One in Every Crowd (12 page)

RECENTLY I HAD THE PLEASURE OF BEING A teen mentor for a group of nine youths at the Vancouver Public Library’s annual book camp. My kids were almost frighteningly smart, and savvy, and hilarious, and of course, well-read.

I decided I was going to put all that intelligence and potential and Internet virtuosity to work and get them to write my column for me this month. We set out to write a piece about homophobia from the point of view of a group of predominantly heterosexual youths. As they were a rather studious lot, we started off by not only defining homophobia for the reader, but by including a historical overview of how definitions of the word homophobia might have changed over the years. Turns out that in 1958, there was no such word as homophobia listed in
The Comprehensive Word Guide;
all the kids could find was a definition of homosexuality listed under “certain specific sexual aberrations, perversions, abnormal practices, etc.” alongside thirty-nine other practices which included bestiality, auto-fellatio, ­cunnilingus, and coprolagnia, which none of us had ever heard of, but we looked it up. Look it up. I dare you.

We all found it notable that a mere fifty years later,
Webster’s
defined homophobia as “the fear of or contempt for lesbians and gay men, or behavior based on such a feeling.”

We then came up with a list of questions, and everybody took them home for homework. This was followed the next day by a rather raucous and ridiculously funny discussion resulting in all of us being resoundingly shushed twice, because we were, after all, in a library. Here is a list of the questions and a sampling of their answers.

Do you think that homophobia still exists in our society?

Sarah, age sixteen: It may not be as harsh as it was in the past, but it is still there. People in the gay community are not always beaten for being who they are but they are definitely not always welcomed by all the people around them.

Wednesday, seventeen: Being a high school student myself I can safely say yes, it does. I do believe that acceptance is a lot more common than it was twenty, or even ten years ago. Things are definitely looking up. I see straight boys with their arms around each other as a sign of affection, I see boys wearing pink and not getting called the F word. I see girls holding hands and no one is writing accusatory labels on their lockers.

Why do you think homophobia still exists?

Megan, sixteen: I blame religion, or, more accurately, religious fanatics.

Sarah: Not all cultures suppressed it for thousands of years. In Greece they used to wrestle naked. That’s how the Olympics got started.

Olivia, fifteen: People prefer the ordinary.

Annalise, fifteen: Some people are closed-minded and not accepting of what is different and strange to them.

Kylee, seventeen: It’s all Adam and Eve stuff. People are afraid that if they allow it to happen God will be angry and bring damnation or something down upon them.

Wednesday: I’m not sure that there is only one thing or person to blame, unless you can blame the entire human race and call it a night. But that won’t bring back the numerous suicides, and it won’t make things any better.

Julian, fifteen: Some bigotry is rooted deeper than just in ignorance, but hopefully those people will eventually succumb to the inevitable and keep their mouths shut.

Do you want to end homophobia, if indeed you feel it still exists? Why?

Sarah: Of course I want it to end.

Neil, seventeen: Why should straight people care? Why do white people care that we are mean to black people? It’s a moral issue and we have accepted that it is not okay to discriminate … period.

Does homophobia impact your life in any way, or anyone who you know or care about?

Sarah: One of my best friends felt so afraid of what would happen to him in my town that he felt the need to move. I haven’t seen him in over two years.

Lisa, sixteen: I’ve grown up in a family that says they find nothing wrong with it, but have some serious issues, and I feel embarrassed. I meet these truly interesting and inspiring people, and it hurts to learn that they have been treated wrongly, especially when I hear the slander coming from the mouths of people I respect and trust. What if, somewhere down the line, I realize that I’m not heterosexual? I won’t have a problem with it, but what of my friends and family? Will they be supportive or turn their backs?

Give an example of ways we could change things.

Sarah: My school tries to stop people from using the term gay in a derogatory fashion by making the student who uses the word write a 5,000-word essay on why the use of that word could be offensive. But I don’t think this works because it is hardly ever done or checked up on.

Julian: The fact that Gay/Straight Alliance groups can exist is a sign of the times. Fifty years ago, such groups would have been counterproductive: instead of a safe place, these groups would have been bull’s-eyes.

Annalise: Set an example of not being homophobic, and not making homophobic remarks, and hope that others take on that acceptance too.

Megan: My school has a program on sexual orientation; they mix it in with sex ed and suicide awareness. The leaders asked us what we would do if we found out one of our friends were gay. If you were okay, you went to one side of the room; if you weren’t, you went to the other side of the room. Only one person stayed on the not okay side.

So. There you have it. I think there is only one right thing to do with our society. We have to turn it over to these people. Which is great, because eventually this is going to happen anyway, whether the rest of us are ready for it or not.

