40 Years Later, Still a Boy in the Band

“I don’t understand any of it. I never did.” — Michael in The Boys in the Band

Young LGBTs deny, ignore, can’t imagine ancient age. Nor could I; I’ll live forever. Old LGBTs complain that coming out now is easy. I do; I’m jealous.

Contempt divides us. Mawkish eye-rolling insults the reality, courage, and sanctity of each LGBT’s coming-out experience, our unique bond like no other tribe on the planet. The young can inspire the old with excitement and fresh perspectives, rekindling faded interests. The old can mentor the young with excitement and wise perspectives, building needed confidence. Borrowing from Bowie, we can be heroes, each other’s, and more courageously, become a hero to ourselves.

To the young I say, more years mean more experiences. Your beliefs and feelings about your memories will change because you will change and, though based in fact, memory is fluid. We all have wondrous and tragic memories. At 62, as I retell mine with the luxury of a longer perspective, I decide their meaning anew. If you’re lucky enough to age, you’ll know what I mean.

Meandering through my mental maze, I linger in 1974 … sitting in Blueberry, my Ford Fairlane, on the east side of Frasier Hall, home to theater classes on the University of Northern Colorado (UNC) campus in Greeley. Tall trees burst with new green as a warm breeze promises spring. Vomit verges, I shake my head, shout, “I can’t do this!” And I speed away. A terrifying decision about coming out rages within, but I return to audition for The Boys in the Band.

Mart Crowley’s 1968 play about a homosexual birthday party carries the schizophrenic burden of being a celebrated, ground-breaking depiction of human archetypes and a dated, reviled exploitation of self-hating stereotypes. In 1974 the play was barely eight years old, the Stonewall Riots only seven. Conservative cow-town Greeley was home to many relatives, the UNC campus cliquish. I had just begun confronting agonizing, life-long impulses. My anxiety wasn’t that UNC’s audience would erroneously assume all the cast was gay (it wasn’t), but to correctly assume that I was.

So yeah, I wanted to throw up. But I didn’t. I was cast as Larry and embraced the thrill of theater, my passion.

Now I flip through a dog-eared script, a yellowed report I wrote for a class, the mimeographed program, pictures of me with long hair, memories wash over me …

I’d acquired the playbook in high school, and nervously asked my drama teacher to explain titillating terms. She came out to me as a lesbian and guided my blossoming into gay life. I wrote the report for my General Semantics class, detailing responses to a cast questionnaire and analyzing a very unscientific audience survey. I grin at the big, red A, and guffaw reading “I identify as bisexual.” (For the record, I’m a perfect Kinsey 6.) I know one cast member died of AIDS and two are positive, one still a dear friend. The lead actor seduced me, and the married director tried, despite yelling, “Why are you so secretive!” (Hmmm.) Ending every performance? Standing ovations, every actor’s gravy. My thick David Cassidy hairdo? Heavy sigh.

In 1974, elder and contemporary mentors — my heroes — played their parts in an act of my dramedy to join our LGBT band. Retelling this memory, I declare to young Rick, “You are my hero!” Forty years later Rick? Lucky to still feel like a boy in the band.

Regardless of age, be a hero to someone, and to yourself, now.