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They say “loving someone gives you courage,” but I was scared. It was Calgary, 1987. I was in the student union building, standing restless, screwing up my courage to go down the hall to a room where the Gay Student Society was about to have their weekly meeting. I was scared to be seen walking nearby. I decided to arrive at precisely five minutes to seven—but then I missed that time window by two minutes—Oh no! Better wait a week!
This was less than two decades after homosexuals in New York had achieved freedom of assembly—such as the right for men and women to drink in a gay bar, wearing ordinary everyday clothing, without a police raid, without everyone present being hauled to jail, without their lives ruined by having their names published in the newspaper. They had their summer of ’69 without any human rights to housing and jobs for even suspected homosexuals. Like my own Calgary of 1987… where freedom of assembly, in broad daylight, would lead to a Gay Rodeo being held here. The editorial cartoonist had nothing better to do than draw two horses in cowboy hats blatantly kissing. I guess it’s too hard to draw a steer wrestler with a limp wrist.
A week later, trying again, I arrived at the meeting early—and sat where no one would see me through the open door. In those days fewer than half of my city’s innocent high schools had even one token gay boy or girl—such brave kids. “Innocent children can’t be gay!” society claimed, since to them being gay was from making a decision, a worldly decision made only after turning 18. In this, society was wrong. I can confidently say so because gays would never lie to each other, and I was among them. This while nobody knew I was a “practising heterosexual.”
I had been hoping to “practise” with a pretty blond, ‘Angela,’ who blushed when I raised the topic of us having a relationship: Oh boy! One evening, in a quiet empty student tavern, across a small table, Angela and I were doing the “students discussing life” thing, sharing our recent accomplishments. I told Angela, “I barely flinched at all today when someone caught me in the Black Lounge reading Loving Someone Gay.” (By Don Clark)
She asked, “Why were you reading that book?”
“Oh,” I said innocently “I grabbed three books at the book sale.”
Her voice a bit higher: “Do you know someone gay?”
“No.”
Puffy chested: “You do know someone gay.”
“Oh. Laura?”
She went calm, puzzled: “No, Laura isn’t gay…” Gasping for air: “I’m gay.”
Angela looked like she had seen a spectre. That spectre was society. No time to stand up and hug. I shoved my hand across the table. “Shake!” Only then did I stand to hug.
“I was wondering how to tell you…”
Next day at the bus stop, I stomped up and down, gloomily telling a mutual acquaintance, “Angela doesn’t want to be my girlfriend.”
…That night I finished the book: I remember reading about a man at a hospital, wearing a business shirt and tie, with damp eyes, being described by a doctor to medical students as “physically healthy, well oriented in time and space… homosexual.” A depressing book, explaining that gays may face life-altering hatred; an idealistic book, implying that straights should not “claim straight privilege.” Meaning: If anyone saw me in a gay bar I would not trip over myself to blab I was straight. No, not even if a straight person I once worked with, the husband of a wife my friend knew, approached us with his wife from across the bar.
In 1987 the words “homosexual” and “lesbian” had a stigma. Many people would say them with a bit of a snarl, like our parents saying the name “Hitler.” And so my friend called herself “gay.”
In due course, after I had paid my dues without straight privilege, I told my club I was straight. One guy secretly worried I might be a “tourist.” He confessed this to me after I had slaved over a gay article for the student newspaper.
The club was active every week, with guests and discussions and documentaries, not to mention fun stuff, because none of us were brought up in gay culture.
Recently, as a white haired guy, I visited the Student Building. My usual little mens washroom is now unisex. Close by, the LGBTQ+ club has a permanent space. Someone was breastfeeding as I gayly walked in to ask if non-students could use that washroom—or would that be perverted? Two ladies eagerly escorted me over and showed me inside. After I got home I remembered: Every Saturday, in whatever tavern or mall we are visiting, I support a straight white female using a power wheelchair in the ladies room.
Today I’m not prejudiced against a gorgeous Asian woman like Michelle Yeo, nor Asian men, but I don’t believe in achieving instant liberation towards everyone everywhere all at once. Because recently I had to scout a community centre, inwardly cringing as I asked where a lecture by a researcher was going to be; I winced to tell an acquaintance I was going; and then I was nervous showing up that night. The topic? Transgenders. I was vulnerable, I guess, because I don’t love anybody transgender yet.
… …
… …
Sean Crawford
in a world of music and colour
November
2023
LOVE THIS!!!
Thank you Lanne. I composed it for my “writing with heart and humour” class, with a teacher named Tina. (At the Alexandra Writers Community Centre at the C-space building)
My friend is still in my life, so, come to think of it, I could let her know I posted this.
Thanks Sean. This was a great piece. It shows what I’ve always known about you. You are kind and compassionate and willing to allow people to be who they are, without judgment. I love the ‘yet’ at the end. Cindy
Thanks Cindy, that’s good to hear. In fact, as part of accepting your compliment I could write it in my journal.
Speaking of journals, my next essay won’t be as grand as this one because I’m doing a smaller 500 word post on “Why journal?” My critique-support group, tomorrow morning, has a 500 word limit for reading aloud, although we can simply read the beginning 500, middle 500 or end part. I often do.
But I simplified things this time by purposely writing a 500 word one.