Learning that I can love

In October 1959, my sister Barbara had open-heart surgery for a congenital birth defect. She was six-years old at the time and I was ten. She called it “fixing the hole in her heart.”

Open-heart procedures were dicey in those days, and Barbsie, short for Barbara, was one of the first kids to undergo the surgery. Only a handful of hospitals performed the procedure due to the complicated nature of maintaining blood and oxygen flows during the operation. This was achieved by utilizing a newly developed heart and lung bypass machine. As a result, my sister’s operation took place in a special cardiac facility—St. Francis Hospital in Port Washington, New York. 

The cardiac repair was successful but very stressful, and Barbsie got some nasty infections. She had to be hospitalized for months, far past the normal recovery time of two weeks, and was not well enough to come home permanently for months. So, she was still confined to a hospital bed as Christmastime approached.

“We’re asking Dr. Mannix if Barbsie can come home for Christmas,” my mother informed me one night while I slurped a vanilla ice cream soda in the hospital's tiny sandwich shop. Being a kid, I was deemed a health risk to my sister, so I hadn’t been able to see her since she had entered the hospital. As a result, I spent my “visiting” time alone with my soda, awaiting my parents' return. 

My mother's news did not thwart my interest in getting every last drop of vanilla soda out of the tall glass container. Since I accompanied my parents on their daily visit to Barbsie only on an every-other-trip basis, the next time I went to the hospital was two days later. On the drive home that night I was sitting in the back seat of our family's Ford Fairlane when my mother addressed me, and it seemed especially important. She had turned in her seat to face me directly, and I leaned closely, resting my arms across on the tops of the front seats to support myself since my butt was hardly touching the back seat.

“Bruce, I have some very good news,” my mom said. “Dr. Mannix told us Barbsie can come home on Christmas Eve, but she can only stay for three days. She’ll have to go back the day after Christmas.”

“Wow, Barbsie’s gonna be home for Christmas,” I said. “That’ll be the greatest Christmas present I could ever get.”

The words had just tumbled out. I hadn’t rehearsed them. I hadn’t even known I felt that way. I didn’t feel embarrassed either. Instead, I felt a tingly sensation inside. I wasn’t sure why, but I let it flow, savoring it like a vanilla ice cream soda. But even at ten-years old somehow, I knew this was deeper and sweeter.

“Barbsie’s has to be very quiet because she’s still very weak,” my mom continued, “so no rough-house stuff, understand? I mean it.”

“Uh-hunh,” I answered, and then turned away. I saw snowflakes falling as we drove up Port Washington Boulevard past the Miracle Mile Shopping Mall, and I was struck by another magical thought. “Maybe we’ll have a White Christmas, too,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

My mom smiled and nodded. “Barbsie’s coming home would be your greatest Christmas present?” she asked. “She’s really special to you, isn’t she?”

“Yup.” I was still leaning forward and she could see the big smile on my face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk like this before, Bruce.”

I shrugged. I had never heard myself talk like that either, and I was confused, not knowing where the words had come from.

Now it was my mom’s turn to smile. She too, had just received a family gift—one of knowing that her son could love someone else. We drove home in a quiet bliss, and even when the snow turned to rain, we didn't lose a drop of that special glow. 

Of Christmas’ past I remember Lionel trains, a big red Schwinn bike, and Tonka toy trucks. But most of all I remember a dark, chilly night on the north shore of Long Island and hearing the news that Barbsie was coming home for Christmas.

I hesitated at the curb, then stepped off. For a moment I felt strange, standing on a spot of pavement I had been watching others walk on for the previous few hours. Looking around, I slowly breathed in the acceptance: I’m really in the New York City Gay Pride Day March.

I was marching because my stepdaughter, Laura, is a lesbian and I wanted to show her my love and support in a public way. That's tough to do. Her brother and sisters received festive parties when they were married, or they themselves give big shindigs when their kids have a birthday. But what kind of celebration can I sponsor for my adult stepdaughter who is also a lesbian? Birthdays? There doesn't seem to be a societal equivalent for public displays of parental pride.

