As COVID-19 has continued its unchecked spread across the United States, journalists and scholars have drawn many apt comparisons with pandemics of the past century. The 1918 influenza outbreak has certainly made for a useful example, but it comes from a period when the United States’ public health infrastructure was only in its infancy. Conversely, the more recent H1N1 and Ebola scares illustrate how a science-driven, collaborative approach can effectively contain a deadly contagion while reducing its threat to the general population. In a number of ways, the technologies available to public health today far outpace what was possible in the 1980s, when HIV/AIDS was discovered. But to understand how COVID-19 has managed to penetrate the general population with such ruthless efficiency and thoroughness, I believe the political handling of the early HIV pandemic merits strong reconsideration.
In 1987, Randy Shilts, a trailblazing gay journalist who covered AIDS extensively for the San Francisco Chronicle, exposed the weaknesses of that political system in his bestseller, And the Band Played On: Politics, People and the AIDS Epidemic. While researching Shilts’s life, I’ve mostly regarded Band as cautionary, but reflective of when he wrote it, with a legacy that’s complicated and admittedly less than perfect. However, I’m eerily reminded today of how some of its broader themes have managed to endure.
First, scientific evidence shows us what to do, but personal stories show us why we should care. While the mainstream press covered AIDS mainly as a medical issue, Band made the pandemic intimate and relatable by depicting how political gamesmanship could impact the lives of ordinary Americans. Shilts documented how AIDS was initially treated as a political inconvenience by the Reagan Administration’s budget officials, who stymied efforts within the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to mount a full-fledged effort even as doctors, epidemiologists, members of Congress, and activists were clamoring for resources to battle this deadly new disease. Within his narrative, Shilts helped familiarize the general public with figures like Larry Kramer, the tenacious and sometimes inflammatory author and activist, whose fury targeted not only gay men who still downplayed the existential threat they were facing, but also leading officials like Ed Koch, Mario Cuomo, and Ronald Reagan, who initially failed to reckon with the disease as a serious public concern.
Of course, the story that still haunts Shilts’s career is that of Gaetan Dugas, a French-Canadian flight attendant who turned up in numerous early contact traces and reportedly refused to change behaviors that put his sexual partners at risk. While Shilts stopped short of calling Dugas “the man who brought AIDS to North America,” a headline in the New York Post did just that, catapulting the book to bestselling status. Among Shilts’s backers, Dugas (who died in 1984) remains an example of how one person’s disregard for preventive measures can expose a wider population to heightened risk for infection. To critics, the story reeked of tabloid journalism, which stigmatized people with HIV and legitimized efforts to isolate and blame a solitary source for every new disease outbreak.
Despite its limitations, the case of Gaetan Dugas illustrates how difficult it can be to change our behaviors, especially those we associate with longstanding patterns and customs. The alternative, however, is still deadly. Faced with evidence that our everyday habits may endanger ourselves and others, many people respond by taking the necessary precautions. Others will try to mitigate, but not completely eliminate their risk. Some, however, react by doubling down on the harmful behaviors, essentially saying, “You can’t make me.” As in the early AIDS crisis, those in this last category today are a small minority whose lived experiences defy simple explanation, who nonetheless represent a magnified potential for contamination. That risk potential is amplified by the fact that COVID-19 spreads freely and indiscriminately, while HIV is primarily spread through unprotected sex and sharing syringes.
Finally, Shilts knew that all leaders, political or otherwise, come with their flaws and limitations. Whenever possible, however, he tried to balance his criticism by examining their intentions. For example, while Dianne Feinstein, who at the time served as San Francisco’s Mayor, had generally been considered prudish and hostile to the more public aspects of a liberated gay sexuality, Randy noted how she dedicated substantial city funding to AIDS research and care efforts at a time when the Reagan Administration was failing to commit the necessary resources.
