Remembering Brad: On the Loss of a Son to AIDS (9 page)

I think it is ironic that such a moral stigma is placed on being gay. Which is more immoral, being gay or being taught to hate yourself, to wonder always if you’re not a little sick, to always be afraid. And society wonders how some gays become warped and unable to cope with the world. And then they (the world) have the gall to attribute that inability to the homosexual inclinations in the person. Which, I ask, is the greater evil?

In the past I have looked at the subject through others’ eyes. My parents have had the greatest influence. Most everyone else made little difference. I found that Mom and Dad’s logic was sound. Their advice seemed convincing. But for all their understanding and openness, they do not know what it is like to want it so bad. I like guys. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. For whatever reason, whoever made me this way, however it happened, psychological, biological, social, sick, or healthy, it makes no difference in the long run: I am what I am … .

I feel good about myself and what I am. But even as I say that, the wheels inside my head begin to work. Are you really? Are you just saying that because you’d like it to be true? How do you know you are? Could you really be happy being gay? Where did you become this way anyway? Was it something you ate? Did your mother do this to you, or maybe your father? But if you are gay, when did it start? What about not having a family? What about promiscuity? Are you just running away from reality? Are you afraid of girls? Are you in love with yourself? What about loneliness? How will you cope with that? Do you really think that guy sitting next to you is so good looking, or have you just gotten into the habit of looking at guys instead of girls, a habit that needs to be broken? And so on.

“
I wanted only to live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so hard?
” —Hermann Hesse (
Demian
)

APRIL 27, 1979: “Nothing is more difficult than not being one’s self or than only being one’s self so far and no further.” —Paul Valery

JUNE 29, 1979: The things which have taken place in the past month have had a great impact on my life and have caused changes, directing my course into new channels. First, there was my trip to New York. The city has given me a taste of a life I crave. I will return there soon.

Second, there is my relationship with Jon. It grows and develops every day. We are together all the time. The possibilities for us are wonderful. I love him and need him so much. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before.

Third, I told my parents last weekend about my being gay. It’s out and done at last. It was very hard for them, very upsetting for me also. They now know about Jon. I know now that my relationship with my parents will never be the same. I’ve crossed a bridge that will never be open to me again.

My father says that he will be surprised if my homosexuality lasts longer than ten years. He feels that I just reinforced one of two possibilities and that time will show me the other is more fulfilling. He does not deny its reality in me but feels it is probably only a subconscious backlash against parental and church authority, a need and desire to identify with a group, also partly the excitement of identifying with a persecuted minority. Perhaps. I don’t really care why it’s there anymore. For whatever reason, it is there, and I’m trying to adjust my life to it.

Just when I felt I was beginning to be comfortable and happy about my sexuality, my parents turn it over and help bring back the old anxiety about it. I know they do it because they love me and must deal according to their own insights which become increasingly different from mine, but I must say they didn’t help me at all. That was why I told them, to get help and guidance. It only made things worse. Still, I’m glad I did it. All things considered, they took it quite well. But I am so confused and have nowhere to turn for direction.

* * *

[Living in Los Angeles]

SEPTEMBER 23, 1979: I am living in Los Angeles with Jon. We have been here since the beginning of September. He applied for a fellowship at USC sometime last year and got one of the appointments…. He made it known to me at the start of our relationship that he would likely be leaving Salt Lake for southern California at the end of the summer. We wondered what would happen to us if that did occur…. Summer arrived and wore on. Our relationship grew and deepened. I moved in with him about a month after I came back from New York. It was more convenient, and it was nice living together, but I didn’t really unpack my things because we were unsure what the end of summer would bring.

We could feel the tension. What were we going to do? Jon wanted me to move with him. I wanted to, felt excitement and joy at the thought, and yet I wondered how I would explain it to my family and friends. I was torn. I have neither time nor inclination to try to describe how hard a period it was….