The plan to march began over a beer at one of our family's frequent gatherings. I told Laura of my desire to do something for her, a “coming of age party,” and suggested a big square dance or a summer picnic.

"Yeah," she responded, "I can just picture your parents mingling with all my dyke friends who'll be wearing rows of studded jewelry in their ear lobes, and shirts that say, 'A Woman Needs a Man like a Fish Needs a Bicycle'". She and I listed other family members who would flinch in the company of her lesbian friends. More than half our relatives made the list.

"So what can I do?" I asked.

"Why don't you and Mom march with me in the Gay Pride Day March."

"Whoa," I said. "I don't know if I'm ready to spend all day with a couple of thousand gays."

"A hundred-thousand," she corrected.

"Two, a hundred, whatever—it's more than I can handle. A room full of your friends is okay, but not every gay in New York City."

"God, I never knew you were so homophobic."

I didn't know how much I was either. I wondered how a liberal guy like me could be so uptight. After all, everybody I vote for never gets elected. My stepdaughter broke my progressive pondering.

"You don't have to march all alone. You and Mom can march with P-FLAG."

"Who's P-FLAG?"

"Parents and Friends of Lesbians And Gays. They'll have a group marching and you can go with them."

"But, who are they?"

"They're folks like you, who've got a kid like me." Then she leaned toward me with a twinkle in her eye and put her hand on my knee, saying conspiratorially, "You won't have to worry about all those gay guys coming on to ya—the P-FLAG'ers will protect ya. Ha, ha, ha…."  To my credit I laughed, too.

Although I knew I was scared, or at least uncomfortable with the prospect of walking all day in a city full of gay men and women, I knew deep inside I wanted to march. Laura and I approached her mom and outlined the plan.

"Sure, let's do it," my wife, BJ, said. I was surprised and impressed that there was no hesitancy in her voice. She looked me intently in the eyes, then gathered her daughter and me in a three-way hug.

The day of the march BJ and I decided to join half-way. The expectation of political confrontation at St. Patrick's Cathedral led us to forego the first half, so, we planned to join the P-FLAG contingent at Washington Square Park for the last mile of the march. But, the disturbances uptown at the Cathedral slowed the march, making us hours early for our rendezvous so we waited and watched a world that was having fun, even if it was strange to me. 

“Dykes on Bikes,” a motorcycle gang of lesbians performed precise figure-eights with their machines, none of which was a Harley. 

“Lesbians for Patsy Cline” confounded me. Why were they attracted to Patsy? Was Patsy Cline a closet lesbian, or do lots of lesbians like country music?

The most striking groups were those clusters of men who had AIDS. One crew, called the "Gay Men's Health Crisis," had dozens of members who looked like holocaust victims, thin and gaunt. Although stooped, they walked so purposefully that they brought tears to my eyes. Each of their careful steps said to me, I may be dead tomorrow, but today I am alive and proud to be here.

After several hours, P-FLAG reached us. I saw a small band of maybe three-dozen people. BJ said, "Here they are, let's go."

I stepped off the curb, but cringed. Familiar, but still troubling fears made me sweat. For support, I looked around at my marching buddies. Some looked like veterans of every progressive political movement since the labor union struggles of the 1930's. They wore vests filled with political buttons, and their eyes had a glazed, single-minded focus. A yenta came over to BJ and me and asked, "Are you new to P-FLAG?"

"Yes," we replied.

"Would you like to join?" She handled me a pen and an application. I shrugged and gave her back the pen, but kept the paper.

Some P-FLAG’ers looked meek and withdrawn. Others appeared relaxed and open. A few families walked together—parents strolling with their gay son or daughter, their arms around each other. Seeing them I said to myself, that's what this is all about. I missed my stepdaughter, who had opted to march with her lesbian group further ahead of us, but I understood her desire to be with her friends. I felt proud that her family was strong enough to be in two places.

Soon the march entered the West Village, which appeared to be the bastion of gayness in New York City. Turning into West 4th Street, I heard the shouting of thousands of voices and the roar of their applause. It sounded like a tsunami of the heart.

