“I cannot believe that the two of you have been together for over fifty years. We just don’t see that anymore in these times. It’s amazing. What’s your secret, Marcus?”
I smiled widely at Leona, proud for the longevity of my relationship with Marie, and grateful that we stayed together, no matter what. We love each other unconditionally, and as the years have gone by, I have come to appreciate what a rare thing our type of love is, indeed.
“You won’t believe me if I tell you what the secret is, Leona. It’s too simple.”
Leona leaned forward a little, resting her forearms on the dining room table. She made a facial expression at me as if to say, “Do not make me ask” and I could tell that she was bursting at the seams.
“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you, since you insist,” and I winked at Leona.
“Good relationships are not hard work.”
Leona paused, waiting for me to say more, and when I did not, she said, “That’s it? That’s your secret? You have got to be kidding me,” and she leaned back into the dining room chair.
Leona looked like a deflated hot air balloon, slumped over in disappointment. She thought that I was going to give her some sage advice from a good old timer and all that she got was a less than earth shattering one liner. I started giggling because I could not keep straight faced anymore.
“What I said is exactly what I mean. If each partner is capable of loving well, of being compassionate, romantic, and vulnerable, living a lifetime together is a no-brainer. Look at it this way, if couples treated each other the same way that owners treated their pets, there would be little room left for disapproval, arguments and hurt feelings.”
I continued on, “If I have to work hard just to be nice to Marie, then I am probably not the right person for her, and vice versa. If I have to bite my tongue to not criticize her, then I obviously loathe her defect more than I love her spirit. If she has to force herself to be kind to me when she is having a bad day, then she probably should not be in a relationship with anyone in the first place.”
Leona looked at me with the side of her mouth scrunched up, biting the inside of her cheek. She was processing my monologue, weighing out for herself its factuality.
I finished my diatribe, “So, if being in a relationship is hard work, you probably shouldn’t be in it. What’s the point? If it is easy to be in the relationship, if it is easy to love your partner, if you are a better person for having your partner in your life, where’s the work? It’s when we keep on jumping up and down on top of the square peg, trying to force it into the round hole, that relationships become hard work. So, don’t buy into it, Leona. Don’t sign up for that one. Good relationships are not hard work.”
Leona crossed her arms over her chest with a pout on her face, as she muttered, “Humph!”
____
The 1960s brought about the emergence of African American activists into the mainstream culture of our times. The television cast images of African American people in protest marches and sit ins, and they began speaking out about the atrocities they endured and their lack of civil rights. The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior, was at the head of the Civil Rights movement for equal treatment and equal rights for African Americans in the United States of America and deep within, the homosexuals knew that the African Americans were right. They deserved the same rights as all Americans, regardless of the color of their skin.
The Civil Rights Act was formally passed into law in 1964, and it was a monumental victory for African Americans in our country. They had been long oppressed in our nation, and it was about time that the government and the Caucasian people recognized the African Americans’ right to all of the benefits automatically given to the majority class of Caucasian, homosexual Americans.
Heterosexuals could identify with the cause of African Americans in the United States more than any other minority group. We knew all too well the oppression and prejudice that they endured. Even though there was a general sense of triumph for the accomplishment of the African Americans within the heterosexual community, it was a bittersweet victory. As a class, we were glad for the African Americans in our country, yet, the heterosexual community grieved being the only remaining minority group in this great country of ours that remained overlooked and discounted.
Although prejudice and oppression still exist today in the United States against African Americans, it is no longer condoned by the masses or by the government. The difficulty they experience today is minor compared to what it was before the passage of The Civil Rights Act of 1964. Yet, here we are, an entire subculture of human beings called heterosexuals, deserving of the same rights as all Americans, Caucasians and African Americans alike, still oppressed by the masses and by our own government. The rights that were given to African Americans from that day forward continue to be denied to heterosexuals today.