When Jon left to find a place in L.A., I moved into another apartment alone. Mom and Dad came down for a visit one weekend, and we discussed the situation candidly. They asked me at last what I planned to do, would I leave or not? It was at that moment I made the leap and said, yes, I’m going.

And so here I am. That’s a very sketchy outline of what has happened and doesn’t begin to do justice to the complexity. But let me say that against everyone’s advice, family and friends and also my own better judgment, I moved down here and I’m proud that at last I had the guts to make my own decision. I feel very good about it. Jon’s and my relationship is suffering through the adjustment of the move, new city, new jobs, etc. I’m sure he has had as many second thoughts about us and this arrangement as I have. But that goes off in another direction.

My family has given me nothing but the best support since I made my decision. My parents, needless to say, are worried and not altogether pleased with the move or the situation, but they have begun the long process of trying and perhaps beginning to understand. I’m grateful to them.

Roger found out about my sexual preferences also. He took it quite well. He too is not pleased but perhaps will learn to be accepting. It has drawn us closer together. We have become true brothers since he found out. I’m glad he knows.

JULY 8, 1981: Several years now since I have written down anything. Many, many changes. Almost a new life—a whole new person. So much more on the way, however. Anyway—it’s time to get back into the habit. As for what has passed, I’m afraid what is gone is gone and I doubt that I’ll try to recapture it here. Bits and pieces perhaps.

I’m now living by myself in a still unfurnished apartment and feel a sense of true satisfaction.
I’m on my own
. I am changing constantly, and at last I think I’m prepared to deal with it all.

JULY 15, 1981: I went to a screening of
Rainbirds
tonight with Brad and Renee. She is an up-and-coming Dutch film actress whom we met last year. The screening was at Fox. The movie was OK … . It was at once interesting and exciting and horribly dull to be back at a screening with the same old crowd of people. All the people Brad and I met when he was working for Dan Ireland. It was good to be back out with Brad again. I still love him. We go so well together. We both enjoyed it. Old times all over again.

But it was the same false scene. Fawn and cry over everyone there and praise the picture to those in charge and the stars and then leave and dish everyone and tear the film apart. The banal comments! Brad was outdoing himself tonight. That is the Hollywood I intensely dislike. But it’s the glitter and the show that give it excitement.

I miss Brad. There were times when we were so happy together. Living on Detroit Street… for almost a year. We were so in love. And our Orange Cat. The Rabbit VW with the incredible tape deck. Climbing up the back stairs as high as kites at five o’clock in the morning and dropping into our huge bed and wrapping our arms around each other and falling asleep.

JULY 21, 1981: I had a pretty good day. Got up at seven, read in my book on stocks, cooked a good breakfast. Crossed off several of the notes on my job list for the day and went to work.

Stuck work out all day! I’m proud of myself. It was a struggle. The work is MINDLESS! It’s not even a discipline problem anymore. But I need the cash. I stuck it out. Good for me. Points, points. I need to pat myself on the back as much as possible for progress and high spirits.

I’ve got to get away from that law firm job, do something different. I want to start my own business, a gardening service. I would gain a vast amount of knowledge and discipline from such an experience. A lot of planning involved, but I could handle it.

NOVEMBER 23, 1981: I’ve got to find some sort of creative outlet. My runaway libido has got to be brought back home again—if it ever was there in the first place. Somehow I’ve got to find an escape from this semi-depression I’m submerged in. I feel like my life has little meaning, no purpose. I find myself searching for a lover, but that is not the answer. My new part-time job at the Pottery Barn is about the most satisfying thing in my life now. It seems good to be back in the retail environment and to be working around functional things. They are delightful to my eye and help nurse my battered sense of self. I need some new goals. Money seems so tight right now. I cannot get ahead financially, and I feel that I am fairly frugal. In any case, I do need that artistic outlet.

DECEMBER 10, 1981: Bored. It seems like everyone is bored. Let’s find another kick. I’m living in a town full of jaded, desperate people. Need to escape. There has to be more. But you can’t go home again. Once you’ve tasted this, your thirst will never be quenched. Doomed to feed on myself and this town even though I realize it will eventually consume me, or bury me in its wake.

