Several men have been important in my life. If I'm lucky, at least one
more will enter it and make a difference. Right around my birthday,
my relationship with three different men seemed to have special resonance.
Aurelio Aurelio and I had been dating off and on since meeting
in Tampa. On one of those dates, we discussed relationships. "Do you
have a lover, or are you looking for one?" he asked.
I told him, no, I didn't have one and wasn't particularly looking. "I
think it would be a shame to go through life without sharing my heart,"
I said, "but I've got to realize that's a very real possibility. I
look at the other members of my family, my mother and sisters, and I
see I could very well end up like them. On the other hand, I've done a
lot more work - through therapy and introspection - than they have to
try to make sure I don't end up like them. But it could
happen."
He described his situation to me: he had broken up with a lover in
order to move to San Francisco. He didn't have a lover now and wasn't
interested in acquiring one. He said he really didn't have enough time
to focus on the kind of attention a lover needs. He described one
man who proposed marriage to him after only two dates.
"That seems a bit rushed," I said.
Aurelio fervently agreed.
"I mean," I continued, "he could hardly have gotten to know you, could
he? I don't trust that kind of instant affection. It comes out of the
person, a projection of him, and hasn't got a whole lot to do with me."
He agreed. The conversation went off into other topics after that, but
I took it to be a kind of cautionary tale: Aurelio was saying, "Don't
get too attached to me because I'm not available for that kind of
relationship." Point taken.
That was in August. The weekend following my birthday in September,
Stephen and I went into San Francisco to do a little shopping, bum
around, have a picnic in Dolores Park, and attend a concert Aurelio's
group was giving. Stephen and I had a fine time, enjoying the sun in
the park, taking tea at a little shop on Church near 24th, and walking
over to Noe Valley Ministries for the concert.
The group was in even better form than the last time I had heard them.
The balance was improved and their stage presence was far more
relaxed and spontaneous.
Between numbers, Aurelio went into his usual stand-up routine. I'd
seen it twice before, but it still had some amusing moments. One of
his standard lines is to ask the audience, "How many of you are in
long-term relationships?" The trick was Aurelio would then tease the
people in the audience about how long they had been together. Tables
were turned this time, however, when a man a few seats away from me
raised his hand.
"Oh, not you!" Aurelio said with a grin.
"Well," the guy said, "we have." I had seen this man at previous
concerts.
"All right then," Aurelio said, continuing to play the game, "how long
have we been together?"
"A year," the man said.
Aurelio then introduced him as his boyfriend.
I was stunned. This was not the lover Aurelio had left to move to San
Francisco. This was someone he had met since moving here, someone with
whom he had been having an on-going relationship when he told me, just
a month before, that he didn't have the time for one.
The rest of the concert was good, but a sense of betrayal hung over me,
dulling my enjoyment. What did this kind of deception mean? Who was
being deceived, me or the other guy?
I tried to say hello to Aurelio after the show, but he was surrounded
by fans - and the gentleman in the audience. Aurelio saw me, and gave
me a smile, but we didn't speak. Although I hung around for some time
after the performance, he didn't seem able to break away from his
friends. I left, with Stephen, without speaking to him.
I sent him some of my music, and we've had one e-mail exchange since
the concert. But the connection is dead. I can only be friends with
someone I can talk to freely, spontaneously. I don't feel that way
around people who have deceived me.
Bob This year, my birthday is on Thursday, which is chorus rehearsal
night. That has special meaning to me because when your birthday falls
on rehearsal night, the entire chorus sings "Happy Birthday" to you.
Call me a sentimentalist, but the prospect of having 60 people sing
"Happy Birthday" to me just thrills me.
It should have happened sooner. My birthday also fell on a Thursday in
1991. That birthday turned out to be rather miserable, due mainly to
my lover at the time, Bob.
Bob was supposed to pick me up after work and we were to go out to
dinner. As usual, he was late, and his lateness was compounded by
heavy traffic. When he finally pulled up outside my building (after
spending nearly twenty minutes trying to circle the block), he was
in a foul mood. I understood his frustration with the traffic, but
not why he should carry it forward now that we were together.