In Band, Shilts also drew attention to how Dr. Anthony Fauci, who is rightfully lauded for his leading work on infectious diseases, once made a cringeworthy mistake by publicly speculating that AIDS might be spread through close household contact, due to the discovery of cases among patients’ children. Scientists quickly refuted this, but the misstep sparked some unfortunate overreactions toward AIDS patients by anti-gay conservatives, the mainstream news media, and members of the general public. Over time, however, Fauci, who eventually became lifelong friends with Kramer, has demonstrated his ability to receive new information, correct his mistakes, and speak truth to power when called upon.
Over fifteen long years, those who were affected by the early AIDS crisis had to adjust to the dispiriting interruption of life as they had known it. The pandemic claimed nearly half a million Americans by the year 2000 (including Shilts himself), and instead of life returning to normal, that disruption became the new normal. In the present day, And the Band Played On remains an imperfect yet compelling story that’s still in need of a definitive ending. Good science and the dogged activism of ordinary citizens have substantially improved the outlook, but HIV still affects far too many people both domestically and abroad. If scientists’ predictions hold true, it appears that in the years ahead, so will COVID-19.
Each successive day of the COVID-19 pandemic has forced us to reckon with the reality of overlapping crises, each with its own far-reaching and long-lasting consequences. At the very minimum, the push to forego containment and prematurely reopen the economy has resulted in a stomach-churning rate of new infections, an overwhelmed and resource-starved healthcare system, and an ever-climbing death toll, to say nothing of the potential long-term consequences for those who survive their infection. As many of us sit waiting for life to return to normal, we’re faced with an uncomfortable reflection on how the society we’ve imagined – the return to normal for which we yearn – still exposes its most disadvantaged members to the cruelest possible outcomes. Were Randy Shilts alive today, I think he’d point out how scientific leaders seem to be using the lessons of HIV to fight COVID-19. Scientists, however, aren’t the ones responsible for setting our government’s COVID-19 policy. Americans may be alarmed by the tune that’s being played, but it will only change when the leaders of the band are held accountable for their actions.
In the early stages of research, one of the greatest feelings I get is the rush when all of a sudden, I see nothing but green lights ahead of me – a straight-ahead path for getting exactly what I need, with seemingly few obstacles or complications in between. That’s exactly how I felt on a balmy August afternoon, when an obscure name in a decades-old news story suddenly triggered a flurry of emails and phone calls. From this one archival finding, I’d managed to make contact with one of Randy Shilts’s former journalism professors at the University of Oregon. That conversation led to more introductions, so that in a matter of hours I’d made the acquaintance of even more members of the faculty who’d been around during that era.
The details all fell quickly into place: I would fly to Portland, rent a car, and stay overnight at the home of Linda Alband, Randy Shilts’s oldest friend and former business manager, who I’d met on my first visit the previous year. The next day, I’d make the not-quite-two-hour drive south to Eugene, the slightly sleepy, somewhat quirky home of the University of Oregon, where Randy had first risen to prominence in the 1970s as an outspoken gay activist and award-winning journalism student. If I planned my trip smartly, I figured there was a good chance I’d be able to interview enough people to add some real color to the book, not to mention spend some time searching for documents in the university’s library. As a bonus, it would give me the chance to soak up the campus atmosphere, all the better for imagining how Randy had once roamed these spaces as a fully liberated, free-range hippie homosexual.
Without much hesitation, I blocked out just over a week’s time to chase down stories in the Pacific Northwest. In my excitement, the significance of the dates never even occurred to me until after I booked the flight: I was going to be traveling halfway across the country on Election Day, 2016. Remember that sudden rush I mentioned above? It’s great at the time, but sometimes the excitement crowds out all other forms of rational thinking.
Nice People, Safe Surroundings… Nothing Familiar
Of course, at the time I didn’t imagine there would be any real problem. When the day came, I voted in the morning with my partner Jaxon before we loaded my bags into his car, made a leisurely stop at one of our favorite brunch spots, and headed to the airport. All around the concourse, televisions were buzzing with the usual Election Day speculation, but it was still too early for any news to report. Sitting alone at the gate with no particular interest in all the background chatter, I inserted my earbuds and played a little music until it was time to be herded on board.
