman in his life.”  Of course, not every gay man has a great, or even tolerable, relationship with his mother. But for those of us whose mothers are still part of our lives, they retain a unique power that I don’t know is shared by our straight counterparts.  Maybe it’s because there’s a spark of truth in the quip I share with the young mothers of sons in my life.  For every boy – gay or straight – who’s lucky, his mother cared for him and nurtured him, made him feel special, and made him feel loved.  But for the straight boys, they also role modeled the kind of woman that they would eventually pair off with themselves.  For the gay boys, they are something unique unto themselves, and will never be replaced, or even asked to share the stage with anyone. 

And you know what, there’s probably more where that came from.  And I don’t have anything especially profound to offer in conclusion, except that I want to be an equal citizen in the world regardless of my sexual orientation, but I’m glad I’m not the same as everyone else.  I’m glad that I have a tribe, and I don’t believe that I need to become an ultra-masculine jock who speaks in a monotone basso profundo voice in order to have equal standing in the eyes of the law.  And if that were the only option, I wouldn’t take it.  I love my people – and myself – a little too much.

I'm Too Sexy For This Blog

So, among the important news of the day: unemployment, the federal deficit, Occupy Wall Street, inequities in education ... y'know, the fun stuff - there's a story about how lots of fans are outraged because this man was named People Magazine's "Sexiest Man Alive."

This is apparently a travesty, because it's clear to said fans (who are "protesting," to be clear - not on the streets, but on various social media platforms - but are nonetheless using the scant minutes afforded to them by this little life to voice outrage on this issue in particular) that this guy clearly is more deserving of the title:

And okay.  Ryan Gosling is hot, too.  And he's got this whole Chuck-Norris-for-hipsters vibe that Bradley Cooper (the shirtless one, above) cannot match.

But here's the thing ... or rather, three things.

1. Bradley Cooper is hot.  Sorry girls, but it's true.  Getting upset because a gossip rag calls him sexy makes you look not just shallow and seriously underutilized by the world around you - it just makes you look dumb, period.
2. It also makes you look shallow and seriously underutilized by the world around you.  C'mon, with all the things you could be upset by, you choose this as your cause?  Seriously. Get a life.
3. There might be something to get upset about here.  But it's not what you think it is.

People Magazine has been handing out this title since 1985, pretty much on a yearly basis with a few hiccups. All in all, 26 guys have earned the title.  Of these 26 specimens of hot-blooded testosterone, 25 of them have been white (the sole exception was Denzel Washington, back in 1996 - a full 15 years ago).

Big deal, says you.  But it is a big deal, says I.  The media has about as much influence as we collectively allow it to have - but sadly, at least in the USA, we grant it quite a bit.  And with great power, as Spider-Man would remind you, comes great responsibility.  And in this case, People has failed in its responsibility.

Mind you, I'm referring to the "Sexiest Man Alive" case, not the specific Bradley Cooper case.  Because, as I've already said (but it bears repeating, somehow), Bradley Cooper is hot. But in the larger context, People has been, for the past fifteen years at least sending a very clear message that only white people are "sexy."

Again, says you, big freakin' deal.  It's not like they're saying that white people are more intelligent, more talented, more moral, or more worthy.  Well ... except that they sort of are.  Because - at least in the North American culture - people who are perceived to be more attractive "are more successful, make more money, are more confident, have more sex, enjoy better health, receive better treatment at restaurants, hotels, and shops, are perceived as more intelligent and competent, and are happier" than those perceived to be less attractive (read the whole story here).  And if we're honest with ourselves, we can say the same thing about white people in our society.  See the connection? Who is "sexy" and who isn't matters.  It matters more than it ought to, that I will grant you - but it matters nonetheless.

And no, the media isn't solely responsible for determining the amount of sexiness we will assign someone.  Admittedly, much of this is driven by our own hormones.  There's often no accounting for why someone you see on the street causes you to involuntarily crane your neck if only to spend six or seven more sumptuous seconds gazing upon his or her gorgeous face and luscious form (not that this ever happens to me, mind you). But, at the same time, can we possibly deny how much of this is driven by the media?

