Sometimes we give ourselves away, age wise, with a comment or a reference that reveals that the median age of folks in America is firmly visible in our rearview mirror. When Karl and I went to vote this week, I did just that to an older gentleman who was getting signatures for a petition I was eager to sign.
We were chatting when I commented that I had lived in Dallas for 47 years. Without missing a beat, he said, “Oh, so you were born here.” (I told you he was a gentleman.) It was just one of those charming exchanges that seem to be going extinct in these trying days.
I’ve been reflecting as we move toward Halloween this year on just that weekend some 40 years ago. I didn’t know that a shoe was about to drop. Karl and I had gone out for the street party and run into an old friend of mine from college. John was from Shreveport and had stayed with me for a couple of weeks when he first moved to Dallas. He was a party boy, fresh out of a broken relationship, at a time shortly before I met Karl. We were not out of touch so much as not in touch, and when we chanced to meet that Halloween, we made the usual promises to get together soon and really catch up properly.
He was dead by Christmas.
Those of us who are still here who lived through those years don’t really talk much about it. The whole thing only gets referenced now and then, usually in a fleeting manner in a kind of verbal shorthand. I went back to look at over eleven years of these columns and found that I’ve not ever written about it, only recalled it in passing and usually to make some point about something else.
But not to worry. I’m not about to get either morbid or maudlin. But I must correct the old quote from Steel Magnolias that all gay men are named Mark, Rick, or Steve. Some are, of course, but there are a whole lot of other names that could be mentioned.
It may be that this period is not often the subject of conversation because it all occurred in a world that no longer exists. Perhaps younger folks prefer to imagine worlds that are yet to be rather than ones that used to be. I would have no way of knowing.
A part of me also thinks it isn’t discussed all that much because it was traumatic, but ultimately less traumatic to those who ultimately are still here to remember it and more traumatic to those who didn’t live through it. When one does manage to come out on the other side, it is a bit different than not doing so.
In recent years, I’ve noticed myself bringing up the subject to folks who came through it to remind them of their own strength when going through hard times at a personal level or on the larger level where we currently reside. I remind myself, too. Kind of the “That which does not kill us makes us stronger” school, which is a softer version of Nietzsche without the context, nuance, or reference to “life’s school of war.”
Last night, I dreamed of being in the office again circa 1989. It always strikes me as funny that we can dream of a time decades ago, in a place populated with people long dead, and yet have no remembrance in the dream of anything that has happened in the intervening years. Once I had a dream that it was my 31st birthday, of which I have no actual remembrance. Of course, waking up to the realization that I was years past that milestone seemed like aging in warp speed.
I used to dream about some of those friends of mine from back in the day, but rarely does that happen now. That’s kind of a pity, I think. I suppose a professional could ascribe some meaning to that, but I’m not curious about it.
It just occurred to me that putting this in writing, even without much detail, was a tad therapeutic. In these missives, I do tend to commemorate anniversaries and milestones from time to time, and it is true that all such events are not causes for celebration.
By the time next week’s column is due, we should all know whether those votes we cast in this election went to winning candidates or to those who lost. (If you haven’t voted, get a move on.) I’m confident on the ballots Karl and I cast that there will be some of both. Win some, lose some.
I’ll get off this virtual psychiatrist’s couch now. Oh, and thanks for the therapy.
