A New Gay Pride

My father, a WWII veteran, had no capacity to broaden his consciousness to incorporate the idea that his eldest Jewish son was probably a homosexual. Perhaps one reason behind Leonard’s “homosexual panic,” it has been speculated now many years after his death, was that his own sexuality may not have been as compartmentalized as he wanted people to think (and isn’t this the truth with so many men?). How ironic that it was this tough-acting, Seagram’s Seven-loving mailman who would be the to truly get me to take action on unlocking the secrets to my forbidden life.

One day, after my mother Pearl had prepared her only one really to-die-for meal, on Friday night, of chicken matzah ball soup and not-too-dried-out shake-and-bake chicken, and after he had enjoyed his Lucky Strike, and watched some sports event with my brother Daniel on TV, my “old man” happened upon an advertisement in the _New York Post_ in which men danced naked with other men in Times Square. “Jesus Christ Ol’Mighty,” the big lug growled, waving the newspaper in my face, “this crap is what led to the downfall of the Roman Empire,” before throwing the paper in the trash and stumbling off to bed, and as my mother counseled all of us to stay out of her way, “_shash still, der rebbe gait_.” Which is loosely translated as “don’t talk shit because the Rabbi is walking by and might hear you be cursing,” although my father was no Rabbi.Little did Penny nor Lenny know that I was not about to “_shash still._” I retrieved the soggy New York Post after everyone had gone to bed. I studied the advertisement as it were the 11th Commandment.

The next day, I had taken the subway down to the very Theater my father had humiliated, the infamous Adonis Theater in Times Square. I guess I had some chutzpah. God forbid I might bump into a nosey relative—although there is no reason one of my nosey relatives would be caught dead frequenting Times Square, which was a hell-hole in the 1970s. But you never knew!Having arrived at The Adonis, I clearly shocked the man behind the window taking my $5 entry fee, who had the temerity to ask me in a condescending way if I “were of age,” and I dismissed him with the savoir faire of a Bronx boy. But I was terrified beyond belief.

With my heart-beating, I wandered into the smokey theater. After my eyes had adapted to the dark, and daring myself to leave several times, I saw red seats, a grimy carpet, and then a theater upon which a Go-Go dancer moved in the most nonchalant of ways. He couldn’t have been much older than my 16-year-old self. He resembled some of the more tough-looking Puerto Rican kids with whom I was raised and who often attempted to pick on me before I waved my fists at them as my father had taught me during a two-week god-awful training period on freezing November.

But this kid was different. He stared directly at me, locking eyes with me—I was clearly the youngest person there. He gave me the sensation that we had known each other in a previous lifetime, almost begging me to rescue him from this form of life, looking a bit bored with his dance routine. His body was cast in sinews of muscle and skin. But it was his eyes and his smile that touched me.Suddenly, however, he left the theater. Perhaps he found the whole spectacle beneath him. I could not help myself, but I followed him out of the theater as snow poured down from the skies. I actually ran in his direction and went, “yo.” Even though I would never, at that time of my life, have considered myself to be identified as anything but heterosexual as defined by my culture, I knew enough about myself to have gotten my Bronx ass down to the Adonis. So something was up. I knew what I wanted. My experienced a mixture of joy and fear as we spoke on the street, him grinning at my awkwardness and saying something encouraging in Spanglish. He said his name was David. I saw him open his heart to me. We were so innocent.

He invited me to his apartment in Hells’ Kitchen, a few blocks away. What the hay! I decide to go. He lived in a rickety tenement that has now been replaced by fancy glass tower buildings and gourmet eateries. What a dump! We walked up rickety stairs to the 6th floor. He lived alone in a small studio which contained some outfits and a mattress on the floor and a black-and-white V. My mind did not have to wander far at how a young kid like this could afford this studio. However, I relaxed my judgement. Over a Miller-lite, we spent some time getting to know one another. I felt so free, so cosmopolitan, in my Fry Boots and Pee Coat. We talked about Christmas and Chanukah, how they were the same and different. At one point, without aggression or shame, he caressed my face and guided me to the bed on the floor. I felt no resistance, only natural warmth and smooth, oddly familiar skin. We found each other’s soul and electricity in generous embraces. He was my first great love. And he gave me his number and promised me he would call. Had I become so relaxed that I gave this Go-Go Dancer who dwelled in Hells’ Kitchen my Jewish boy’s phone number!?

At that time, I shared a room with my brother Daniel. We had our own phone, so maybe for this reason I felt okay about giving David my number. My mother had gotten me my own phone during the six-month period after my hip operations that took place before and after my Bar Mitzvah when I was not allowed to leave the house for fear I would slip on the ice and a homebound teacher came to saturate me with knowledge and make my father envious due to his flirtations with my mother. So I had already a bit more privacy than most kids my age—in the decades before cell phones and Snap.

“Yo,” my brother Daniel said, a few days later. “This kid David called you and left his number.” My brother Daniel was no dummie and he kind of looked at me in a knowing way. Daniel had written the number on a piece of paper of the Toy Chest that separated his bed from mine. Unfortunately, I was so ashamed that I threw the paper away and ended what could have been a most influential love affair. It would not be too long afterwards that I confided in Daniel. True to form, Dan emerged as my great confidante and his appreciation of his so-called “big brother” only grew—which did wonders for my self-esteem.

Still, it would take me many years to enter my own self-acceptance. My parents could not help but be a bit heart-broken when they would discover that their eldest son would not provide them with the “nachas” (a Jewish word that is untranslabe but means the kind of honor a child feels when his parents are proud of him) they had expected. Their disappointment hurt me terribly. What could I do? I could not talk to them in a calm way. I hadn’t had therapy yet and didn’t know how to reach out, how to converse, how to deal with resistance, how to work with other people even if they could not work with one.

I had to move away from New York City and make a life for myself in Los Angeles just as hundreds of my friends and associates were stricken by AIDS. My poor parents were frightened not only that they might have lost me but that perhaps I would die too. At that time, being gay was still considered to be a kind of sickness even though we all knew better because the Gay Liberation movement proud the concept that “Being Gay is a Gift” to our community. The suffering we all underwent was so unbearable I can hardly bring myself to remember the pain of those times: the death, the suffering, the lack of acceptance, the terror.I felt so motivated by this universal sense of unease that I promised myself I would do everything in my power to try to make sure that younger people had it easier than those from my generations. I worked for decades to become an LGBTQ-affirmative psychotherapist, and to create three major organizations aimed at providing healing resources for queer people, and also queer youth of color. Meanwhile I went through stages of my own. For safety’s sake, I lived in a kind of separatism that was not a real answer. I actually satisfied the idea of “personal happiness,” for this effort. I am not regretful, although I am interested in a new stage of life. Meanwhile, I was not the only way to defy rules, roles and expectations. Daniel emerged as a jazz musician and gifted drummer—not the lawyer or doctor conservative Jewish parents hope and dream for. Furthemore, he prefeered to date “outside the faith” and “outside the race.” So both children walked to a different drummer, so to speak.

That changed for him too when he met a big-hearted, clear-sighted and most gorgeous Jewish woman, Leslie. the two embarked on creating a family after having gone through their own journeys and struggles. They have raised one of the most beautiful human beings I have ever met, inside and out, my niece Hannah. And here is Leslie and Hannah celebrating Gay Pride with homemade Rainbow Cookies. I wish I were there to take a bite, and to hug these two _Shayna _Maidel, the Yiddish for “beautiful girls.”