I have to admit, I enjoy being unplugged when I fly across the country. It’s relaxing for me to just sit there passively for a while, do a little reading, listen to music, or just close my eyes and lose myself in the hum of the airplane. In the back of my mind, I still felt a tiny bit anxious about what might happen, but mostly I told myself not to think about it. The sun was rapidly sinking as our plane landed on time, and I felt like I’d have plenty of energy for watching the election returns once I got to Linda’s house. If Trump won, I jokingly told friends, at least I could drive west until I hit the ocean. Then, just start swimming.
Once I’d arrived and dropped my bags, I helped myself to some pizza and a glass of wine, settling down in front of the television with Linda and a couple of her friends. Here’s where the rest of it becomes a bit blurry. It’s not so much that I remember the play by play as I do the creeping, all-consuming horror that began to overtake me. I know now that millions of others were sharing my feelings. But everywhere I looked, even though I was with friendly people in safe surroundings, I had nothing familiar to reassure me: not my partner, not my pets, not our home, not my friends or chosen family.
That gulf of 1,500 miles could very well have been an entire planet away, as my senses, overwhelmed by that improbable moment, went numb. I excused myself several times, escaping to my room where all I could do was lay on the bed, engulfed by a deep, guttural throbbing as the raw instinct for survival began to kick in. My text messages with Jaxon grew more frantic. We tried to reassure each other, but nothing that night could make the terror go away. After one last attempt to socialize, I gave up and hid myself away. I didn’t want to see the moment when Trump was declared the winner.
The next morning greeted me the way all my stays in Portland do: with rain, fog, and a deep, dense chill – the exact opposite of what I needed to shake off the restless sleep I’d barely gotten. As they had the night before, my thoughts immediately erupted into panic. You see, one of the reasons I’ve been able to devote myself to Randy’s story is the Affordable Care Act. Being able to buy health insurance without having to keep a full-time job has allowed me to pay the bills without being tied down to a full-time job, which is why I have put in more than 100 travel days for book research since 2014. Before leaving Linda’s house, I made a phone call to a very patient insurance navigator back in Minnesota, who helped me renew my plan for the following year. From the way she answered my questions, it was pretty clear I wasn’t the first nervous person to call that morning.
As I headed south through the Oregon countryside, the sunnier and calmer the weather seemed to get, but in my head I was frantically thinking to myself, what the hell am I going to do? Shockwaves from the previous night were emanating from every corner of the news and social media, and I had another full week ahead of me. The only way I could keep calm was by focusing as narrowly as possible on why I’d even come to Oregon: the story of Randy Shilts.
The Shilts at the End of the Tunnel
I was scheduled to do my first interview on the way into town at the home of Mike Thoele, the man I’d learned about in a news profile of Randy from the early ‘90s, which had triggered this entire trip in the first place. Under normal circumstances, I would have been enthralled by the stunningly gorgeous log house that Mike and his family had built, set far back in a forest of towering pine trees, exuding calm and tranquility and oneness with nature. To be honest, I could have stayed there quite a bit longer, if only for the comfort of that wonderful, otherworldly space. It was a relief to spend time with other people who, like me, were trying to process what had happened, and who appreciated the distress it was clearly causing me to be traveling at a time like this.
I experienced that same sympathy and hospitality from all of the people I met in the days that followed, as I hiked my way around the verdant U of O campus in pursuit of Randy’s story. Even the sight of student protests gave me comfort, reminding me of my own activist days back at Michigan State. However, that was about the fullest extent of my engagement with the larger world. While each day gave me the chance to immerse myself in research, at night I would hide away in the bedroom of my Airbnb, stubbornly avoiding the news by watching an endless stream of RuPaul’s Drag Race videos.
