Her choice of topics serves the dual purpose of 1)making me feel ancient and crone-like, and 2)allowing me to reflect on my red-state upbringing, with its wealth of homophobia and sheer ignorance about The Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name.
I was over 30 before I connected the dots about Alex, the navigator on my dad's B-24. Alex, a Republican bachelor, exchanged countless letters with my mother, faithfully sent my granny cards on Mother's Day, and presented thoughtful graduation gifts to my brothers. The salient biographical details for me were that he bought me the most gorgeous Easter dress I will ever own (dropped waist, covered buttons down the front, crinkly skirt, be still my heart), and that my dad always disappeared when he came to visit. Alex and my mother would chatter for hours, Alex would rise to depart, and magically my father would reappear to say farewell. "Where did Charles go?" my mother would ask. Somewhere where his gaydar signal wasn't picking up, I'm guessing.
My Greatest Generation dad had no useful models for how to behave around a person of a different sexual orientation. Alex's presence signified Too Much Information, and in the face of this knotty social and sexual puzzlement, my dad headed for the certainty and security of his pickup.
Virginia Woolf claimed that human nature changed on or about December 10, 1910. I can't put that fine a point on it, but blessedly, humanity found a few clues about gay civil rights somewhere between my Easter dress and Cranky #1's research paper. Cranky #2 may very well fit into my frothy yellow confection this season, and I would be pleased to tell her about its provenance: It came from Alex, a dear family friend who had a queer eye for fashion.
--MCG
MCG: This is good writing. (That is the parson's diagnosis, btw, and I second it wholeheartedly.) This is really a great small essay about the world as we have known and know it. xxooxxooxx
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