Imagine, for just a moment, the majority of Americans and the United States government telling an African American that benefits would not be offered to their spouse if the spouse were of opposite color, if the spouse was a Caucasian. Ponder over telling a Caucasian that a marriage and lifetime commitment to their African American spouse would not be recognized or protected by the same laws that govern the rest of the country. Reflect on telling a biracial couple that they are deviants and sinners, and that they should be grateful to even be tolerated by the dominant same race marriage culture of the USA.
____
After graduation, Marie and I moved into a house that we rented in West Hollywood, and we eventually were able to buy it. It is the house that we lived in our entire lives, before moving into the retirement community. I loved that house and Marie and I have so many fond memories there.
Marie and I got married after we moved in together. Of course, there was no formal or legal way of doing so, but we went out to the lake and exchanged vows and rings, just the same. We did not need society’s permission or the attendance of our families at our ceremony for it to be what it was, our commitment for a lifetime union.
Marie and I both wanted children very much, and we had many discussions about it. In the end, we decided not to have children to spare them the taunting and prejudice that they would endure, as was the case for children of heterosexual couples. In the 1960s, the scary reality of having our children taken away from us by the government if we rubbed somebody the wrong way, drawing the eye of scrutiny to our family, was more than either of us could bear.
Not long after we moved into the house, Michael and Rebecca decided to tie the knot as well, and they ended up buying a house in the same neighborhood. The four of us got together every weekend, and we would either go to a movie or play cards. Michael, Rebecca, Marie and I had our own little gang, if you will, and we were like family to each other.
When Marie and I moved in together, the time came to tell our parents not only about our heterosexuality, but also about our excitement for having found each other. Even Marie, who does not outwardly wear her emotions, was obviously thrilled and head over heels in love. We decided on a weekend to drive home and tell our parents. Marie and I figured that it would be best if we had the conversations individually with our parents, instead of together.
The formal coming out of all heterosexuals to their parents is always one of those days that are always remembered. Some of us are lucky, and we have the lifetime support and love of our parents. Unfortunately, equally as many straight people are shunned and disowned from their families. It was a fifty-fifty shot for Marie and I and we were both tied up in knots during the whole drive on the dreaded designated weekend.
I dropped Marie off at her parent’s home and being unable to lean over and kiss her, lest her parents and the neighbors see us, I reached across the bench seat and squeezed her hand instead.
I told Marie, “It will be okay, honey. I’m just down the road.”
Had Marie and I been homosexuals, it would have been a day packed with love and excitement over our union. Our parents, learning of our engagement, would be bursting at the seams with pride and joy, immediately making wedding plans, and calling all of the extended relatives to spread the good news. Nevertheless, this was not the way things were for straight people.
I think Mother and Mom knew that something was up because I had called ahead and asked if we could have a talk. Mother was in the garage working on the car when I pulled into the driveway, and I saw the familiar ruffle of the front window curtain from inside of the house.
I went into the garage and gave Mother a hug and Mom came running out of the house, as she always did upon my return home, yelling, “Marcus, there’s my college graduate!”
Mom always practically knocked me over with the velocity of her oncoming hug. As I grew older and taller, I became aware of how petite she really was. It seemed to me that she was shrinking before my very eyes. She had to reach up to get her arms around my neck. I guess that all people have to watch their parents grow old. It always pulled on my heart.
We all went into the kitchen, and Mom made coffee. We sat down at the kitchen table where I had eaten breakfast with them both for as long as I could remember.
Mother said, “Well what’s all this about, Marcus?”
My face beamed and a huge smile came across my face as I announced, “I’ve fallen in love and we are moving in together in a cute little house outside of L.A.”
Mom almost came out of her seat with excitement, covering her mouth.
Mom sputtered out, “Who, Marcus? Who’s the lucky man?”
“It’s Marie, Mom.”
The longest silence that I have ever endured in my lifetime settled on the kitchen. Mother’s face was mostly unchanged, with a hint of concern. And Mom, well, she broke down right there. She put her head on the table and began sobbing. Then, Mom got up and ran into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Mother and I watched this whole scene play out in front of our eyes in complete silence.
When Mother could not stand the silence any longer she said, “We’ve always known, Marcus; even your Mom knew when you were still a little boy. I think she was just hanging on to the hope that you would grow out of it or something. But, don’t worry. She’ll come around; really, she will.”