Over the course of that week, my searches brought me to places like Allen Hall, home of the School of Journalism and Communication, where Randy’s name still flashes on one of the wall-mounted video screens, part of a repeating list of student scholarship winners (he endowed a gift to the school in 1992). I sneaked a look inside the newsroom of the Daily Emerald, where he worked as Managing Editor during his award-winning senior year. And I was fortunate to pick up an unexpected interview with one of Randy’s former classmates, who happened to be teaching on campus during one of my morning visits. The greatest comfort I found, however, came in the afternoons I spent on the ground floor of Knight Library, buried in the microform collection, scrolling through page after page of the Daily Emerald’s back issues.
For anyone who hasn’t used microfilm, imagine staring at a backlit screen for hours on end, using a mouse (if it’s a newer machine) to advance through page after page of material that’s been photographed onto reels of film. This is one of the ways archiving was done in pre-digital times, and to find what you’re looking for, you need to somehow keep your eyes focused and your back and neck from cramping. In other words, it really isn’t a lot of fun. For once, though, microfilm research was my saving grace. I could focus my attention so narrowly, and for such a long time, that I could practically forget what was happening in the outside world. I could ignore my phone and resist the temptation to open Twitter, harnessing my energies solely on finding Randy.
And – bless his soul – I found him! I knew going into the trip that Randy had been a pioneering activist before going into journalism, but the details had been a bit vague to me. In these old pages of the Emerald, I learned more about this “other” Randy, the English major who used his brazen, unapologetic gayness to win an elected seat in student government, where he chaired a powerful committee that distributed student fees to programs. Here was the Randy who immediately understood and embraced coalition politics, forming progressive alliances with feminist and multi-cultural group leaders to slash traditional programming favorites (including subsidized athletic tickets) and propose new on-campus childcare initiatives, reintegration services for returning veterans, and first-ever funding for the Eugene Gay People’s Alliance, whose student arm Randy had helped to establish. Although Randy was only in student government for a year, he left an important legacy by becoming one of the nation’s first openly gay elected student government leaders, co-founding a campus organization that still exists today, and setting precedent by using student fees to support gay and lesbian programming, including the U of O’s first-ever Coming Out Week in October 1973. And all of this, remember, came before he decided to go into journalism.
Confronting the New Normal
After returning to Portland, I joined Linda and some friends for a Saturday night show at Darcelle XV & Co., one of the oldest drag cabarets in the country, and home to the world’s oldest performing female impersonator herself, the fabulous Darcelle. Before the show, Linda and I presented her with a laminated, framed color print of “Rhinestones and Royalty,” Randy’s first of many award-winning stories, in which he’d interviewed Darcelle and other members of the Imperial Sovereign Rose Court back in 1974. The house that night was packed, especially with bachelorette and birthday parties, and the lip syncs and racy jokes seemed to give everyone a chance to let out a long exhale so we could actually laugh and cheer again. It was a badly needed evening, one that still reminds me to seek out friendship, humor, and folly during times of darkness and hostility.
The trip was well worth it for the materials I found and the acquaintances I made. I just wish I’d chosen a better time to travel. Looking back, I can see why it’s taken me four years to write about that experience. Imagining all of the possible atrocities of an unchecked Trump presidency just seemed too frightening to consider, especially while traveling alone, so instead I held onto any comfort I could find. Coming back to Minneapolis after what seemed like a lifetime away, I at least had my home, my partner, my pets, my friends, and my family to remind me that I wasn’t experiencing this nightmare alone. All throughout that trip, I’d tried to hold my anxieties in check by repeating the words, “Just get through this, just survive.” In some ways, it feels like that’s been my mantra ever since.