I tried to remember what groups preceded us, and why they might earn such a response. I didn't think “Dykes on Bikes,” or “Lesbians for Patsy Cline” would generate that kind of cheering. Perhaps the groups of AIDS survivors touched the crowd the way I had been moved.

Moving deeper into the West Village, the crowd swelled enormously. Men and women leaned out of every window, all the fire escapes were jammed, and any perch on the street such as a mail boxes or street lamp had somebody on it. The sidewalks were packed like a human lava flow, surging down into the street, and up stoops and alleys. Everyone was shouting, cheering, clapping, or giving righteous power salutes. Again I wondered, who's this for?

Suddenly, I realized that the crowd was looking right at me and my fellow P-FLAG'ers. I gripped BJ's hand hard. "Wow," I said, “they’re cheering us."

"Yes, it's really something, isn’t it," she said.

I looked into the faces at the edge of the crowd. My eyes caught many, and with some I slowly nodded, and they nodded back. I realized that the P-FLAG'ers were giving these tens of thousand gay men and women a universal parental acknowledgment: You’re okay, and we’re here to tell you that.

I began to weep profusely. I was moved being part of this parental love, even if it was momentary and I was a surrogate for all but one. BJ clutched me, steadied me. I put my arm around her to hide from this tide of emotion that flooded my mucous glands to the extent I could barely breathe. I could only look at the crowd briefly. After a glance, I had to turn away to gather composure.

By the end of the march I was spent, light-headed, and happy. We sought Laura, but she found us within a minute or two. I don't think BJ and I were too hard to locate.

That evening the three of us roamed the streets of the West Village enjoying the festival. And even though I was nervous about using the local taverns to pee in, the whole scene began to feel like family.

He was a portly man about fifty years-old and boarded the #1 bus in Parkland.

He wore an orange cowboy hat, orange mittens, orange sneakers, and an orange sweatshirt that proclaimed: “Jesus is the Way!”

Oh, no, I said to myself. We've got a real-live whack-a-doodle. 

The Orange Man plunked himself down in the seat directly behind me. I slid further into my seat, crouched, and waited for the Religious Assault.

But it never came. Rather, the Orange Man was quiet. Peace reigned on the #1 bus as we rumbled through East Tacoma, chugging down Pacific Avenue towards downtown. Near the old Tacoma General Hospital an older woman boarded, but she needed assistance. She had a wheeled-walker that I know has a fancy name but I can't remember it. Nevertheless, the walker had to be parked somewhere on the bus and the driver called back to us:

“Can someone lift the handicapped bench seat so she can put her walker there?

I was the closest passenger. I leaned over and slid my hands underneath the bench seat as I had seen others do on other trips. But this was my first attempt to pull the lever and I couldn't find it. An older gentleman nearby offered, “It's on the right-side... on the driver's side.”

I found it. It pulled easily and the seat lifted without a hitch. The walker lady parked her rig and sat down next to the helpful gentleman.

Secured, the driver accelerated and we resumed out trip to Tacoma.

Leaning out of his seat, the Orange Man said in a loud voice, “Jesus would be so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I love being a good Boy Scout, too.” I quipped.

The Orange Man continued. “Jesus wants us to help each other. That's what he teaches us over and over.” He proceeded with more Jesus-Stuff, then took a breath. I figured I had to take over the conversation or I was going to hear about Jesus until I got off at 25th St and the Light Link Rail to Freighthouse Square.

“So, I gotta ask you,” I said to the Orange Man. “Why are you wearing so much orange?”

“Jesus wants the world to be colorful!” he replied with a big smile, “and I'm doing my part.”

I laughed. “You sure are, kiddo!” Ironically, I knew we were becoming bus-buddies.

“I have nine outfits,” the Orange Man said. “My favorite is my purple outfit because I was able to get a pair of really nice purple pants. I have a lot of trouble getting pants to match my outfits, so I have to buy a lot of women's clothes – the pants especially because men's clothing doesn't include too many color choices.”