“And you, Mother?”
“I’m fine, Marcus. I want you to have the best life possible, yet I know that nothing but hardship and prejudice awaits you. But, I would rather you find companionship and love than spend your whole life alone, just to try and be what you think your Mom and I want you to be.”
Tears welled up in my eyes and I said, “Thank you, Mother. I need you both, you know?”
I stood up and leaned over Mother, giving her a hug while she still sat at the table. Everything seemed to be frozen in time.
There just didn’t seem to be anything more to say or to do at my parent’s house that day, so I walked down the hallway to knock on Mom’s door in order to say goodbye. Even though the door was shut tight, I could hear her crying. I did not bother to knock. I turned and walked slowly back to the car.
Mother had returned to the garage, and she said, “Don’t worry, Marcus. She will be okay. I’ll ask her to call you tomorrow. Are you still at the same number at your apartment?”
I jotted down my new telephone number at Marie’s and my house and handed it to Mother.
As I turned to get back into the car, Mother said, “We love you, son.”
The tears came again; “I love you too,” and I put the car into reverse, backing out of the driveway, leaving behind the relationship I once knew with my parents, forever.
When I rounded the block, out of the sight of my childhood home, I pulled over to the curb, wiped the tears off my cheeks, and checked my reflection in the rear view mirror. I slapped my cheeks to try to make some color return to my face; I was white as a ghost.
I put the car in drive and headed to the Johnson’s house. As soon as I turned the corner, I could make out in the distance Marie sitting on the front stoop of her parent’s house. As I pulled into the driveway, Marie had her head in her hands and she was crying.
I walked over to her, sat down, and I said, “Come on. Let’s go back inside. I’ll talk to your Father and Dad.”
“Can we please just go back home?”
“Of course we can,” and I held Marie’s arm as I put her into the passenger’s seat.
Marie was not very steady.
It took Marie a while to calm down on the drive back home and her handkerchief was saturated by the time she stopped crying. Marie’s Dad had flown off the handle when she came out to her parents. Her Father began preaching at her about being a sinner, telling her that she would burn in hell for eternity.
Marie’s Dad, who had always been the more lenient of the two, said, “You are no longer a member of this family.”
All of this had transpired just minutes before I came for Marie.
From that point forward, our relationship with our parents was changed. I called home every Sunday to check in; Marie and I would spend Christmas Eve and Christmas night at my parent’s house and they were always kind to buy Marie a Christmas present. The rest of the year, we spent living our lives many miles away.
Marie’s Dad sent her a birthday card every year, and Marie would always look down the street where her parents lived when we would pass by it over the Christmas holiday, but she never spoke to them again. Marie’s Dad and Father had a long life together and when they passed away, Marie’s brothers and sisters packed up some keepsakes for Marie and shipped them to us in West Hollywood. Fortunately, Marie got attached to Mother and Mom and they warmed up to Marie quickly, so at least she had some parental figures in her world. Mother and Mom also lived long lives and when they passed away, I think Marie mourned them as much as I did.
Marie was never quite the same after that day. She continued to be her outgoing self and she was always loving toward friends and me, but she had a bit of a hardness to her after that day. It is so difficult to live the lifestyle of a straight person and not get hardened by it. We have to be tough to make it and it just sort of permeates into our very beings after a while.
____
The first year that Michael, Rebecca, Marie and I moved into our houses, we spent practically every Saturday morning going to flea markets and garage sales, just to find enough furniture and household items to have respectable homes. Some of the pieces that Marie and I collected were hideous, but they were functional and served us well until we matured in our lives and careers, and we were able to buy “grown up” furniture. We had one particular kitchen dinette table that was pink, which I could have done without altogether, but Marie and I spent many mornings having coffee and cereal there and so even it too, held a special place in my heart.
When we finally had our mutual homes entirely decorated, Michael and Rebecca decided to go on a cruise. It was an extravagant trip to take, and they invited Marie and I to go along, but it was very expensive and we were saving for a second family car so that Marie would not have to drop me off at work every morning and pick me up at the end of the day. As much as we wanted to go on a cruise, Marie and I wanted another car more, and so we opted not to go.
