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TROS'E
Dear Waytje and Jim,
I am writing to you in- this manner because even
though I am not an active participant in any of the gay
functions or societies, etc., I am nevertheless gay. I
first stumbled onto your information bureau while thumbing through the pages of a phone directory. I started
out this letter with one goal in mind, to mix, to mingle,
to meet. Right now, I have no outside contact with the
gay community, events, gatherings,■whatever. However, I
am particularly interested in a sort of Black writer's
club based in New York City called Jemima since I am a
writer by hobby and would enjoy receiving literature by
others.
This letter will be difficult for me since this is
the first time I have attempted anything of this nature,
The twenty-four years I have lived on this earth I have
lived out my life in celibacy and at other times in
sheer hypocrisy, knowing even in my childhood where my
sexual preferences were concentrated. I was paralyzed
between the two worlds of conformity and plain freedom,
ridiculed as I knew it would be. Since, for me, there
had remained for years only one person whom I truly
cared about who also did not care for me, I saw no
reason to make my life even more troubled by announcing
to the world my differences. Thus I am a recluse, starved
out by loneliness and yet fed up with it.
Desperation beckons one to strange acts, wakening me
at even stranger hours of the night to pace the floor,
to drum my fingers upon the table. In that time, I am
allowed other freedoms such as the one that had forced
me to at last confront my situation or at least the
reasons for my being alone. I knew all those reasons but
none had merited investigating until I discovered a truth
about myself as I worked on a book entitled, IF YOU
TOOK A CHANCE WITH ME, to be hopefully completed by
February. I believe that all truths are like that, faceless and retrievable only in times of our greatest needs
for them. In relating this discovery to you, I must also
tell you about Julie.
Now I sometimes wonder why it is the nature of humans
to cling so dearly to past pains, whether real or
imagined, the years most certainly would have eroded
them away. I think we hold on to them so that we can call
ourselves the martyrs for ever having suffered them. And
then there are the slaves to it that insist on carrying
the weights over and over again so that future weights
cannot be placed upon them. But quite selfishly, I've
always felt that mine was a different case. True, it
hurted as all injuries do, but because there were the
ever increasing years separating me from the one I loved
I held onto this particular pain, the true substance of
my life and the most certain way I have of keeping my
memories of Julie intact.
I am now 2k years old but even while in school I never
debated whether what I was feeling for her was real or
merely something I had conjured up out of my wildest
fantasies though I was aware that there were many other
bigheaded people walking around that would have rather
crudely explained them away for me. I simply loved her,
however simple love may be. I simply cared about her,
cried when she cried, laughed when she laughed no matter
how bad things were going for me. It seemed as though
everything she felt had been instantly transmitted to
me, some sort of empathy, telepathy. Who can understand
the mechanism of the mind that inspires one to love? I
can say that she was attractive, impulsive, different,
but none of these provides any clues, because there are
negative sides to her nature as there are in all of us,
the complete individual being the result of such a
balance. At this point, I shall abandon my definition of
love, knowing that for all of those that have truly
loved no further explanation is necessary. And yet there
are some people out there who will never comprehend, no
matter how many foreign languages, hand symbols, or cue
cards you may use in the vain attempt to convey your
message.
". . .she talked about it with me for awhile, chanting
philosophies she probably thought were very wise, but
the only statement that stands out in my memory is her
statement that no woman could do anything for her."
My mother is one of those people. Some eight years
ago she discovered an anonymous letter I had written to
Julie, she talked about it with me for awhile, chanting
philosophies she probably thought were very wise, but
the only statement that stands out in my memory is her
statement that no woman could do anything for her. I
remained silent, knowing that the slightest sound would
have touched off an already volatile subject. It is
taboo for her to discuss anything that acknowledges her
or myself as sexual beings, much less homosexual. I suppose her doctrine was of a sexual nature but at the age
of 15 I knew precious little about sex per se and was
much too concerned about the spiritual aspects of my
feelings-to care less. I was mute and defenseless against
her words but my mind cried out, "I don't love her because I thought that Julie could do something for me!
Rather I wanted to be and do everything I could for her."
Apparently, my mother thought little of my commitment
to this attitude because she expected me to stop
"looking" at her and all feelings would simply vanish.
Later she had transformed into a different being, no
longer my mother but an alien creature full of stares
and doubt. I cannot speak of the thousands of sensations
that raced through my body as I endured the underlying
resentment. It was a very difficult period for me. Time
passed and when my difference did not resurface, I guess
she felt that it was safe for her to be my mother again
and we got along fine.
My only consolation in those times rested in an untarnished faith that someday Julie and I would be together. I believed this if ever I was to believe in nothing
else! My letters to her continued, anonymously, of
course. . . I have no remembrance of their contents,
though I am quite sure of the topic. So now you may ask,
if this woman meant so much to me wasn't she alone worthy
of my coming forth to reveal myself.
To answer this, I must review the relationship we
shared. We were buddies, partners in mischief in school.
She was always the more daring and I followed her around
to keep her out of more trouble. With words I could detail her every facial, bodily feature but when I say her
name, one which I have become addicted to, I can only
think of the energy she emits whenever she enters a
room. Everyone is affected by it. There is an odd chemistry to this woman. At times she could be wonderfully
tender, a sort of childlike innocence envelops her and
at other times she is earthy enough to be one of the
boys. corri.ni/ecton peTjC IS
12
CONNECTIONS December 1979/January 1980
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