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.