When I set out to write the biography of Randy Shilts, I knew it would be a journey. Somewhere along the way, it became the most important work I think I’ve ever done. In the five-plus years since I started this research, I’ve managed to log over a hundred days of book-related travel, which included visits to several archives and such landmarks as the San Francisco Chronicle, where he became a famous journalist, and “Chez Rondey,” the house he bought and lovingly renovated in Guerneville, CA. Along the way, I’ve also recorded oral history interviews with more than sixty people who knew Randy, some for better and some for worse. In chronicling Randy’s story, I’m hoping to do justice to how, despite his very human insecurities and frailties, he tried to seek justice for those who needlessly died in that pandemic. In a news environment that hardly seemed to give a damn, he amplified these stories by making hospitals and clinics part of his regular beat, bringing the plight of frontline healthcare workers and grieving families to the front page at a time when most AIDS stories were focused narrowly on the science of the disease, and not its politics.
At this point, a full draft of the manuscript is about 75% complete, and my literary agent, George Greenfield of CreativeWell, Inc., has been working diligently to find it a home. But sadly, over that time I have neglected this blog, which I created as a space for my reflective writing when I was still in grad school. So, today marks a sort of reintroduction to me and to this blog: the rebirth of Wine and Proses, my home for sharing stories. I hope you’ll find it interesting and join the conversation with a comment below.
Two Paths Converging
As much as I hate talking myself up, I’ll start by telling you a little bit about who I am, and why I thought I could write a great book about Randy Shilts. In a few key areas, I felt like we had some experiences in common, which made it easier to see the world from his point of view. Although he and I were born a generation apart, I, like Randy, was also a gay kid with a Midwestern upbringing. In the early 1970s, Randy left Aurora, Illinois, for Portland, where he soon came out both to himself and to all of his friends before enrolling at the University of Oregon. I came out in the mid-1990s and went to Michigan State University where, like Randy, I started out as an English major who had some early success as a student activist. Under the slogan “Come Out for Shilts,” Randy got himself elected to student government and helped to establish the first LGBTQ organization on the U of O campus. At Michigan State, I co-founded and led its first LGBTQ student literary magazine, which we called Q-News.
Another similarity is that in our early days, Randy and I both aspired to become novelists, but ended up taking different career paths. He became a pioneering journalist, who brought coverage of gay politics and culture into the mainstream at the San Francisco Chronicle and wrote three successful books: The Mayor of Castro Street, And the Band Played On, and Conduct Unbecoming. I decided to take my interest in the complexities of human relationships, along with a desire to help build healthier queer communities, into the social work profession. It might seem like this was the point where our stories diverged, except for one important element: the HIV/AIDS pandemic.
I got involved in HIV nearly 20 years ago because of a social work internship, which in turn led to my first paid gig doing outreach, education, and testing at gay bars and Pride festivals. (We’ll save the story about dildos, blow-up dolls, and Blowpops for another time.) It was these experiences that made the pandemic more personal for me, and as a result, I began to understand how Randy had played a role in its earliest years. When I was first starting out, it wasn’t unusual for older colleagues to say, “If you want to know why things are the way they are around here, you need to read And the Band Played On.” By this, they meant that our jobs carried a political meaning, and it was imperative that we center the experiences of people directly affected by the pandemic in our work, especially when it involved dealing with policymakers and the media. I ended up spending almost 10 years working in HIV/AIDS service organizations, but unfortunately, even as I was experiencing some big professional achievements, my personal writing had begun to wither.
This made the decision to go back to school for my Doctorate sort of liberating, because I went from doing a lot of managing and coordinating to taking a deep dive into research and writing. By 2012, I had started exploring the history of gay and lesbian community services between Stonewall and AIDS, a topic I thought was interesting because so much of what’s written about LGBTQ history has focused on political activism or popular culture. But early lesbian and gay liberationists were also trying to start their own clinics and social service organizations, where gay people could find support from providers who understood and wouldn’t condemn them.
