Qanzaspeak

Hi. I’m done. Done. Done. Done. I turn in final papers tomorrow. This is my final for non-fiction writing. I think the Portland contingent may enjoy this, especially when they ask…Why here?

Little Beirut

Gay life in Kansas sucks. In 1990, I moved from Lincoln, Nebraska to Lawrence, Kansas, excited to live in a city that, though considerably smaller, describes itself as a bastion of liberalism. Commonly heralded The Athens on the Kaw River, The City of the Arts, and The Berkeley of the Midwest, Lawrence seemed the next best thing to pulling up stakes and making a major move to a coast. Upon arrival, I was delighted at the multitude of tie-dyed shirts, Doc Marten’s boots, and Democrats. Further, having escaped a high school existence on the fringe, surrounded by children driving brand new Porsches received for Sweet Sixteens from wealthy Republican parents made rich off shady Reagan-era stock portfolios, I felt I’d come home at last. In Lawrence, the reubens were tempeh, the cars were VWs, and the t-shirts were black. I arrived and hit the town prepared to let my freak flag fly, to get proactive with activism, and hopefully to get some dick. Oh yeah, The University of Kansas is often nicknamed Gay U. Fucking bonus, no?

Actually, no. Even before I relocated to Kansas eighteen years ago, Reverend Fred Phelps began picketing the funerals of AIDS victims while shrieking that God hates fags. Popular thought insisted Phelps’ campaign defeated its purpose, and that Kansas conservatives previously prone to an anti-gay opinion were so horrified by Phelps’ insensitivity toward the dead that they found a new tolerance and empathy for gays. The thought, though optimistic, proved simply the means for armchair activists to give themselves a case of the warm fuzzies while maintaining a safe sameness with their surroundings. For all the hype, Lawrence remains a small town in Kansas. If there’s any truth to the stereotype that gay men want frat-boy cock, then there also must be a little truth to the stereotype that Kansans are racist, homophobic, sexist, back-woods, redneck, assholes…and are stupid. Of course, I’ve never been one to put much stock into stereotypes. I base my opinions on experience.

Within my first year in The Berkeley of the Midwest, my life was threatened, my dorm room vandalized, and my tires slashed, all because I’m gay. Gay U, it seems, is not a term of endearment. Instead, I came to realize, it was a warning to clean-cut, All-American farm boys considering the move to Lawrence to attend the University.

“If any of these Gay U faggots so much as look at my zipper, I’m gonna’ pound his fucking face to a bloody pulp,” I overheard a frat-boy say to his buddies over Bud Lites on my first night out on the town. With my bobbed hair dyed jet black, silver-dollar sized hoop earrings, and tuxedo shirt firmly in place, I sipped my cool and manly gin based Tom Collins and wondered if he could possibly be talking about me? I also made a mental note; do not look at his zipper. I hadn’t even thought of his zipper until he mentioned it, but found myself wondering if it was diamond encrusted, Bedazzled, or covering a particularly noteworthy bulge. Still, I heard my warning. I didn’t look.

Rule Number One: Even though it’s The Athens on the Kaw, a male looking at another male’s pants zipper is punishable by a pounding about the (fucking) face until said face is rendered a bloody pulp. Make no bones about it. No pun intended.

Still, it wasn’t the violent, boozy, testosterone laced frat-boys who caused the real problems. The previously mentioned threat on my life came from none other than the president of the campus recycling organization while wearing a tie dyed shirt. Tie dye for chrissakes, the ultimate symbol of pacifism, non-violent civil disobedience, and peace, man. The dorm room vandal wore Doc Martens and the tire slasher loved Bob Marley. All three were Democrats. One was a member of Amnesty International. One had a bumper sticker that read, “Visualize World Peace.”

Slowly, I realized that fashion takes many forms. To some it’s the culmination of months of hysterical designers’ labor, sketching, making patterns, cutting fabric, and sewing gowns until a glamorous twig snakes down a runway in Milan wearing haut couture with an empty brain, yet a sneering superiority. To others, it’s the adoption of the appearance of an ideology to gain the admiration of others.

Chicks dig recycling.

I dig chicks.

Ergo, I dig t-shirts that advocate recycling.

