I Cried a Tear

Recent events aside, tears rarely flow from eyes. Entire calender years have passed where I did not cry once. This is not to say that I did not face unhappiness, obviously. It is just that, under normal day-to-day circumstances, I don’t cry that easily. I am confident that it is some sort of bad, gendered, stilted emotion thing learned during my childhood (therapy probably is required).

So, I began thinking, what does actually bring tears to my eyes? I mean, besides a spouse who stabbed me in the heart by breaking every promise he ever made to me (and that’s going to help my trust issues – yet more therapy. Man, I better find my Employee Benefits Manual to see if I have enough coverage for all of this.).

Beyond that, not many things move me to tears. Here, though, are some guaranteed Kleenex moments for GayProf:

The Color Purple

Most times, I feel like Spielberg films try to manipulate me. Saving Private Ryan, for instance, just made me angry. Beyond being historically dubious, I don’t like a film that intentionally elicits an emotional response for some ulterior motive.

Still, The Color Purple gets me every time. Alice Walker’s novel ranks infinitely superior (worth the read, if you have not), but the film makes me as weepy as a willow. At what point do I get misty eyed? Oh, probably the opening credits when Celie and Nettie are playing in the sunflower field. You just know that the next thirty years of Celie’s life is going to be a living hell. Yet, they are happily playing – with sunflowers! It will be the last joy Celie has for a long, long, long time. Sob.

Don’t even get me started about the scene where the mean bar women make fun of Celie’s hat. Just when Celie lets these slags make her feel like garbage, Shug sings her a song that she wrote just for Celie. Really sobbing.

If a tear doesn’t form in your eye during this film, you are a heartless bastard.

"Brass in Pocket" Video

Okay, the Pretenders had this little song in the early eighties about “being special” and using all of your unique attributes to attract somebody. That sounds nice, right? It is nice -- until you see the evil video.

Chrissie Hynde sings this little ditty as she works in a dead-end job as a waitress. Men enter the restaurant, and Hynde tries to show them that there is “no one else there -- no one like her.” She’s special.

Okay – all is fine, until the men’s girlfriends show up. At the end of the video, Hynde is left singing "Brass in Pocket," but now in an ironic way. She looks mournfully out the window as the happy couples drive away. This poorly made, twenty-year-old video still haunts me. Waitress Hynde deserves some love, people.

Horseradish

New Mexican pride means I can take the spiciest food out there. I welcome Mexican food that claims to burn holes in your stomach. Green Chile? The hotter, the better. Asian food? Let the chile acid burn-off the flesh from the roof of my mouth. It will grow back, and the spice just helps you digest the food. You would be hard pressed to see me flinch with these types of spices.

The simple condiment horseradish, however, will require a Bounty super roll to wipe away the tears. Don’t get me wrong, I love horseradish. It affects me, though, in ways that most mortals wouldn’t believe. My parents gave us green chile or other peppers as part of our daily dose of Vitamin C. Yet, they apparently had some type of bizarre anti-condiment agenda. I was sixteen before I even tasted horseradish. Not being used to it, my eyes now water like faucets. If ever I land a recurring role on Guiding Light, just give me a pack of Arby’s horsey sauce. Downing said packet will be all the prep I need for any sad acting that they might require.

Gym Scale

When I am overweight, the gym scale brings up much dread and maybe a stray tear. You would think, therefore, now that I have lost much weight, my old nemesis would not bother me.

Silly reader – GayProf is way too neurotic to enjoy something like that. Now the scale makes me wonder if I have lost muscle mass. Maybe the weight loss occurred in the wrong areas. Ugh – I blame society, man.

Billie Holiday Songs

If I am really listening, I mean really listening, Holiday’s angst can elicit a tear. This woman had a hard, miserable life. Her father rarely had anything to do with her. He abandoned Billie and her mother during her early childhood. Wanting to keep the fact that he had children a secret from his numerous girlfriends, her father also discouraged Billie from approaching him if they ever encountered each other on the street.