I WAS SMOKING A CIGARETTE WITH THE PERFORMANCE poet outside the theatre. She smokes like a movie star, making sweeping semicircles with her forearms and revealing glamorous cheekbones with every inhale. When she exhales, a perfectly lipsticked stream of silver escapes her mouth between bits of story. I could watch her smoke until the sun showed up. I’m a Player’s Light regular peasant; she’s a Benson and Hedges Ultra Light King Size Menthol diva.

We were interrupted by a squeal that belonged to a permed and tinted blonde in a beige pantsuit and dyed-to-match pumps. She sniffed her way through our smoking circle to kiss the poet on both cheeks and hug her without really touching.

“Oh my God,” the blonde exclaimed, “I thought that was you. You look fabulous. Haven’t changed a bit. It’s been a long time. When did we graduate? Nineteen seventy …”

The poet blanched, and interrupted her. “Ivan, this is …”

“Diane. I’m Diane. We went to high school together. Oh, I could tell you some stories.”

The poet cleared her throat and took a long drag from her cigarette. “Well, actually, Diane, you graduated a few years ahead of me.”

Diane looked confused. I smiled. The performance poet has been lying to me about her age for several years now, and for me to do the math at this juncture would be ungentlemanly. To know her age in people years would be tantamount to seeing the bride in her dress before the ceremony. She is beautiful years old according to the diva calendar, and that is all I’ve ever needed to know.

Diane changes the subject. “Well, I married Richard of course, we have one son, twenty-three, and one daughter, twenty-one. They’re both at the University of Alberta, doing well, and I’m directing
Fiddler on the Roof
this summer, in the park right across the street. You should come by one night. We’re having a gas. The kids are just great. And you, are you still writing poetry?”

“Always.” The poet exhales, blinking.

“How interesting. We should do lunch one day, I’d love to hear all about it. Call me. I should be off, though, to round up the kids. It was nice to meet you.”

And she was gone, leaving only a hint of Oscar de la Renta in the air.

“She’s much older than me,” the poet whispered over the sound of Diane’s pumps retreating.

“Quite obviously so.” I grind my cigarette under the heel of my Daytons. “Let’s head in. I’m on in half an hour.”

Right at the end of my set, I heard a small kerfuffle in the balcony. It was over quickly, and I thought no more of it.

Post-show, we resumed our spot in the smokers circle, several hours and two beers later. There were five or six of us now, talking poetry, gossip, and business.

A teenage boy paced around our circle a couple of times, took one huge breath, strode up and stood beside me. He seemed nervous, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his too-big-for-him black blazer. He waited for a pause in the conversation, and then placed a long-fingered hand on my forearm.

“Sorry to interrupt you,” he stammered. “But I have to thank you for your stories tonight. You just changed my life. My life is changed now. I really needed to hear what you just said. I’m a huge fan of spoken word and poetry.”

I tuned out everyone else except the boy. This was one of those moments, I could tell, one of those moments you conjure up when you’re trying to sleep on the cat pee-scented couch in a chilly basement room on tour somewhere in Manitoba, to remind yourself why you choose to do this for a living. I extended my hand to him.

“My name is Sam. I’ve been reading Ferlinghetti and Rilke for years, and I’m a huge fan of Sheri-D …” He shook my hand with baby-soft palms. His bangs hung over his caterpillar lashes and brown eyes. He had a peace sign and a Sex Pistols button on his lapel. The knees of his jeans were peeled back to reveal doorknob kneecaps. His dress shoes were spit-shined. I loved him.

“This is Sheri-D right here, I’ll introduce you … she doesn’t bite, well, not strangers, anyway.”

I tapped on the performance poet’s elbow. “Sheri-D, I’d like you to meet Sam. He loves poetry.”

Sam swallowed, overwhelmed. “Wow, pleased to meet you, all of you, the show was, well, it blew my mind, and I’d do it all over again, it was worth it all, even though I got into trouble.”

Sheri-D furrowed her brow and looked sideways at Sam. “You got into trouble for coming to a poetry reading?”

“Well, I skipped out of our meeting after my show. I’m in the play across the street, in the park. I’m the boyfriend of the milkman’s daughter.”

Suddenly Diane and her pumps and perm were upon us again. “There you are Sam, good, I wanted to talk to you. I want you to know, I’m not angry with you, just disappointed. You can’t take off like that without telling anyone where you are going. We were all concerned for your safety. This is downtown Calgary, and I am responsible for all of you. We had to call the police, and security.”

The whole picture became apparent to both Sheri-D and I at the same time, and we simultaneously clutched our aching chests with our right hands. Sheri-D spoke first.

“Sam is in trouble for skipping his notes to come and see Ivan tell stories?”

I thought about all the things I ever got busted for when I was fifteen. Poetry readings were not among them. My heart opened and swallowed Sam up.

Diane nodded. “We had to have security remove him from the theatre. They serve alcohol in there. We were looking all over for him. He’s been suspended from the play for two nights.”