I had never heard such a succinct fashion perspective from a guy who didn't have one iota of gayness about him. “Yeah, I can imagine that is a problem.”

“Yeah, so I buy a lot of women's clothes, especially the pants, but they can be a hassle because the pockets are too small, and I can't get my hands into them – or they don't have any at all! It's a bummer.”

At that point I realized that the Orange Man was wearing tan slacks, and not orange. He must have been unable to find the properly-colored slacks. 

“I'm lucky. I work at Goodwill and they're okay with my clothes,” the Orange Man continued. “I've worked there for five years, too.” The Orange Man continued in his loud voice and described his current predicaments in life with side-notations on how Jesus was involved, but most of it was lost on me. We were approaching 25th Street and I didn't want to miss my stop.

“I gotta get off soon,” I interrupted. I'm getting off at 25th.”

“Oh, that's right here – next stop,” the Orange Man joyfully announced.

I stood and headed towards the front door, but I turned and told my companion, “I'll be keeping an eye out for that purple outfit. It sounds like a winner.”

“Yeah, I even have a purple fur coat!”

I'm sure Jesus is smiling. I know I was.

When I was ten, I hit a home run in a Little League baseball game. It was a solid shot, soaring over the pitcher's head and arcing towards center field. 

I didn't watch its full flight because my father, who was also my coach, told me not to look at the ball after I hit it, but only to run to first base. “When you're at first, turn your head and see where the ball has gone,” he instructed. “If it's still in play and you think you can make it, run towards second base.”

So when I reached first, I looked up and saw that the ball was still rolling away from the center fielder into the outfield of the adjoining baseball field. I pivoted and headed towards second. On the way I saw the umpire running out from home plate and swinging his arm in the air, signaling a home run. Okay, home run, I thought.

In a slight daze I circled the bases and touched home plate. When I got to my team's bench I got a bunch of back slaps from my teammates, and then a league official came over and presented me with a bat – a gift in recognition of what I had done. However, it was a left-over 28-inch bat from the minor leagues for 8-year olds, but I accepted its symbolism for accomplishing something special.

I had never hit a home run before, nor did I know anyone who had, certainly not any 10-year olds. I had heard in the prior year that a couple of the older boys, 11 and 12-years old, had hit home runs and got their bats, too, but I didn't know them personally.

On the bench my teammates told me about the home run. It was a high arching blast that flew over the center fielder's head and landed well past the chalk line circled in the outfield to signify a home run. My Little League was too poor to have outfield fences, or even a dedicated baseball field, so we played on diamonds that were over-laid on an elementary school's large grassy playground in a catty-corner fashion. As a result, our center fields overlapped one another, and I had hit my home run into the other field.

I soaked all of this in, but didn't rejoice in any dramatic way that I can remember. What I do recall is shrugging it off as if it was something that happened but wasn't that big a deal. As the other team came to bat I took my regular position at second base and never thought about the home run.

Two innings later though, I came to bat again. Instead of swinging away as I did when I hit my home run, this time I bunted. It was an immediate, unconscious decision - one that I made without thinking. I tapped the ball weakly into the ground by home plate.

“What are you doing?” my father shouted as he ran over to me.

“I figured they'd never think I'd bunt after hitting the home run,” I replied.

“Well, they'd know now, so swing away. You're swinging good tonight, too. You hit that home run beautifully.”

But after my father left and the next pitch came in I squared away to bunt, again, and hit the ball foul down the first-base line. 

My father ran over a second time - now flustered and upset, maybe even angry. “What are you doing!?”

Once again I explained my strategy. “Oh c'mon,” my father exclaimed, “you're not going to fool anyone now, so swing away. Besides you have two strikes.”

But even with the two strikes I bunted a third time, again fouling it off. A bunt foul on a third strike is an automatic out, so I was retired. I wasn't reproached by my teammates on the bench, but one did ask, “Why'd you bunt?”

“I thought I could fool 'em,” I replied. My teammate shrugged and said nothing.

When the other team came to bat I again returned to my position at second base and didn't think about the home run nor the bunting.