By her thirteenth birthday, she became involved in prostitution. Though she gained fame for her startling voice starting in the 1930s, she also became increasingly dependent on drugs. By 1940, heroine and abusive relationships dominated her life.

Worse still, Diana Ross portrayed Holiday in a film biopic. Though she died long before this film, Holiday probably sensed the bad, bad, things that the Ross movie would represent. No one deserves Diana Ross to play your part in a film. How cruel!

All of this suffering comes through Holiday’s recordings, particularly the post-war era. Nobody – no, really – NOBODY could sing about pain, suffering, and want like Billie Holiday. Listen and weep.

Grading

Tears of frustration sometimes roll down my face when I look over students’ papers. Many students write excellent papers, and those are a joy to read and grade. It is the students who submit papers with only an hour’s worth of effort that hurt. It isn’t the grammar, which often needs help. It is the total lack of knowledge about the past. As university students in a U.S. history class, they shouldn’t submit papers discussing “slaves’ activities during the 1920s.”

Okay – how poorly prepared are they if they don’t know that slavery ended in the U.S. around 1865? Hey, I am not even a date-driven history prof. You don’t have to know 1865 – just have an approximation. I would be content with, for instance, a student who knew that slavery stopped sometime in the middle of the nineteenth century.

No matter how poorly written or how little time students gave to their papers, I have to read all of them. A colleague of mine has a theory that we are only paid because we have to grade. Almost every other aspect of this job we would do for free. Research? Love it. Teaching? It’s grand. Chatting with students? They are most often interesting folk. Grading? I’d rather be branded by the fireplace poker.

Beautiful Thing


Coming-out stories dominate almost all queer films and novels in circulation. As a result of their ubiquitousness, coming-out tales usually don’t impress me anymore. Come on queer folk, as a people, can’t we come up with some other genre besides the coming-out tale? Please? We do other things, too, you know.

Still, the quirky little British film Beautiful Thing results in some tears shed. Two queer boys making their own happiness, despite their poverty and dysfunctional families, taps into something in my emotional makeup. Plus, all of the drama unfolds to Mama Cass recordings!

2000 Election


George Bush did not win the 2000 election. No matter which way you slice it, Al Gore had more votes. He had more popular votes nation wide, and he had more votes in Florida. So, why wasn’t he president? I am still not over 2000, even if the public did return Bush to office in 2004 (something else that could make me cry).

2000 causes many tears for me. It marked such a bad turn for this nation. Go ask Jimmy Carter. He feels what I am laying down.

Futurama, Episode 4ACV07, “Jurassic Bark”

First, Fox’s insane decision to cancel Futurama almost brings tears to my eyes, but not quite. Seriously, though, they ax Futurama and give us the sexist garbage The War at Home? Surely this shows that Satan masquerades as Rupert Murdoch.

“Jurassic Bark,”to bring us back on topic, made me cry like a silly fool. In this episode, Fry discovered that his twentieth-century dog, Seymour, had been petrified for ten centuries. Using zany technology, Fry's nephew, the professor, offers to bring Seymour back to life (more or less). Fry ultimately refuses when he discovers that Seymour lived an additional ten years beyond the time that Fry disappeared. Fry reasoned that the dog had another life beyond him.

What we discover, though, is that Seymour spent those ten years loyally waiting for Fry to return to him. Man, I get weepy just thinking about that poor little dog waiting day after day for his owner to reunite with him. All he wanted was to share the good times he once knew with Fry. For his part, Fry could have fulfilled the dog’s greatest wish to see him again, but unknowingly cast him aside. -- Excuse me, I have something in my eye. --

I Always Suspected . . .

Based on an on-line quiz (and they are always correct, right?), I scored as Buddhism. The quiz suggests: Your beliefs most closely resemble those of Buddhism. Do more research on Buddhism and possibly consider becoming Buddhist, if you are not already.