Maybe the attempted murderer figured the campus recycling club presidency would look good on his law school applications. Maybe the vandal wore Doc Martens to gain the trust of the wayward homosexual before luring him into a Christian de-programming shanghai. Perhaps the tire slasher visualized world peace through the annihilation of a gay man’s Ford Tempo. Whatever the case, I was learning. Lawrence obtained its reputation because of the way people looked, and the things they said. Their actions and beliefs were radically different from this appearance, and radically similar to the rest of the state.

Rule Number Two: Even though it’s The Berkeley of the Midwest, the guy in the recycling t-shirt may still be prone to burning a cross or two. This is perfectly acceptable. After all, Berkeley reference or not, this is Kansas, faggot.

I’d been tricked. I planned escape.

* * *

Nothing can douse unhappiness like falling in love. My first date with Larry was in 1997. We’ve been together ever since. After two years we moved in together and have since built a home and life in Kansas. I buried my malcontent under a joyful home life and limited public exposure. Learning very quickly that going out together on Valentine’s Day, accompanying each other to social functions, and being two men alone together in general creates such a public spectacle we decide more often than not to stay in.

“Look at them eating, just like little people,” we imagine the amused straight couples saying when they become way too interested in our restaurant experience rather than their own anniversary celebrations. “Do you think they drive little cars and have little jobs, too? That’s so cute. Such a shame they’re going to burn in Hell. Pass the salsa?”

Still, any outsider can find their niche. We found like-minded friends, the few gay-friendly establishments around town, and settled into a comfy, if somewhat sequestered, existence. Time has a way of numbing one to their surroundings, and seeming improvements in attitude provided glimmers of hope. Clinton had eight years, Larry’s employer began to recognize same-sex domestic partnerships in their benefits packages, and our neighbors complimented us on our lawn. Begrudgingly, I started to accept my Kansan-ness, and to think maybe it wasn’t all that bad. Then, the world went bat-shit crazy.

* * *

In the year 2000 the Kansas Board of Education voted to “de-emphasize” the teaching of Darwin’s theory of evolution in public school curriculums, along with the allowance of a religious theory, Creationism, to share equal time. One year later, George W. Bush was elected President of the United states. After a brief war in Afghanistan as retaliation for the terrorist attacks on The World Trade Center, the war moved to unrelated Iraq. Even after the exposure of the lies told by the Bush administration to justify the war, Bush was re-elected for a second term in 2004, and bumpers stickers reading simply “W” plastered SUV’s across the state. The day John Kerry acquiesced Bush’s victory, I stood watching a television with fifteen co-workers. My boss, whose office door was covered with placards purporting environmentalism, racial harmony, and “openness,” crossed herself (you know, Catholic-style), did a little curtsy, and uttered, “Thank God,” at the news of Bush’s victory. The same year, Kansas voters outlawed the possibility of gay marriage, but kept inviting their gay relatives to their heterosexual wedding ceremonies. My blood began to boil, and hasn’t stopped since. Tricked a second time, escape became an obsession.

* * *

In his book Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland Oregon,

Chuck Palahniuk writes of a conversation with fellow Portland author Katherine Dunn.

Katherine’s theory is that everyone looking to make a new life migrates west, across America to the Pacific Ocean. Once there, the cheapest city where they can live is Portland. This gives us the most cracked of the crackpots. The misfits among misfits.

“We just accumulate more and more strange people,” she says. “All we are are the fugitives and refugees,” (Palahniuk, 14).

Reading Palahniuk’s unconventional tourist guide, I begin to salivate. The most cracked? The ultimate misfits? The fugitives and refugees of American culture? That’s me. Excitedly I tear through Palahniuk’s book, and fall in love with a city I’ve yet to visit. Palahniuk writes of a city committed to saving its multitude of historic architecture, improving already vast public transportation, bursting with art and theatre, a Mecca for writers, fiercely environmental, and liberal without apology. In Palahniuk’s Portland, there is no gay ghetto. Gays and straights live fluidly together throughout the city. Portland has long recognized domestic partnerships in employment benefits, and has even recently legalized civil unions. Most importantly, Palahniuk describes a radically left-wing city.

Ronald Reagan and George Bush (the elder) dreaded coming here so much they called Portland “Little Beirut.” A presidential whistle-stop meant anarchists would gather along SW Broadway, outside the president’s suite in the Hilton Hotel. They’d eat mashed potatoes, regular white ones, or potatoes dyed red or blue with food coloring. Then, when the motorcade arrived, they drank Syrup of Ipecac and puked big Red, White, and Blue barf puddles all over the hotel.