Interestingly, some of the most in-depth stories I found on these topics were written by Randy. Looking closer, I could see how he’d begun to unearth the “social” disease of HIV/AIDS, half a decade before its full impact would be realized. “I wonder what Randy’s biography says about this,” I said to myself, but at the time I couldn’t find one. Even after learning of an academic biography that was in the works, I realized that I had different interests from other researchers. I wanted to explore how the developmental milestones, intimate relationships, and professional influences that shaped Randy Shilts’ growth and maturation intersected with the history-making rise of gay liberation to make him one of his generation’s most successful and controversial authors.
From the outset, I knew that I would need to take a more intimate approach to my research. In reaching out to Randy’s loved ones, I started with the assumption that they might still harbor some complicated feelings, given that he was famous for chronicling and eventually dying from HIV/AIDS. Drawing on my experiences in social work, I began by offering compassion and respect for each individual, taking a sincere interest in them and their own lives as a way of making a safe space for them to share their stories. In many instances, this has given people permission to share their deeper feelings and more conflicted memories. By taking this approach, I’m hoping that these oral histories will bring Randy’s story to life, adding context and color to the materials I found in my archival searches.
When the Band Hit the Road
The working title for my book is When the Band Played On: The Life and Times of Randy Shilts. I’m sure there will be some editorial changes once a publisher picks it up, but for now this is my story, and I’m sticking to it. Here’s why.
When people ask about my project and I say the name “Randy Shilts,” they almost never know who I’m talking about. When I say “And the Band Played On,” if they are of a certain age, there’s often an emotional reaction. Then, they tell me about someone significant in their lives: the uncle who’d moved out west, but then came home to die with lesions on his face; the roommate in New York, who they took care of in his final months; or the older cousin from Milwaukee, whose funeral they weren’t allowed to attend.
People sometimes credit Randy’s enduring influence to his portrayal of Gaetan Dugas, the misattributed “Patient Zero,” whose sexual behaviors had been documented in CDC contact tracing years before Randy wrote his book. I’ve come to realize, however, that for many, the words And the Band Played On don’t immediately conjure memories of Gaetan. Instead, they often think of a loved one they lost. At a time when the words “AIDS” and “gay” were practically synonymous, Randy’s work helped them to see these deaths not as an immoral plague, but as a failure of political leaders to care for those who were on the margins of society. Fast forward to 2020, and here I am now, working on the story of a journalist who covered (1) a movement that rose up to fight back against unchecked police violence; (2) a pandemic was spreading unchecked while the government played politics; and (3) the persecution and exclusion of a population from civic participation via military service.
The vignettes I’ll be sharing in this blog aren’t excerpts from the book, but they’ll provide some “behind the scenes” glimpses of my work over the past five-plus years. If you find them interesting, please comment below or reach out to me directly. And if you like what you see, I hope you’ll take a moment to share it.
The experience of putting hand to paper stimulates an entirely different writing experience for me. Back in 2016, I found this to be true as I started writing long hand at times to break through the long, dreadful periods of staring at the glow of my expectant laptop. I’m not sure why, but it took me until mid-2017 to go out and buy a pack of brand new pencils for the first time in… more years than I care to admit.
Suffice it to say, the selection these days is pretty limited. But the pack of black, No. 2 Triconderogas has served me well. I should’ve done this years ago: as a lefty, I’ve spent almost my entire life accumulating enough ink blots on my writing hand to make an entire book of Rorschach tests. But, in the maelstrom of our WiFi-enabled way of life, I still forget to just sit, think, and write what comes to mind. Going right to the keyboard just makes more sense, in terms of efficiency, but it never feels as second nature as pencil to paper.
My handwritten notes indicate that I bought the pencils right before Memorial Day, at the beginning of a summer that I’ll remember for two unforgettable events. For different reasons, I’m still trying to comprehend them both.