Somehow, in the course of frequenting flea markets and garage sales, Michael and Rebecca acquired two male tabby kittens, Prancer and Vixon. I was not much of a cat person, and I never had a pet when growing up due to Mother’s allergies. Marie had a basset hound as a girl and so she was more of a dog person. We always thought that we might get a puppy when we had settled into our home and our careers, but that never did come to pass.
When the time came for Michael and Rebecca to go on the cruise, they asked us if we would take care of Prancer and Vixon in their absence. It would have been more work than needed to go over to Michael and Rebecca’s house to check on the cats daily, so Marie and I decided to have the cats stay with us. Our Godchildren, Prancer and Vixon, were a year old when they came to stay with us and they were full of energy.
The majority of heterosexuals do not have children, and it was an outright rarity in the 1960s. Straight people’s pets fill the void that exists from not having children and the intense attachment that we get to our pets borders on enmeshment. For heterosexuals, pets really do become our kids, and the raising of them is no less involved that the rearing of gay people’s little ones, who eventually go off to college to make their parents proud. The baby pictures are always readily at hand when social events spawn bragging to others about our pets, tales of their antics are a staple in polite dinner conversation, and when they pass on, the pain in losing our children is devastating.
Marie and I had spent the past year ogling over kitten pictures and the stories of the cats’ antics were truly amusing, and so I thought that it might be refreshing to keep Prancer and Vixon for a couple of weeks. I was not prepared for the cat games to ensue.
Prancer and Vixon were brothers from the same litter and at first it was difficult to tell them apart. The only significant difference in their physical appearance was that Prancer walked with his tail up in the air, and Vixon walked with his tail down. Of course, it took me an entire week to figure this out and in the interim, both of them got yelled at for the hell wrought until I figured out which one was actually to blame.
Prancer had a bizarre fixation with running through the house and rebounding off things, much like a basketball hitting the backboard before going through the hoop. I would be focusing in the bathroom mirror shaving, and out of nowhere Prancer would come thundering into the bathroom, ricochet off the wall, and storm back out again, scaring me half to death and causing me to knick myself on more occasions than I could count. At one point, a colleague at work actually asked me why I had so many cuts on my throat. He seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being, and he almost implied that I had begun engaging in cutting behaviors from the stress of work, or some other form of self-mutilation to vent my frustration.
I muttered what seemed to be my mantra in those weeks, “It’s those cats!” and I grumbled off down the hallway.
Prancer’s redeeming quality was that he was the most affectionate being that I had ever encountered. He wanted nothing more than to be close to Marie and me at all times. He was a lap sitter, and I used to stroke his fur, which was about as soft as anything that I had ever felt. The feel of his coat was so light and soft against my skin that the physical sensation was almost undetectable. He had big, round, yellow eyes and it seemed like Prancer did not blink much. It made him appear as if he was looking at me dreamily, as though he had found his one true love in life.
Vixon was just as much of a character as his brother was; yet, he had a completely different personality. Vixon was affectionate on his own terms and when he got into the mood for love, all twenty claws would come out and he would knead on whatever was nearest, purring as he drooled. I did not mind that so much because he looked like he was experiencing pure heaven in those moments, but when the nearest thing to knead was my back in the middle of the night, it was an eye opening experience, pun intended.
Vixon had this way of sauntering as he walked which was a contrast to Prancer’s strutting, club footed, around the house. Vixon had the same stride as the Pink Panther when walking away, with his little hips shifting and his tail swinging with each step. When he lay down, Vixon would stretch both of his front legs to full extension in front of his body, giving him a look like the Sphinx in Egypt.
