Two stories about my husband-equivalent Jacques Transue (which are inevitably also Arnold Zwicky stories) from earlier postings on this blog, stories that became pointedly relevant to conversations I was having on 2/14 with a colleague and friend about my having become an emblem of DEI (or wokeness, critical sexuality theory, affirmative action, or political correctness, take your pick of invective sloganeering) in my academic discipline and my university, therefore risking extirpation by the courts of Deacon Muskrat and Squire Grabpussy. As in my 2/19 posting “A coat of arms”, which veered suddenly — and, no doubt, astonishingly to many of my readers — into a passionate declaration of radical egalitarianism, I am driven back to affirming rock-bottom beliefs, attitudes, and practices, the flowering of the time, a great many years ago, when I realized that my sexual desire for other men was not going to go away and could not be indefinitely suppressed, so I was going to have to find a way to live a decent life that incorporated that desire.
The two Jacques stories are reports of success in that program, for Jacques and for me. So they’re stories, but they’re also defenses of our lives — by and large, we managed, I think, to live lives of real value — and, yes, avuncular advice — this is a way to live, so consider what you can take from our stories.
Now, in all honesty, I must admit that it was not an unbroken success story; out of shame, self-hatred, selfishness, and fear, I made a big stinking mess of significant parts of my life. I won’t rehearse those moments here — this is Good Vibrations Day, because I desperately need to face difficult times with equanimity — but you should know I’m no saint. (The Good Voice in my head says: no one is a saint, and that’s ok — but you might have to be some kind of hero, so get your ass in gear, pussy-boy.)
Jacques story 1 (about the power of love). On 2/14, this was prefaced by a quotation from the American tv series Major Crimes, the moment when Rusty tells Gus that he loves him and says the mantra: You changed my life. I am a better person because of you.
Then, from my 5/22/20 posting “The Age of Anxiety”: I will indulge myself in quoting a big chunk of my 10/11/16 posting “News for penises: NCOD, Portlandia” on how we worked together as a couple. Having a best friend is good for anyone, but if you’re gay, having someone to stand with you in love and respect against a world that is often quite hostile is precious indeed. (Recall Arnold and Alan in Torch Song Trilogy.)
I’ll note here that neither J nor I was likely to be picked out as gay on the street. We dealt with our (potentially concealable) sexual identities in two very different ways. J sailed along in life just doing what he did, including some decidedly gay stuff, and talking about things matter-of-factly, so that he was often, ridiculously, surprised that people pegged him as queer. In no way distressed, just surprised. Absolutely endearing.
On the other hand, once I realized that I could do a kind of community service by being visibly, flagrantly, sometimes in-your-face, queer, through writing and incendiary clothing, I went for it. And Jacques was with me every step of the way, his arms around my shoulders, admiring the earnestness of my commitment, and clearly enjoying my performances. He never once suggested I was Going Too Far, and once, when we were in private, he actually applauded me and kissed me.
He always said the political and public stuff wasn’t his thing, but obviously it was, he just got to do it through me. I was his vehicle. (Yes, I miss him terribly, even after 13 years.)
When I started writing extremely personal stuff abut my sexual experiences, in the belief that writing about such things intelligently would be useful to others (and, of course, yes, fun), I asked J what his limits were for my writing about him, our sexual lives together, and our sexual experiences with other men, and he just said, write about whatever you want, all of it, just so long as I don’t have to read what you write. I said, you know this could mean you’re going to meet people who know really intimate details of your (extensive) sexual history, your body, and our lovemaking. So what?, was his response. He had no reputation to protect, he was just a guy, I was the guy with the reputation, and if I could write about my times at the baths or in t-rooms, who would care about his times cruising at the gym, or our anniversary sex in the living room?
In the end, of course, he wanted to read some of it, in postings to the Usenet newsgroup soc.motss, and he thought it was really really hot. And often funny. And sometimes perceptive. (Over the years he was a helpful critic of my writing and teaching.)
Jacques story 2 (on dealing with complaints and disputes). In my 10/21/21 posting “Tell me that you love me”, from ca. 1990, my guy Jacques, with some visible anxiety, pulling me aside for a moment of serious couple-talk, holding my hand, gazing into my eyes:
(JHT) I need you to tell me more often that you love me.
