on whom i lay a yellow eye or an emphatic thumb
I had a non-encounter with bigotry. Yesterday, after the exam, I hung out with Nate, a friend with whom I engage in platonic intimacy. It's non-sexual touching and holding hands. It's something we like. I'm not that comfortable with holding hands in public, but once in a while, I will for the briefest instant be brave.
I had a brief thought, as always, that some heckler would bother us about it, because even as liberal a city as San Francisco still harbors a hatred of sexuality. One only needs to leave the Castro to see how the community has apparently segregated itself, leading to a paradox. This ghetto is made for safety of its members, but it accomplishes little in terms of wider outreach, to make the city safe for GLBT (and straights too, because I know some gay men can be nasty, calling straight people "stupid breeders").
We were in San Francisco, walking from Embarcadero to Yerba Buena (Good Grass) where we sat in the park under a shade. He laid out a blanket which we lied on. We held hands, massaged our fingers, and let him hold my hand on my stomach under the cooling shade.
After a few minutes, I closed my eyes and knew that I would soon fall into a nap. Suddenly, an amazing sense called me back into the waking life. I opened my eyes and realized it was a sound. I was wearing my hearing aids at the time. (Is this what hearing people go through to wake up to the alarm?) I was disoriented and wondered where this loud bell was coming from. Nate said that it was from that old church across the street.
"Oh," I said.
He went to his backpack to get a pad and pencil and started writing. I thought he thought I didn't understand him, but he was writing something different. When I read the pad, the written alphabets relinquished this, "That man over there said he hoped Jesus would save us."
"Where? Who?" I could not believe I missed this. It was supposed to be an exciting moment, but I happened to be napping!
He pointed to my left, and I remembered there was a gray and curly-haired thin man in gray clothes and gray pants who was lying on the grass. He sat upright. I saw him look at us, and perhaps sighed. Maybe I was so tired I dozed off in a minute, which was enough time for him to stand up, look at us, say pointedly what he said to show off his proud anti-intellectualism, and leave.
Meanwhile, I was safe in a bubbleland, a world of dreams, all within my brain, of which Dickinson once wrote:
This whole non-incident, I would describe, has always been the state of my existence. I never know of things first handed. I must always hear them from others. Sometimes I would love to sit in a coffee place next to a talkative person and listen to all the mundane things that she will say. Or I can just be like Hemingway, asking for "a clean well-lit place" in which to surmise the conversations of the waiters about me, knowing that the elder the younger will never understand.
How I wish I could say to him, "Why, thank you! I'm glad to know that all I have to do is believe in Jesus, and -- poof! -- I'll see you in heaven."
I had a brief thought, as always, that some heckler would bother us about it, because even as liberal a city as San Francisco still harbors a hatred of sexuality. One only needs to leave the Castro to see how the community has apparently segregated itself, leading to a paradox. This ghetto is made for safety of its members, but it accomplishes little in terms of wider outreach, to make the city safe for GLBT (and straights too, because I know some gay men can be nasty, calling straight people "stupid breeders").
We were in San Francisco, walking from Embarcadero to Yerba Buena (Good Grass) where we sat in the park under a shade. He laid out a blanket which we lied on. We held hands, massaged our fingers, and let him hold my hand on my stomach under the cooling shade.
After a few minutes, I closed my eyes and knew that I would soon fall into a nap. Suddenly, an amazing sense called me back into the waking life. I opened my eyes and realized it was a sound. I was wearing my hearing aids at the time. (Is this what hearing people go through to wake up to the alarm?) I was disoriented and wondered where this loud bell was coming from. Nate said that it was from that old church across the street.
"Oh," I said.
He went to his backpack to get a pad and pencil and started writing. I thought he thought I didn't understand him, but he was writing something different. When I read the pad, the written alphabets relinquished this, "That man over there said he hoped Jesus would save us."
"Where? Who?" I could not believe I missed this. It was supposed to be an exciting moment, but I happened to be napping!
He pointed to my left, and I remembered there was a gray and curly-haired thin man in gray clothes and gray pants who was lying on the grass. He sat upright. I saw him look at us, and perhaps sighed. Maybe I was so tired I dozed off in a minute, which was enough time for him to stand up, look at us, say pointedly what he said to show off his proud anti-intellectualism, and leave.
Meanwhile, I was safe in a bubbleland, a world of dreams, all within my brain, of which Dickinson once wrote:
The Brain -- is wider than the Sky --
For -- put them side by side --
The one the other will contain
With ease -- and You -- beside --
This whole non-incident, I would describe, has always been the state of my existence. I never know of things first handed. I must always hear them from others. Sometimes I would love to sit in a coffee place next to a talkative person and listen to all the mundane things that she will say. Or I can just be like Hemingway, asking for "a clean well-lit place" in which to surmise the conversations of the waiters about me, knowing that the elder the younger will never understand.
How I wish I could say to him, "Why, thank you! I'm glad to know that all I have to do is believe in Jesus, and -- poof! -- I'll see you in heaven."
posted by Alan at July 20, 2006
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