Vixon’s other unique trait was that he was a talker. Prancer hardly ever meowed but Vixon was always singing around the house. At first, I thought that he was distressed, perhaps from being in a new environment, or from his Mom and Father being gone, but no, Vixon just loved the sound of his own voice. I think that he believed himself to be a blossoming Pavaratti, practicing his scales about the house. When Vixon stopped meowing at top octave, he would sort of chirp with every movement. I quickly grew accustomed to Vixon’s incessant meows, but what was annoying was that as soon as I picked up the telephone receiver, he would cry at his loudest decibel. I would try to shoo him away with my foot, or partially cover the telephone mouthpiece in effort to mask his meows, to no avail.
One time, when I was talking to a coworker no less, Vixon started in with his screaming and at the end of the conversation, my colleague said, “Marcus, you need to feed that cat.”
I was so embarrassed. I wanted to explain that the misbehavior was not from my son, but instead, I just pretended that I did not hear what my coworker had said. I gave Vixon the evil eye when I placed the telephone receiver back onto the cradle. He was unmoved.
Michael and Marie brought a two-week supply of canned cat food when they dropped off the cats. I was overwhelmed with the horrific odor the first time that I opened one of the cans of cat food. What Prancer and Vixon found appetizing about that stuff escaped me.
Marie and I had not yet gotten used to having little ones around the house after the first week of the boys’ stay, and I had inadvertently dished out the cat food, leaving the spoon on the edge of the kitchen sink. As I darted into the kitchen for my second cup of coffee of the morning, pressed for time in order to get to work, I poured my coffee, added a little milk from the carton in the refrigerator, and stirred my coffee with the same spoon. My first sip of the coffee ended up on the bathroom mirror, as I involuntarily spewed it out of my mouth from the overpowering raw fish taste of my coffee.
Marie seemed positively captivated with Prancer and Vixon. She would actually carry Prancer around the house, cradling him in her arms like an infant. Of course, Prancer went along with this whole behavior because he just wanted to be hugged. By the end of Prancer and Vixon’s stay, Marie had found a way to channel some of Prancer’s running and rebounding activities into a game: she taught him how to fetch.
Obviously, I knew that dogs could fetch, but cats? Now that was a new one on me.
It was hilarious to watch. Marie had a fuzzy ball that had become dislocated from its rightful place on top of a hat in the hallway closet, which became the object of Prancer’s newfound obsession. Honestly, I think that Vixon was the party responsible for violating the poor hat in the first place. Be that as it may, Marie would throw that fuzzy ball all the way across the living room and Prancer would storm across the room, grab the ball in his mouth, bring the ball back to Marie’s lap, drop it, and then eagerly await the next toss. It was a sight to see. The prim and proper Vixon would watch these antics transpire with a look of superiority on his face, as though such cat games were utterly beneath him.
I admit that I really enjoyed having the cats around. They made me laugh aloud daily. I was almost sorry to see them go back home, but then I reminded myself how nice it would be to shave in peace again. By the end of Prancer and Vixon’s stay, my face looked like it had gotten on the wrong side of the lawnmower. I just never quite lost the shock factor when Prancer would rebound off the wall or my body, for that matter, when I was shaving. Perhaps in time, had the boys stayed longer, I would have known that he was coming and my daily infliction of wounds would have ceased.
Marie and I offered to drive the cats back over to Michael and Rebecca’s house when they returned from the cruise. Marie seemed to have entered into nothing less than a state of mourning upon returning our Godchildren to their Mom and Father.
After Marie gingerly handed Prancer over to Rebecca, she reached into her pocket, pulled out the little ball, and said, “Here. Prancer likes to fetch,” and she walked back toward the car with her head down.
Rebecca’s eyes were as big as saucers as she asked me, “Is she going to be okay, Marcus?”
I responded, “Absolutely, she’s just having separation anxiety.”
Rebecca felt just terrible about the whole thing and she walked me out to the car. Marie was sitting in the passenger’s seat, staring out into space.
Before I got into the car, Rebecca leaned into the car and said to Marie, “You can come and visit Prancer and Vixon anytime, okay?”
Rebecca stood back up next to the car, looked at me, and said, “Jeez.”
From that point on, whenever Michael and Rebecca would go on vacation, Marie would eagerly volunteer to take the Godchildren. Prancer never forgot how to fetch, and Vixon never stopped singing through the house in full-blown B flat.