By way of explanation: I’ve more or less ignored this blog for nearly two years. That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it, beaten myself up for not writing something, or come close to posting something. I do have a good reason though. Since mid-2015 I have traveled across the country, interviewed more than 30 people, spent hours searching hundreds of papers in library archives, and written the beginning of a book that will tell the intimate life story of the late journalist Randy Shilts. So yes, I’ve been busy. But I’m also irritated that I haven’t written more of these posts along the way. So, I’m keeping a notebook now, and I even bought pencils and a sharpener. Old school! It feels genuinely good to write long-hand again. I recommend it for anyone who gets bogged down in word processing and the unending stream of social media ejaculations. (I’m using that word correctly. Look it up.) Below is the first of my scribbles.
I’ve thought a lot in the past day about 1984. The 1984 that I knew – through the eyes of a seven-year-old – involved dirt roads, dirt bikes, sheep pastures, teenage sisters, Reagan-Mondale, the Detroit Tigers in the World Series, and (unbeknownst to my parents) an underlying sexual confusion that would take another decade to reconcile. I can’t say for sure that these were happy times. The fights between my parents and oldest sister would certainly hint at a more complicated, stress-inducing dynamic. But that’s nothing compared to what came into focus today about Randy’s 1984: the headlines from the frontline of a battle, fraught with disease, deaths, false or misleading hopes, cynical political calculations, and misplaced self-interests.
It’s a simple set of tasks, an annual ritual that signifies the changing of seasons, a reconfiguration of habits, and the compression of our living space back into the modest square footage of our 1880s farmhouse. Still, every fall when we pack away our porch furniture and winterize the wraparound porch, it’s a reluctant exercise that we avoid for as long as possible. Some of the work, like picking up leaves in the front yard, is pleasantly autumnal. I’m alone with my thoughts while raking and vacuuming up the browns, yellows, oranges, and reds that have made our lawn an earthy carpet for the past few weeks.
Together, Jaxon and I hang sheets of plastic over the porch screens and tack in glass window panels (actually a massive supply of cabinet doors he found in Ikea’s as-is section several years ago), a move that closes in our cabin-like summer retreat but drastically reduces the edge from icy northern winds. Our summer porch bed- a cozy full-sized box spring and mattress that somehow holds two adult men, two grown dogs, and an occasional visit by the cat – will be leaned against the shingled inside wall until we bring it inside for use by holiday guests. The cabin, as we call it, will go dormant until springtime.
In eight years of homeownership, we’ve made these rituals into central markers of the passage of time. It’s not as as nostalgic as Thanksgiving (my Super Bowl for cooking the big feast) or Christmas (our lowkey day of dog park visiting, leftovers for lunch, napping, and homemade soup). But, wrapping the porch and putting away the yard furniture represents a ritual of work, anticipating the dark and frozen winter to come while looking forward to the days when we can walk outside in shirtsleeves and drop the top on Jaxon’s convertible. We do our work so that we can repeat the cycle, fulfilling the patterns we’ve established that keep us connected to our home. Read More
To get myself back in the habit of posting regular content, I’m adding some occasional work that comes from the past. The first of these is a spoken word piece from 2006.
Performed in August, 2006, as a guest artist for “Two Queers and a Chubby,” a spoken word entry in the Minnesota Fringe Festival.
This sounds funny to say out loud, and forgive me if I seem a bit embarrassed to admit it… but I think my “best friend” when I was a child was actually Doctor Who. Do you remember him? The British guy with the curly hair and the scarf! I am starting to think I wasn’t alone in this fascination, that for other young males who were lonely, awkward, and outcast, he was someone we could relate to and embrace. He was enigmatic, clever, outspoken, intelligent, and abhorred violence if he could avoid it. He traveled on his own, outside of society’s structures, a loner even to his own people. The companions who traveled with him were fond of him, but still even to them he was a bit of a mystery.