In Buddhism, there are Four Noble Truths: (1) Life is suffering. (2) All suffering is caused by ignorance of the nature of reality and the craving, attachment, and grasping that result from such ignorance. (3) Suffering can be ended by overcoming ignorance and attachment. (4) The path to the suppression of suffering is the Noble Eightfold Path, which consists of right views, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right-mindedness, and right contemplation. These eight are usually divided into three categories that base the Buddhist faith: morality, wisdom, and samadhi, or concentration. In Buddhism, there is no hierarchy, nor caste system; the Buddha taught that one's spiritual worth is not based on birth.

Buddhism		58%
Islam		54%
Hinduism		50%
Paganism		42%
Christianity		42%
agnosticism		42%
Satanism		38%
Judaism		33%
atheism		29%

Which religion is the right one for you? (new version)
created with QuizFarm.com

Job Search

Many reasons prompt me to think about going on the job market again. My burning hatred of Texas has been high on the list recently. Harsh? Let me remind you which god-forsaken-state that Bushie trashed before he trashed the federal government. Plus, Texas’ current governor, Rick Perry, has suggested that gays find other states to call home because they aren’t welcome here. Consider me a potential Perry-evacuee.

Shaun had been a major reason to stay here. Given this university offered the highly unusual option of academic jobs for both of us, it made staying here more important. So, even with the obvious hostility of my colleagues, I still felt lucky that Shaun and I could build a life together. Shaun breaking off the relationship, though, means all those dreams have fallen flat. I, therefore, have few reasons to remain in Texas.

Shaun’s leaving also raises the unpleasant specter of trying to be a single gay man in this small town. Once my heartache is over (which I am just assuming as a theoretical possibility at this point, btw), I am pretty sure that I won’t want to live life in a solitary void. I love the idea of donning a wimple and black habit, but creating a gay-convent-for-one does not appeal to me. I am not judging (much), but many of the single men who have been here for more than ten years don’t foretell a happy future. The gay pool is simply too shallow to hope to find somebody swimming in town.

"Wait, Gay Prof," you are likely shouting out, "It is too early to be thinking about these issues. You need to heal. We love and worship you, GayProf." Alright, maybe you're not saying that last bit.

You are right, though, it is too early to be thinking about these issues. Believe me, the last thing I am really thinking about is life without Shaun. The problem is, though, that all academic jobs advertise and interview at the exact same time across the nation (starting November through February). So, even though I am wheeling from the impending breakup, I have to decide now if I am going on the market. Practicality verses emotion can be a tough battle for me. Predicting my future has never been my best ability (for instance: failed marriage).

The idea, though, of searching for a new job fills me with grim visions. It is, once again, a reminder of the reality of my ending relationship.

Moreover, my chances of ending up someplace better may not be great. Even if I enter the market (which also puts at risk my current job), there are few guarantees that I could even get another interview, much less a job. For every job posting for general U.S. History, there could be literally hundreds of applications. That number increases if it is a cool university or in a cool city (you may have noticed that the founders of many of the nation’s universities selected backwoods locations for their institutions).

Truth be told, though, despite all my complaining, I also have a pretty good gig in Texas. As I mentioned before, my job doesn’t involve a lot of heavy lifting. For an academic position, it is centered more on research (which I prefer) than teaching (which I like, but not as much as research). I also have a kick-ass office. Seriously, it is a corner office with two windows and as nice a view as possible. I mean, you still have to look at Texas, but it is pretty good.

Few outside the academic world realize how scarce academic jobs like this can be. There are many, many more historians in this country than jobs. Let’s face it, we don’t have the most marketable job skills. After all, when was the last time you said, “If only we knew a historian, all our problems would be solved?” Star Trek, in another example, never had an Emergency Holographic Historian.

So, it is a buyer’s market for historians. I wonder what other people do with their careers.