Indeed, part - perhaps much - of what forces you to turn your head at the sight of some sexy stranger you spot on the street is a product of not what you believe about beauty - it's what you've learned about beauty.  We all know that one-piece polyester jumpsuits are hideous, right?  No one has to teach us that, at least.  Except that forty years ago, they were the norm - and quite fashionable at that.  So how is it that people forty years ago learned the exact opposite of what we so clearly know to be true today?  It's because we don't know anything, not really.  For a nation of such rugged individuals, we're actually quite good at doing what we're told to do - believing what we're told to believe - and slobbering over those we're told we should slobber over.  It feels very primal and visceral, but it's all learned behavior.

I think that People Magazine, so long as their annual "Sexiest Man Alive" pick is a national conversation, has the ability, in its own small way, to make the planet better or worse, by exerting what influence it has (and I believe it probably has more than we give it credit for) in an age of ever-increasing globalization to expand our notions of beauty to include more than just 16% of the world's population.  Actually, it's more than just an ability - I believe it's an obligation.  And against this particular backdrop, getting mad because some other white dude was picked over your preferred white dude is just ludicrous.

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

This was originally written in July, 2007.  It's from my old blog, one that I'll likely delete once all of my favorites have been republished.

So I learned today that Steve Martin got married in a surprise ceremony at his home in L.A.

Which is totally weird, because Steve Martin is my closeted gay lover. No, seriously.

About three years ago, I had the most vivid dream I can ever remember. It was like a movie; it encompassed several scenes, and the story it told spanned years.

It was all about how I met Steve Martin in a crowded gay bar in Rehoboth except that I was the only person who knew who he was (give me a break; it was a dream). Flash forward to a few years later; Steve and I have been carrying on a torrid affair, and we're talking on the phone. I'm begging him to come out of the closet and be free (altho' even in the dream, I think I really wanted to move to Hollywood and be his arm candy -- suck it, Anne Heche!!) and he's telling me that he can't because he has a career and a publicist and not even his publicist knows he's gay, and blah blah blah, and it's all so boring. Anyway, we resolve the situation by me quitting my job and him buying me a huge mansion in Rehoboth, where we met. And while Steve is off making movies and attending premieres and awards shows without me, I'm hanging out with my adoptive lesbian moms and beach friends and having a fairly good time except when they ask me how the hell I make enough money to live in an enormous mansion while not working and why I always make excuses when someone tries to set me up on a date. And in my dream, I love Steve, I really do, but because of our relationship, I'm now in the closet too. The last scene of the dream took place in a movie theatre. Not a premiere in Hollywood, no -- but the Midway Theatres on Route One in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Steve is munching on popcorn and really, really happy but I'm angry, probably because I'm a closet case and it's all Steve's fault, and he decides that he's going to cheer me up ... by going down on me in the movie theatre. So he's kneeling on the floor and unzipping my fly, and ... well ... you know ... and I'm just staring at the paint peeling off of the ceiling of the movie theatre thinking, "Damn you, Steve Martin, you made me the shell of a man I am today."

Is that completely f#%ed up or what??!!

Freud or Jung or someone said that everyone in your dreams is actually you, and that the conflicts that arise between "characters" in your dreams are actually facets of your personality warring with each other. To this day, I haven't located my inner comic-genius-movie-star-tortured-by-living-a-lie-and-risky-public-sexual-encounters, so I have no idea what my Steve Martin dream was supposed to resolve.

The other night I had an equally vivid dream. I was in a car with my family (sister, father, mother), driving away from somebody's wedding reception (not sure whose), and my father is having a heart attack at the wheel (literally), my mother is yelling at me for getting drunk at the reception, my sister is saying nothing, and I'm defending myself from my mother's baseless accusations (I was so not drunk; I was being funny, and she has no sense of humor -- in the dream) while trying to get everyone to notice that hello, my father is having a heart attack while driving the car that we're all inside of!!

A friend told me that "you are the car and the chaos within is your mind fragmenting between duty to family approval and duty to your own life." And I'm all like, "Yeah ... but isn't everybody?"

All I know is, when I was carrying on a three-year closeted love affair with Steve Martin, he always got my jokes and never thought I was drunk (when I wasn't).