That was how childhood felt to me—the boy who was singled out for “using big words,” the smart fat kid whose most athletic extra-curricular activity was marching band. I was a child with many, many emotions, and few role models for how to really—authentically—express them. Did you see BrokeBack Mountain? Those men were about the age of my father, and they exemplified his generation of men—especially rural white men—to near perfection. So how, when you’re an imaginative, over-sensitive kid with a big vocabulary and few friends, do you learn to be who you really are, when all the men and boys around look at you like you’re speaking a different language completely from the English you think is pouring out of your throat? Read More
When I started running last spring, I could manage about 1/2 to 3/4 of a mile nonstop before I would pause to walk for a stretch. By late summer and early fall, I had pushed that distance up to a mile, maybe slightly more. In the spring, I steadily extended that distance to 1 and 1/2, then 1 and 3/4. It sort of hovered there for a while. My overall distance on runs is about 5 miles. I think I probably could have pushed myself further, faster. At each stage, though, I let myself hold steady for a while. I think it was psychologically comforting; at some level, I knew I could take a break at that benchmark and finish the full run in reasonably good time and condition. Two weeks ago, I ran around Lake Nokomis in South Minneapolis. Two laps equal just around five miles, maybe a pinch more. From my car on the nearby parkway, I jogged to the lake and circled once around. Lately, my usually stopping spot to walk has been about 1.7 miles, as I reach the Cedar Avenue Bridge. I kept going. I made it a full lap around the lake, and I kept going. I made it three miles when, just as I was contemplating a breather to walk, my phone rang. Good excuse. I stopped, walked, and talked for about four minutes, and then continued to run the rest of the way. It was my best time ever, best speed per mile, and by far the longest I had run uninterrupted.
That breakthrough came exactly two days after my dissertation defense. As any good researcher will tell you, correlation does not equal causation, but I like thinking that my newfound endurance was symbolic of a burden lifted, setting my legs free to stumble further than they’d taken me before. As a closing image on these last five years of my life, it offers a certain optimism, albeit drenched in sweat and punctuated by my gasps for air. Read More
Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City brought my first real attraction to San Francisco. Although still a couple years away from coming out, as a rural Midwestern teen in the early 1990s I sensed something about that miniseries—aside from curiosity about gay culture of the 70s— which drew me to a city that I had never visited. Its vibrancy, its colors, its characters, brought to life so vividly by Maupin, told me that there was a place for people who were different, who were not satisfied with settling into comfortable patterns and routines, who asked questions to which mainstream America offered few easy answers, and who found friendship and kinship with fellow travelers that wondered and wandered in their own spirited ways. When I finally came out, my 17 year-old mind devoured those six novels. I shared them with my new gay friends, and we chattered like only gay teens can about which character we each were—Mary Ann? Michael Tolliver? Mona? As fans of the Tales series know well, Armistead’s stories (always complicated, filled with compelling characters and delicious plot twists) grew more world-weary as the 1980s dragged on, as needless death and grief filled the Castro and a movement began to act up, screaming in outrage at a country (and its government) that didn’t seem to notice or care. In my half-dozen visits to San Francisco since 1996, I’d say I’ve become less fascinated and more familiar, but nothing has diminished my affection for the city. Touching ground in San Francisco means touching history for me, and again I am struck by how much of that story (which emanates out to touch so many people in the world) remains to be considered and shared.
Tonight, I will take a redeye flight back to Minneapolis after nearly two productive weeks. In the year since I last came and studied Randy Shilts’ papers, I wasn’t able to do much on the project except briefly meet his brothers and correspond with his closest associates. But, it’s an understatement to say that I’ve gone cold on the research. I allowed myself this extended time around Spring Break with the promise that I would make sufficient progress on the dissertation over the winter. When I get back, the dissertation goes on the front burner. In the meantime, I spent several productive days in two wonderful archives, the James C. Hormel Collection at the San Francisco Public Library, and the GLBT Historical Society. At one point during my stay at SFPL, I looked behind me to see the busts of Harvey Milk and George Moscone smiling across the room (which I will take as tacit approval for my ambitions). Right now, it’s safe to estimate that I’ve examined several hundred, if not thousands of pages of Randy’s papers, from diaries to personal correspondences, college papers, poetry, clippings, drafts, reviews, criticisms, and even his last will and testament. Read More