Okay, okay, what nobody knew is stomach acid makes blue food coloring turn green. So it looked like a protest against Italy…It’s the thought that counts (17).

The thought, indeed. Larry and I packed our bags, and eagerly made arrangements for an exploratory mission. Little Beirut or bust.

* * *

We left Kansas City in the humid, ninety-degree weather typical of July. I was barely able to contain my excitement. From time to time I find myself saying something without being aware I’m even speaking. At takeoff I heard myself whisper, I’m flying. I was certain the thought was a real-life metaphor, a secret message sent to my lips from a higher power, The Mothman, perhaps. I noticed the majority of mullet-headed men sporting t-shirts proclaiming sentiments akin to God Bless America exited the plane at the Denver stop. The Birkenstocks, platform heels, and rock band shirts remained on the plane. I felt this a good sign. Though convinced it’d be met with cheers, toasts, and possibly confetti, I refrained from shouting “Revolution NOW,” at take off. Instead, I grinned while staring at the quickly vanishing land out the window, knowing the next I’d see would be that of the promise land, the Pacific Northwest…Portland.

* * *

Heading downtown from the Portland airport, Larry drives the rental car while I gaze out the window, transfixed by the surrounding fir-covered hills and mountains. I unfocus my eyes and allow the trees to become blur of green, green, more green whizzing by my…what the, what’s that? I focus my eyes and crane my head to make out the large disturbance in the green blur. Over my shoulder, out the back window, I see three huge, white crosses coming out of the side of a hill, the surrounding fir trees chopped down to stumps to make room. Uneasiness descends, my stomach turns slightly, and a quick chill runs through my veins. Of course there are Christians here, too, I think. They’re everywhere, and they love to plant their crosses. This means nothing. This is Portland. I’m sure the residents laugh at those things and the foolish, misguided people who erected them. Still, I can’t help but fear they are a bad omen.

* * *

Once at the hotel, Larry and I throw our bags in our room and head for the hotel bar with tourist guides and local papers under arm, to get something to eat, and to decide what to do first. The bar is set up with clusters of small, antique, marble tables surrounded by high backed, stuffed chairs, and the place is full. Every cluster is occupied by at least two patrons, and people are having a good time. Smiles, libations, and laughter fill the room with an amicable tone, and we settle into two chairs adjacent to a couple of older men and open our bar menus.

“Beautiful day, don’t you think?”

I look up at one of the two men seated opposite Larry and me. Bald, pink, and smiling, he wears a three button, short sleeved shirt in horizontal stripes of pastel yellow and blue. He cradles a small dog with teased white fur in his lap while his companion clucks over the bar menu.

“Even in July, you never know when you’ll get caught in a downpour here in the City of Roses,” he continues. “I’m John, and this is my partner, Roger.”

Roger, who looks entirely similar to John other than his shirt bears pastel green and yellow stripes, looks up from the menu.

“I just can’t decide whether to order the crab cakes or the fruit. Lord knows I don’t need another bit of fried food, but…”

John whines, “Honey, I love crab. You know I love crab.”

Under normal circumstances I would find John’s cadence maddening, the way he emphasizes every other word. Today, though, I’m thrilled to have my first exchange with gay Portland natives. Buckle up, I think. Here comes some radical, liberal, left-wing, over-the-top, hippie, homosexual small talk. Act natural. This kind of freedom is just par-the-course over here on the west coast. Don’t freak out, just be yourself. Ideologically, you’re one of them. Let it shine.

Normally, John’s combination of whine and pastel would send Larry running, but I sense a similar enthusiasm when he chuckles at John’s pleading for the cakes. Larry’s feeling it. I’m feeling it. It’s the Left Coast, dig? We can all love each other, even if they’re wearing tasseled loafers and pink socks.

Roger, allowing himself to cave on his diet, responds to the now pouting John.

“Yes, you do love your crabbies, don’t you? Hell with it, let’s get ‘em.”

The two brush lips with an audible peck, a quick sound, like a snap of the fingers. Roger and John have obviously been together a long time, and have detected a younger couple, new to Portland. I brush Larry’s hand with mine and he takes it. Finally, we can relax.

