WARNING: This blog may come across as a “stream-of-consciousness” self-indulgent piece at times, but it represents some of the issues I’ve been grappling with over the past few months.
As a white individual who enjoys certain socio-cultural privileges, I am also a member of a marginalized group. Specifically, I am a gay man. I recognized my “difference” as far back as elementary school, though I couldn’t put a name to it then. I’d internalized a lot of bullshit until I was around 30, when I knew, for the sake of my own survival, I had no choice but to grab hold of authenticity. Once that happened, I began to recognize the intersection of my sexuality with other dimensions of marginalization, which I think (and hope) heightened my capacity for empathy.
I won’t tiptoe around it. I never wanted Donald Trump anywhere near the White House. Despite what I suspect is the accuracy of any number of things he’s been called, he always came across to me as opportunistic, undisciplined and vain which, in my opinion, are shitty leadership qualities. That subjective assessment is aside from my own personal threat response because of his social views. (In Florida, which has a very large population of LGBTQ+ individuals, Governor DeSantis sets off that response, too. Don’t tell him because it would only feed his insatiable need for self-importance.) As an educator for more years than I care to count right now, I almost always felt a battle between a need for self-affirmation and a need for self-protection. And here in Florida (as well as other states), queer teachers and professors--as well as educators who are allies--are back in the same circumstances that my professional peers and I faced back in the dark ages (which, unfortunately, are not that long ago).
What does this screed have to do with gay romance? From a personal perspective, I’m lucky to have been able to retire from education just a year before the anti-woke, anti-grooming, anti-research-based definition of gender (and whatever the fuck else) arguments heated up to be a threat to my livelihood. Then, following retirement a couple of years ago, I was able to devote my time to doing what has always been a dream of mine—to write. Specifically, to write about LGBTQ+ lives in fiction with the full support and encouragement of my husband. When he’s working, Flurry, our precious and precocious dog, keeps me company.
To my chagrin (and embarrassment, if I am to be honest), several of my relatives are Trump supporters. Which makes me crazy, especially those who love me, support my marriage, and seem to have a live-and-let-live approach to their existence. Then, not long ago, I saw a short post on social media: “Thank God!” (beneath a relative’s caption to a photo of Donald Trump as he took the oath of office). I ask myself—often—how can they support a political stance that would do harm to a member of their family? I can’t come to grips with it. I doubt I ever can.
However, I like to think that queer fiction—writing it, reading it, enjoying it—is itself a subversive act. A way to stay engaged in the struggle in which we find ourselves now. Of course, it’s a good idea to look for other ways to nudge our culture toward a kind of unity which embraces humanity in all of its wonderful diversity. Lenny Bruce summed it up in one of his stand-up comedy acts: “We’re all the same schmuck!” I wish all of us could rise above tribalistic thinking to embrace just that kind of sentiment. The act of it doesn’t hurt. And there’s a kind of healing in the effort as well.
Peace. Love. Romance.
Dann