Two innings later I came to bat a third time. Again, I tried bunting and my father was exasperated, running over to me at home plate and almost begging me to swing away.

“But Dad, they'll never think I'll continue to bunt!” I argued.

I had fouled off the first pitch, and on the second I was determined to bunt the ball fair. I gripped the barrel of the bat solidly with my right hand as I squared around to meet the pitch. But this time the ball hit my ring-finger – squishing it painfully. I screamed, dropped the bat, and held my stinging hand. My Dad rushed over and escorted me back to the bench. After a few minutes of examination and seeing the swelling taking place, the assistant coach called another player to pinch-hit for me and I was removed from the game.

I could barely wiggle my fingers, and my father was uncertain what to do with me. One of my teammate's father encouraged my father to take me to the hospital. “You should get an X-Ray, Alan, just to make sure Bruce's finger isn't broken.” Eventually, my father agreed and we trudged off to the car. But instead of driving to the local emergency room at the other end of town, my father drove home and picked-up my mother, which reflected the odd nature of decisive thinking in my family. Then we headed to Winthrop Hospital.

I sat in the back seat and whimpered. “Go ahead, Bruce,” my mother intoned. “Cry if you want. It'll help with the pain.” I continued to cry, but gradually the pain subsided. By the time I saw a doctor it didn't hurt much at all.

The X-Rays were negative, and the doc said my finger was just badly bruised. In a few days my finger was back to normal.

But in various ways this incident has stayed with me my entire life, although at first I never thought about it. Most obviously, I never hit another home run in my life, and in fact only hit one fly ball to the outfield in Little League. But I hit lots of grounders, and since I ran fast I could beat most throws from the infielders. In general, I was considered a good player and my batting average was one of the highest on the team.

Occasionally, my father would offer an interpretation on teenage growth patterns and uneven swings, which was a consolation in a veiled kind of way. Also, he worked on changing my batting stance and encouraged me to step into the ball like a slugger. “Swing like you're Mickey Mantle,” he said, invoking my baseball hero.

But it didn't work. Yet, I loved playing baseball. After Little League I joined the local Babe Ruth League and memorably struck out five times in one game as the clean-up hitter. After that I was demoted to the bottom of the line-up.

In adulthood, I joined softball teams, and again hit meekly. At one point I started going to batting cages to practice, and even took a lesson from a professional baseball player. Not much changed, though, but I did hit one soaring fly ball to left field in a pick-up game between patients and staff at the Northport VA.

I started psychotherapy, too, and eventually joined the Ramtha School of Enlightenment – so I was definitely exploring my inner world. Then one day in my 50s, during a deep mediation exploring the incompleteness of my life, I became awash with memories of the home run. I saw my blast and the subsequent decision to bunt repeatedly, and I realized it was the definitive essence of my life. I was afraid of being powerful. 

Further, this fear was so unconscious it was like a quiet monster. It had no face nor a name, and never spoke. It's like a fog that is always present.

I've come to learn that this fear has warped much of my life. I bunt everywhere, in all facets of my life. I have had a slew of jobs that have left me underpaid, undervalued, and unfulfilled, and when I focus on what I want, such as becoming a professional storyteller or an author, I find that I sabotage my efforts. Mindlessly and unconsciously I mail provocative letters to festival organizers, spill coffee on the query envelop, or argue with editors. One friend told me that the publishing house I had sent my promotional material to thought the packet has been run over by a truck in a muddy street.

But that unbridled, unconscious derailment of my life is coming to an end. After that meditation I made focus cards that I've posted on my wall: “I Swing Away.” Another says: “I Hit Home Runs.” A third says: “I Am Not Afraid Of My Power.”

Over time I have made progress. I double and triple check my letters to editors. I am mindful of my time on a stage. Increasingly I view rejections from literary agents as more a form of critique than the obliteration of my soul. That Fear is no longer a stranger popping into my life with surprise and sabotage, for I know it's been around for the longest time.

So, I'm swinging away in my life, and I hope you are too, in yours.