FEBRUARY 3, 1982 [speaking in the third person]: Just out of a hot bath, he lay on the bed sweating. Fighting to identify the classical music on the radio—was it Vivaldi? He cursed his neighbor for the steady, low disco beat that assaulted him through their shared wall.

He mused on the fact that he was flying home to see his family the next day. A short visit, only three days, but perhaps even that would be too long. In ways he resented the idea of losing an otherwise perfectly good weekend. He cherished those few free days. He disliked anyone impinging upon that time, even though he rarely used it to accomplish anything productive. Perhaps it would be nice after all to see the family again.

But these visits often turned out to be harrowing emotional experiences, dredging up old childhood anger, reducing his self-confidence, renewing old doubts, turning up unpleasant memories of guilt and self-hatred.

He stopped there. It was Vivaldi. He shut off the music and the light and slept.

MARCH 12, 1982: “
If you can’t find it where you’re standing, where do you expect to wander in search of it?
” 50 pushups done.

MARCH 21, 1982: L.A. crouches like a beast outside my door. She sits on my front step, beckoning with a long finger, saying, “Come on, there’s a party going on, and you are invited.”

It’s hard to sit home. Sometimes I feel like a caged animal. I don’t know whether it’s because the apartment is small or what, but it seems a prison that I have to get away from. There are times when I enjoy it. I run out of things to do here by myself. Reading is about the only thing that I can turn to. The TV’s broken. I find I’m sleeping a lot.

I have to learn to be a calmer person. I have to learn not to worry so much about things that cannot be changed immediately. I have got to learn to be satisfied with the now. I’ve got to learn to be easier on others and myself. I’m not doing badly, all things considered. But here there is so much pressure, so much stimulation, so much materialism. One can totally indulge in hedonism here. “Let’s go consume,” as Scott would say.

MAY 12, 1982: The whites of my eyes have the color of yellowed ivory keys on an old piano.

MAY 15, 1982: I went to the doctor today. He told me that he doesn’t think I have hepatitis. He said that apparently I have a flu virus that has irritated my liver. I’ll take his word for it. It felt lousy to think I had hepatitis again. To me it is an illness that signifies uncleanness or excessive partying and drug use. I have not been guilty of these. That was why it was so demoralizing … .

Living in a big city kills the ability to sit still. Relaxation is a difficult art.

MAY 17, 1982: The gods came and spoke to him while he was in bed with a high fever. He couldn’t get any sleep because they all wanted to talk at once. His dreams were closer to nightmares, a constant barrage of voices; like watching ten TV channels at the same time.

JULY 12, 1982: I don’t understand being gay. Sometimes I feel like I was cast in the wrong movie.

AUGUST 4, 1982: I think at times that L.A. must be the coolest city on earth. But it’s like too much cocaine. It gets to the point where you need more and more of it to get you off, and I don’t feel like I’m getting high any more. So many unhappy people. So much frustration, so much pressure to live the illusion of a life of wealth and status—to be ONE OF THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE, man!

“
People are too concerned with whether they’re going to appear cool, or hip, or whether their ‘street’ credibility will suffer if they do this or that. No one’s going to be hip forever. Who cares. The important thing is to follow your instincts, and produce the best movie you can.
” —
Joe Jackson

* * *

[In Hawaii]

SEPTEMBER 26, 1982: The gods talked to him constantly, ten TV sets blaring at once. He wondered if he was just a bit mad and would slowly become more so. Since they all talked at once he couldn’t understand any of them. Very frustrating to be talked to by not just one god but ten! And not be able to hear properly….

The journal began to be less and less a record of personal events and emotions and more a playpen of random thoughts that needed no logic or purpose. An alter ego taking on a personality of its own, a schizophrenic outlet….

Hawaii was beginning to bore him. Not being able to find a job or an apartment in two months was becoming depressing. He felt sometimes that the island was rejecting him.