“So isn’t it just such a shame how the train from the airport goes straight through the black part of town? I mean, first thing! I know they have to live somewhere, but you’d think they’d want visitors to see something else right off the bat.”

You know those scenes in movies where the whole world slows down to a complete halt and time stands still?

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I hear the faucet behind the bar dripping. Everyone is frozen in time.

WHAM.

My jaw hits the marble table. Everything goes black.

* * *

When I come to, John and Roger are gone. Larry, one hand on mine, the other feeding himself crab cakes tells me, “Don’t worry about it, David. They weren’t from Portland. They were from Seattle.”

Fucking fags, I think. They’re all so damn prejudiced.

Works Cited

Palahniuk, Chuck. Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland, Oregon. New York: Crown Journeys, 2003.

Bumper sticker seen on the commute this week: America is returning to the values Scouting never left.

My response: Eat shit.

T-Shirt on guy in front of me for coffee read: Mexican food so authentic you’ll be afraid to drink the water.

Me: How ’bout, Elitist Racial Insensitivity Sells Our Tacos?

Overheard: I don’t like live music, unless it’s on DVD.

Me: Uh…

So, the college Student Environmental Alliance is selling plastic travel mugs that read, “Save the planet one cup at a time.” Yes, if you use the same cup over and over instead of wasting a paper, Styrofoam, or plastic cup every time you caffeinate, you’re greatly reducing waste. I get it.

Still, come on. Saving the planet…with plastics? It’s kinda’ funny.

You know when something happens that would make a great story, character, or just an anecdote, but nobody would ever believe it? Today’s Wiccan plumber giving me $50 off because I complimented him on his pentagram is one of those things.

Get ready, PDX. The brain trust is movin’ to town. Witness…

Me: I’m Scully.

Larry: I’m Scully.

Me: No, I’m Scully. You’re Mulder.

Larry: I’m Scully. You’re Cigarette Smoking Man.

Me: I’m Scully.

Repeat five hundred times then shoot yourself in the face.

I mistyped “profit” for “prophet.” Is my subconscious suggesting a new career path?

The alumni association is already calling me a member, and I haven’t even graduated yet. I still have summer and fall semester to get through. Does this mean I’m supposed to start giving them money when I’m not even done paying tuition?

Not happening.

Before the days of caller ID and star sixty-nine, the telephone guaranteed anonymity. Those of us born in the seventies or earlier have fond memories of searching the phone book for listings with such unfortunate surnames as Dick, Cumming, or any combination of letters involving the word “butt.” Any citizen given the unfortunate combination Harry Dick by either cruel or clueless parents anticipated at least one prank call a week, their only retaliation to hang up amidst a torrential gale of juvenile laughter screeching through the receiver. The Harry Dicks of 1970s and 1980s Lincoln, Nebraska were tormented mercilessly by my friends and me during many late night slumber parties. As far as we were concerned, a Harry Dick who dared answer the phone after ten o’clock at night was asking for it. A Harry Dick in the phone book was the ultimate payload.

The party’s over. Caller ID removes the anonymity necessary to torment the unfortunate Dicks, Cummings, and Buttmans. Still, instead of improving, phone etiquette has deteriorated. Perhaps this is due to our multi-tasking society, too busy to be bothered with pleasantries.

* * *

1978

“Hello?”

“Hello! This is Jack Schneider. I’m a friend of Lucinda’s from her chemistry class. Is she available?

“I’m sorry. Lucinda’s sitting at the table with her family for dinner. May I have her return your call when she’s finished?”

“Certainly, thank you. I’m sorry to have interrupted. Have a good night.”

“No bother at all. I’ll tell Lucinda you called. Good night.”

* * *

2008

“Hello?”

“Mark?”

“No.”

Click.

Considering that one’s name and phone number most likely appear on, and are recorded by the receiving phone, it’s surprising we’re all not a little nicer to each other.

* * *

In my office we’re a happy bunch. We celebrate birthdays. We cover for each other when we need time off. We’re pleasant, courteous, even eager to help the students calling Continuing Education to enroll in such non-credit classes as Cake Decorating, Container Gardening, and Beekeeping. Usually, students enrolling in our classes are functioning with a fairly low stress-level. One should not become hostile at the discovery that Holiday Cookie Icing is full, or that they’ve missed the enrollment date for the E-Bay tutorial. To overreact would be embarrassing. Still, we know who you are. We have caller ID.