Life is a Cabaret, Old Chum

In 1986, when I was fifteen, I saw the film Cabaret for the first time. Before the year was over, I had probably watched that one movie at least forty times, and I’ve probably seen it forty times since. As one might expect, I can quote entire scenes from memory. Additionally, I seem to have memorized every note of the score, every dance step, every camera angle, every raised eyebrow.

I didn’t know why I loved Cabaret so much. One might blame Brian, the character played by Michael York, the leading man in the film’s seemingly heterosexual love story. He’s gay. The first time I saw the film, the discovery of Brian’s true sexuality hit me like a ton of bricks; I sat in my living room, mouth agape, literally unable to move. Even today, I’m taken aback when I hear Brian speaking his truth for the very first time.

So yes, although I’d remain in the closet for another ten years, there was likely some sort of unconscious recognition of myself there. But years later, I now know what truly drew me to insert this particular cassette into the VCR over, and over, and over … and her name was Liza.

Every gay man seems to have a diva of choice, and mine is and forever will be Liza Minnelli. In college, I wore out my copies of “Live at Carnegie Hall” and “Liza with a ‘Z’”; in the early 90s, I saw her live in concert three times. I realize that she is now perceived by many as a parody of her former self, but I don’t care. Fat, thin, out of rehab or on the way back in, single or married to yet another gay husband, I just love her.

Logic would dictate that as a homosexual man, I would have chosen a different sort of person to worship. And by different I mean … I don’t know, another man? Mel Gibson had chiseled features, a sculpted physique, and some semblance of sanity in the mid-1980s … why not Mel? Why not any number of handsome (male) matinee idols?

I know that I’m not alone among gay men when it comes to the diva thing. Few adore Liza Minnelli to the extent that I do, but whether you’ve chosen Barbra Streisand, Judy Garland, Diana Ross, Cher, Joan Crawford, Bette Midler, Lucille Ball, Dorothy Dandridge, Bette Davis, Madonna, J-Lo, Tallulah Bankhead, Beyoncé, or Christina Aguilera (or some combination of the above); many (if not most) gay men of all generations have pledged their devotion to one or more icons who speak to our collective soul.

Why do we love them so much? There are likely as many answers as there are divas to choose from, but they do share several things in common.

First of all, they love us as much as we love them. A true diva knows that she has struck gold when she wins the hearts, minds, and wallets of gay men everywhere. Compare us to other groups of fans, and we rank up there with Deadheads as the most loyal followers in America. Also, they’re really good at what they do. Whether it’s singing, acting, dancing, looking fabulous, or reinventing their public persona every three years, there’s a standard of quality that cannot be undermined. Taken as a group, the gay guys have always exuded exceptional taste.

But I have a theory about our beloved icons. I believe that gay men love these tough-as-nails, glamorous, gutsy broads because they validate our existence every time they teach us that you don’t have to be masculine in order to be strong.

I’m fully aware that the stereotype of the mincing, effeminate gay man is just that: a stereotype. There are some gay men that fit that description, and there are also others, who are jocks, bookworms, bikers, preppies, cowboys, etc. But almost all of us have felt the sting of discrimination at some point in our lives; we’ve all been called names. Faggot. Homo. Plus a few others that are unprintable here. But it’s not uncommon for gay men to be called simply: Girl. Pansy. Fairy. You can be as butch as you want to be, but there’s no escaping that for many homophobes, you’re as low as a man can get because you’ve made yourself a woman, and there can’t be anything worse than that.

Enter the diva. She’s undeniably female, and stronger than any man in her path. She’s probably been criticized at some point for being somehow less than ladylike. Ball-breaker. Man-eater. If nothing else, she’s a survivor, proving her strength not through attitude, but simply by standing back up every time life knocks her down. We don’t simply enjoy these women; we need them. We need them to be tough, we need them to be fabulous, we need them to be unafraid. And when the world is cold, we need them to belt it to the rafters, “What good is sitting all alone in your room? Come, hear the music play. Life is a cabaret, old chum. Come to the cabaret.”


This essay was originally written for "Letters from CAMP Rehoboth," a newsletter serving the gay, lesbian, and straight communities of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware