At 22 I had one
night a week of gay. It took place every Sunday at
Velvet, a two-story Hartford superclub that opened its doors
four sweet evenings a month to central
Connecticut's party fags, disco dykes, and
underwriter drag queens. Hours were spent getting ready,
listening to the Go soundtrack as I picked out
the perfect pair of wide-flaring raver pants and YMLA
Lycra top. I just couldn't wait to get beyond
Velvet's doors, to dance with guys without fear of
being on the receiving end of gay panic. It was
wonderful, but it wasn't enough.
That summer of
2000 I didn't miss a Sunday at Velvet, partly because
I knew it was coming to an end -- I was moving to Los
Angeles in August. Days after my 23rd birthday, I
packed up my Mitsubishi Galant in hopes of finding an
accepting home that allowed me a more permanent sense
of freedom than Velvet could provide. I thought my chances
might be better in California.
I'm now
struck with the irony that the place I ran from has loudly
declared I'm worthy of equality, while the place I
fled to has stated I'm not. Not only did the
Connecticut supreme court rule that same-sex marriage
is a constitutional right, but the state's voters
rejected a constitutional convention that could have
snatched marriage equality away. And a majority of
Californians, seen by many as the most liberal and
freethinking people in the world, has caved into
religious-based hate and fear tactics.
The Knights of
Columbus -- the Catholic fraternal organization that
helped bankroll Proposition 8 -- call my birth state home.
Growing up in Catholic Connecticut, I was more derided
for not having a Christmas tree -- I was raised Jewish
-- than for not having a girlfriend. The Knights'
homophobia wasn't explicit in the '90s, maybe because
gays were just as covert.
In Connecticut,
post-college, I was certainly an oddity. Not a
chased-into-the-woods-with-pitchforks-and-torches freak, but
a lonely anomaly. As far as I knew, there were no gays
filing copy around me at the Hartford Courant
newspaper, or marrying ketchup bottles at
Denny's, my other gig. Everyone knew I was gay -- my
bosses, my roommate, my parents -- and viewed me as a
curious little creature. I traveled in circles that
didn't sling "fag" around, but my friends
didn't go to gay bars or know what The
Advocate was.
Soon after
graduation a pal from college came out and decamped for L.A.
She called to say the grass was greener: jobs, sun, movie
stars, and...gay people! There was this place
called West Hollywood, where men walked down the
street, holding hands. They don't get rocks
thrown at them? I thought.
After a weeklong
drive across the country, I moved into Leslie's
studio apartment in the Valley. Every night we drove
over Laurel Canyon to Santa Monica Boulevard. At the
beginning we only went to lesbian bars because Leslie
was desperate to meet a girlfriend, and I knew no better. I
loved being able to cross my legs without looking over
my shoulder, and talk freely about the nuances of
Madonna's "Music" video. I soon
discovered Micky's and Rage and the Factory and
the gay men that flocked there nightly. Nightly! I saw
more gay guys on a Tuesday night at a seedy WeHo
hole-in-the-wall than I would in a month at Velvet.
But the gays in
L.A. weren't just in bars. They were at every job I
took, every restaurant I patronized, every apartment I
moved into, and I've never lived in the gay
ghettos of West Hollywood or Silver Lake. Gay people
were sewn into the fabric of Los Angeles; part of the
amalgam of races and religions and cultures that
define this place. I had found what I was looking for.
Until last week I never questioned that supposition.
But I'm
not headed back East anytime soon. I love my adopted home;
its diversity and opportunity has nurtured me in a way
my home state never did. Things happen here.
I had never
marched in the streets back East, but five years ago I
marched through pouring rain in downtown Los Angeles when
our nation preemptively attacked Iraq, and this week I
blocked off L.A. rush hour traffic. Witnessing the
protests that have taken over California since the
passing of Prop. 8 has only made my love grow deeper.
We're
fighting a war, and it makes sense that it will be waged and
won here. This is the place where millions like me --
those who aren't white or straight or
native-born -- pursue happiness. As much as they try, some
religious zealots on the wrong side of history can't
change that.