… Jacques’s plea is a familiar one for romantic-erotic partners of men: their guys are regrettably inclined to take their partners for granted, and to assume that they shouldn’t have to tell them that they love them, they should know that. I am in general a more than usually Sensitive New-Age Guy, but it turns out that I can be as thoughtlessly boorish as any normatively masculine straight guy on occasion.
Jacques said it, and (to my credit) I saw instantly that I was in the wrong and that I was hurting my guy. (I remind you that I held most of the worldly power cards in the relationship, and that J was dependent in many ways on me — a position that most men will find threatening, so that I always had to think about how to even things out. But in this case I’d botched the job, and J had to ask for professions of my love.
The way to fix this was not just to assume that loving support would now well up from me spontaneously as needed, but to set up a routine, which would then become a habit. So, every time we came together after being separated, I told him that I loved him and kissed him. Plus, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Maybe more than that, but certainly that. And then it became part of everyday life, requiring no thought, and pleasing both of us.
The first thing here is that J didn’t just let his unhappiness build up into resentment and angry lashing out (as he had done on one occasion earlier in his life, not involving me). Instead, he described his complaint urgently — this was very important to him — but in neutral tones and he offered a solution; he treated me with love and respect.
The second thing is that I didn’t respond angrily, as if I’d been attacked (something I’m inclined to do; I’m insecure enough to see threat in criticism). Instead, thanks to the way he framed his complaint, I was immediately able to see his point of view, understand that he had a legitimate complaint, and look for ways to fix things.
I see now that I was taking the advice of my aunt Marion (my mother’s very much non-identical twin), who served as my Good Aunt in my early life (everyone should have a Good Aunt, who of course doesn’t have to be an actual aunt). At some point when I was in middle school, I confided in her that I wanted to have parties and have more friends, but I was terrified about being rejected. Oh, she said, what you have to do is pretend that you’re the sort of kid who gives parties and has lots of friends — play the part, you can act, can’t you? And then, she added, if you do this often enough you will become that person. And so I had a surprisingly social high school career.
Later she told me that this worked only because I was actually a really nice guy; this was just a way to let other people see that. And very much later, I realized that she had done this for herself, and was passing the trick on.
February 22, 2025 at 5:55 pm |
I only met Jacques after he had declined. I remember at your house or after thinking about how you cared for him, pretty much reflecting on when I was a closeted gay teenager in the early 70s. I got the belief then, not sure where, that gay relationships were superficial and ephemeral. Of course, by the time I met you two, I had already outgrown that. I’d been with Paco [Ordonez] then for at least 10 years by that time. Still, seeing how you contradicted that idea so thoroughly struck me. I suppose I still had mental scars from that internalized homophobia. Now, Paco’s had to take care of me since I broke my tibia. Doing a great job, although I’m starting to be able to do a few things.
February 23, 2025 at 7:50 am |
A lot in here to talk about, some of which I intend to incorporate into a blog version of my half-disaster message on FB a while back. Meanwhile, as I wrote to you in e-mail (somewhat edited here):
Beyond that, there are lessons about caregiving and about death, some of which I have only recently gotten clearer about, through talk with my own caregivers; I need help, but I’m not demented, and I have long experience as a caregiver myself, so it’s easy for us to forge a collaborative relationship and learn from one another.
Meanwhile, J came to thing of himself as my caregiver, as a provider of support and advice, to lighten the burden of what he saw as my very demanding and stressful life. Collaborating with me to maintain my various public lives became the main project of his life, and he turned out to be a splendid right-hand man. But, then, who could have imagined radiation-caused dementia, with its endless cruelties? So I became *his* caregiver.
I was not saintly about this. It was demanding and difficult and often ugly. Fifteen years of caring for him robbed me of the time that should have been the pinnacle of my career, in fact derailed that career forever, and I resented the hell out of that. But we had actually vowed to one another: “in sickness and in health, until death do us part”, we both meant it, and each of us kept that pact. How could we not?
Still, when he died, I was bereft. Death was inevitable, prefigured, no surprise, but caregivers are primed to deny death (my current caregiver and I have been gingerly talking this through), so when it comes, we are taken aback. Like many others in this situation, I felt betrayed, enraged: how could you have died on me, you goddam bastard?
The feeling isn’t irrational, but of course it’s groundless, so you have to ease yourself out if it. Accept that they were mostly gone years ago, and death came as a mercy. And, if you were partners, learn to work around the big hole in your life where they used to be.