Nevertheless, he continued to pout, right through dinner, which was in
the revolving restaurant at the top of the Hyatt on the Embarcadero. I
was in high spirits, however. I was looking forward to hearing the
chorus greet my birthday. We ate mostly in silence, watching the
city slide by around us. Near the end of the meal, some sort of
celebration about the Ferry Building or the Embarcardero started
setting off fireworks. I was delighted. I love fireworks, and I
rarely get the chance to see them at eye level. Now, they were
going off just over my left shoulder. What a wonderful,
serendipitous gift! "Let's go watch!" I said.
"You go," Bob said, sounding vaguely disapproving.
I walked to the other side of the restaurant and watched the display
from the restaurants wide windows for several minutes, then rejoined
Bob for dessert.
When it came time to leave, I asked Bob if he would drop me off at
rehearsal. At that time, the chorus was rehearsing at St. Francis
Lutheran Church on Church Street. Since Bob would have to pass the
corner of Church and Market on his way home, it would not be out of
his way.
But instead, he looked up at me and said soulfully, "Come home with
me."
It was so endearing I abandoned my rehearsal plans.
Cuddling up with my lover and best friend would be a far better
birthday than a chorus of "Happy Birthday" could ever be. So we went
home together.
But we did not cuddle up. Instead, Bob sat up in bed and read a book.
True, he occasionally read me a paragraph or two, but it was hardly a
celebration of my birth. It was, instead, a way for Bob to put a quiet
end on what had been, for him, a taxing evening.
That was 1991. We split up in May of 1992. Now, my birthday was
coming around on a Thursday again. This time, I would not be cheated.
My friend Chauncey took me out to dinner just before rehearsal at an
excellent restaurant in the Castro. The chorus now
rehearses in the MCC, just a few blocks from the restaurant. However
Chauncey and I had such a good time and I drank so much wine that I
arrived half an hour late. As I entered, Pat, our director, said,
"Well, I guess he has been celebrating his birthday."
I sat through the first half of the rehearsal in a happy fog. Break
time came a went, the time when birthdays are usually sung, but there
was a slew of announcements and Pat was on a tight schedule, so
he never gave the signal. I had recovered enough from the wine to
sing during the second half of rehearsal, and as rehearsal drew to
a close, my happy anticipation mounted.
"See you all next week!" Pat said, and people started to leave.
"Wait!" I cried out.
"What?" asked Pat.
"It's my birthday," I pleaded.
"Oh!" he said, and gave the signal. And sixty people sang me "Happy
Birthday." I clapped my hands together like a kid and grinned.
Sometimes, you just have to insist on being happy.
My Father I hadn't written or telephoned my father in over a
year. He kept sending me Christmas and birthday cards, but I stopped
in 1994. The reason I stopped was simple: I felt like a fraud. I
had tried writing letters to him, telling him what was going on in
my life, but he had said there were "certain things" he just didn't
want to hear about. Those "certain things" are a major part of my
life. They are, to me, what makes my life interesting, challenging,
and worth living.
But he would have none of it. Instead, I was to feed him happy chatter
and ceremonial greetings on appropriate days.
But in 1994, when one of those days came around, I had
not address to send the card to. It was Father's Day and I was
visiting my half-brother David and his wife and kids in New York.
"I'd send Dad a Father's Day card," I told him, "but I don't know
where he is."
Dad and Shirley, his wife, spend winters in their Florida condo and
summers in the Milwaukee area. I didn't get their Florida address
until months after they had moved, and the exact location of their
summer digs changes from year to year. Now it was mid-June, and I
still had no idea where he was.
"Neither do I," said David, looking a little perplexed.
That's when it occurred to me. The communication problems between
my father and me have nothing to do with me. They have to do with
him, and he has the same problems with all his kids.
It's amazing how, even into late middle age, we still feel the
childhood sense of responsibility for our parents. If something
is wrong or broken in the bond between us, we feel it must surely
be our fault, and if we only try harder we can fix it.
Our relationship cannot be fixed because I did not break it. My
father did. That was quite a revelation.
Of course, he still expects me to hold up my end of the father-son
bargain, but in 1994, I decided that was too much to ask. I stopped
sending him cards: no Father's Day card, no Christmas card, no card
on his birthday. He still sent me cards, however, For a while.
This year, for the first time in my adult memory, I got no birthday
card from my father. I think he finally heard something I had to
say.