“I’ll leave you two tickets at the door for tomorrow night then.” Sheri-D smiled at Sam. Diane fixed an acid stare on Sheri-D. “Well, he might as well, since he’s not working,” Sheri-D shrugged.

I nodded. The boy needed poetry, that much was obvious.

“It is time to get you home, Sam.” Diane grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and steered him towards her mini-van.

Sam called back over his shoulder to us as he was led away by one arm. “I’d do it all again. I loved it. They call me Art Fag at school.” The sliding door shut, and he was gone.

“What a bitch,” Sheri-D breathed sideways at me. “No wonder she looks so much older than I do.”

“Decades,” I agreed, and lit her next cigarette for her.

IT WAS RAINING THE DAY I MET HER. The kind of rain that hits the pavement and puddles so hard it bounces back at the sky, backward and defiant. It was the kind of evening best spent inside, but there she was, standing soggy on the sidewalk, waiting to talk to me.

As soon as I emerged from the back door of the theatre, she speed-walked in a straight line towards me. Her name was Ruby, she told me, and she was from a small town, about three hours’ drive from here. She was almost twelve years old and she wanted to be a firefighter when she grew up, or maybe a marine biologist. Her mom had driven her here, so she could see me perform at the Capitol Theater. It had said on my website that I was going to be reading in Olympia, Washington, and since it was a Saturday and there was no school she had made her mom drive her all this way for my show, but then it turned out that since they were selling alcohol in the theatre she wasn’t allowed inside, not until she turned twenty-one, anyways, which was like, ten years away, practically.

She took a deep breath, and continued. She had seen me at the folk festival in Vancouver last summer, and I had read a story about a tomboy I had met at the farmers’ market, did I remember the one?

I nodded, yes, I did.

She shifted her weight from one sneakered foot to the other and back again, like she needed to pee, and flipped her head back to shake her shaggy bangs out of her eyes. She blurted out her words like machine gun bullets, like she had been rehearsing them for a while, her mouth pursed in a determined little raisin.

When she first heard that story, well, she was just amazed, she told me. She had begged her mom to buy her all of my books right there on the spot, but her mom only had enough money for one. She had to wait until it was her birthday, which was October by the way, until she could get my next book, and then she got one more from her aunt at Christmas, but when was I going to put out a new one? She liked them all, nearly the same amount, except for
Loose End,
which of course was her favourite because it had the story “Saturdays and Cowboy Hats” in it, which was the very first story of mine she ever found out about, when she heard me at the park in Vancouver last summer but she had already told me that part.

By this time I was ready to scoop Ruby up in my arms and hug her, but I didn’t, because her mom was waiting in the car parked two feet away from where we were standing and I thought it might seem weird.

Ruby stepped sideways, farther under the awning over the door of the theatre. She pulled a love-worn copy of my book out from her rain jacket, and held it out to me.

“Could you sign it for me? To Ruby, Love from Ivan? You could say, To my biggest fan, Ruby, too, if you felt like it. Whatever you want.”

I wrote “To Ruby, my biggest fan, Love from your biggest fan, Ivan,” and passed it back to her. She tucked it under her armpit for safekeeping. Her fingernails were bitten right down to the quick, just like mine used to be.

“Thanks. I really love your books a lot. Especially the one about the tomboy, cuz, well, the little girl in that story, she reminds me of me.” She paused for a second, met my eyes with hers, and held them there. “And nobody ever reminds me of me.”

I stepped back out into the rain, hoping that it would look like raindrops sliding down my cheeks, not big hot tears. I pulled one of my CDs out of my bag and passed it to her.

“Here you go, this should hold you until the new book is out.”

The last time I saw Ruby, she was waving backwards at me from the passenger seat of a beat-up station wagon. Her mom honked the horn twice goodbye as they turned and disappeared around the corner.

A while ago I was reading at a fundraising dinner in Ottawa, and I met a woman named Hilary. Hilary was in her fifties I would say, wearing black boots and old jeans. She used to own her own house painting company, but she was retired now. I liked how she shook my hand too hard, how the skin of her palms was still callused, how she spooned too much sugar into her coffee. I liked how she ate her salad with her dinner fork and didn’t care. Her hair was just getting long enough to brush the collar of her dress shirt and hang over the tops of her ears. This probably bothered her, and she probably had an appointment to get it cut early next week, before it got totally out of hand.

After the gig was over, she helped me pack the rest of my books out to my truck. We talked about everything and nothing: what it used to be like working on a job site twenty years ago, how it is better now but not by much, what a difference a good pair of snow tires can make, how the old back just ain’t what it used to be, stuff like that.

The snow was falling in fat lazy flakes. The parking lot was empty, except for two trucks, one hers, the other mine. Finally, she shook my hand hard one last time and then pulled me into a hug.

“Make sure you keep in touch,” she told me. “It was great to meet you. You remind me of me when I was a kid.”