You never know when a good day will turn. I stare at the caller ID screen in horror.

“Shit! It’s Carrie Meadows!”

My boss, at the next station, tells me exactly what she thinks.

“Don’t you fucking dare roll that shit to me. I had to deal with her yesterday.”

Elsewhere in the room my co-workers voice their discontent.

“I refuse to ever speak with her again.”

“I’m taking my lunch.”

“Carrie Meadows can fuck right off.”

Knowing there’s no way out, I answer with the intention of killing her with kindness. Surely, when met with my calm, polite, and helpful manner, even Carrie Meadows can be subdued.

“Good morning, Continuing Education. This is David. May I help you?”

Already shouting, Carrie starts in.

“David, you say?”

“Yes, that’s correct. How may I help you?”

“D-A-V-I-D, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct. May I help you enroll in a class?”

“What’s your last name, David?”

“I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to release our last names. I’m the only David in this office, though. If you need to reach me…”

“Whatever. I want to enroll in the Effective Interpersonal Communication class that began three weeks ago.”

It’s laughable, the courses and seminars Ms. Meadows enrolls in: Effective Sales, Customer Service, Positive Thinking. I imagine her shrieking profanities at her instructors while throwing cups of coffee, pens, and handfuls of change in their faces. Still, I am going to kill her with kindness. I boldly continue.

“I’m sorry, but the instructor will not allow registrations three weeks into the course. Fortunately, there’s another one beginning next week. Would you like to enroll in that section?”

“That doesn’t make any sense, David.”

This is the Carrie Meadows tactic. She either argues the policies, or pretends not to understand. Usually she doles out a combination.

“Doesn’t make sense? Well, at this point you’ve missed six of the twelve classes, literally half of the course. The instructor does not want to slow down the rest of the class because of late enrollments. Rather, she’d like students in your situation to enroll in the next offering. Fortunately, as I mentioned, there’s another one starting next week. I’m more than happy to…”

“That doesn’t make any sense, David.”

“I’m sorry. I think we have a bit of miscommunication. The course you’d like to enroll in began three weeks ago…”

“I know. I want to enroll in it. Enroll me in it. Isn’t that your job? Why don’t you stop talking and just do your job. Isn’t that what you’re paid to do, to help me, David?”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. I am here to help you. Fortunately, I’m able to offer you the exact same course beginning next week. That way, you won’t have missed half of the class. Unfortunately, I’m unable to enroll you in the course that’s already half over.”

“I want to enroll in the class that started three weeks ago, David.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t enroll you in that class. The instructor does not allow late enrollments. Instead, she prefers students who want to enroll late to enroll in the next section, like the one starting next week.”

“I don’t understand, David.”

“Well, the policy is…”

“Is there someone else I can talk to, David? It is David, right?”

At this point, every one of my co-workers has found reason to leave the office. I forward Carrie to my supervisor’s voicemail, as I’ve done time and time again. It makes no difference. I’ll talk to Carrie Meadows again within the hour. She’ll remember my name, and she knows my number.

Somewhere in Lincoln, Nebraska, Harry Dick laughs out loud, puts his feet up, and pushes another pin into a voodoo doll. I am certain of this. Harry Dick, my payload indeed.

Life Science. Seventh Grade. Back left corner.

Jennifer: [singing] You must be my lucky star.

Later, same year. Vicky’s birthday party. Qanzas and ten seventh grade girls. An electronic..chord progression? (not quite) emits from MTV in the adjoining room.

The Girls: [high pitch, perfectly unison, running to TV] Maaaaaah!

I follow, curious. It’s a white set. The three dancers are wearing black fishnet. The one in the middle is singing. You must be my lucky star. Jennifer from Life Science is a nasty, shallow, vapid…and deeply mean girl. She (apparently) loves this woman. I hate Jennifer, ergo I hate this woman. My lucky star? I must be? Fuck. You.

First off, I’m sorry I’ve been absent. I do love you. I’m just trying to keep my head above water in school. December is coming.

Speaking of coming, I want to know which title is funnier.

Hairy Dick Goldmine

or…

Mining For Hairy Dicks

What do you think?