Say No to Macy's

While New Mexico always holds my heart (the Land of Enchantment, you know), my favorite U.S. city is Chicago. It, therefore, irritates me that Federated Department Stores, Inc. has decided to rename the venerable Marshall Field’s Department Store on State Street. Since 1852, Marshall Field's has been an icon of shopping goodness. The historian in me cries out for preserving the city's past. The gay man in me cries out for the ability to buy Kenneth Cole in a landmark store. Clearly, Federate Department Stores, Inc., has no respect for local icons or history. If we let Marshall Field’s go, what next? Where does the madness end?

Gay Bloggers of the World, Unite! It doesn’t matter if you live in Chicago. If you ever visit Chicago, or think about visiting Chicago, don’t you want Marshall Field’s to be there for you? We all love shopping, even the socialists amongst us, right?. Write to Federated and tell them you will never accept Macy’s on State Street. Flood their on-line e-mail system with angry missives (angry missives falls under the category "Store Experience," fyi). Even if you don’t accept capitalism or hate shopping, it will be your opportunity to harass an evil, faceless corporation. Surely that appeals to you.

Seriously, this isn’t like my usual calls to vote or march for equality. This really, really matters!

Signs I May be Going to the Gym Too Often

My personality has always had an obsessive side. The gym thing, though, surprises me. It’s not that I like going to the gym. On the contrary, one of the main reasons I became an academic was because it didn’t involve a lot of heavy lifting.

Now, though, I might be a wee-bit haunted by the gym. It is the perfect distraction from work/relationship/politics/global unrest. Still, these things suggest maybe I am taking it too damn far:

Before I walk in the door, I know which clerk will be at the desk based on the day of the week and the time of day.

I weigh myself at the start, middle, and end of my time there.

I have a treadmill that I consider mine.

I know which shower stall is the most used throughout the day (thus, the most dirty) and which is the least used (thus, the most clean). This one also suggests something about my obsessive-compulsive behavior in terms of cleanliness, but that is another blog entry entirely.

I know how many 45lbs weights my gym owns.

I can predict, within three days, how long it will take before a new gym member stops coming to the gym.

My i-pod has music that I will only listen to in the gym and nowhere else.

Although I have never once attended an aerobics class, I know the routine by heart.

I can identify which other regulars are at the gym by looking at the cars in the parking lot.

I notice when they have replaced the belts on the weight machines.

I see more television at the gym than at home.

When I have muscle pain, I think it is a good sign.

I have memorized all the gym’s music play-lists (I prefer the eighties/nineties mix, fyi).

Work is merely something I do before the gym.

I can automatically calculate in my head how many calories I have burned based on how long I have been in the gym.

I show up to the gym at all.

Phantom Minstrelsy

Part of my job description involves thinking about race and racism in the United States. That is until some of my colleagues get their wish and amend my job description to involve cleaning the men’s room. That, though, is a different issue. Or is it?

Regardless, something emerging in certain circles of this nation has left me quite disturbed. Blackface minstrelsy, to my horror, seems poised to make a major come back. My first year at this university, the student newspaper revealed that a dorm had been having annual “ghetto parties.” At these events, mostly white students dressed in black face and “pimp” or “whore” outfits. Not shortly thereafter, the University of Texas acknowledged that fraternities had been holding similar events in Austin. At the time, obviously, I was outraged and horrified that students could be so clueless when it came to issues of racism. Still, I assumed that these events occurred because of the regional-specific history of Texas. This state, after all, has a scarey past (and present) when it comes to race. It is also easier for me to ascribe this type of hate to Texas rather than considering it a systemic problem with the nation.

Signs indicate, however, that these Texans may have been on the front edge of a new minstrelsy wave. Recently, a rather famous blogger’s entry drew my attention to Charles Knipp (a.k.a. Shirley Q. Liquor). Being somewhat out of touch living in Texas, I had not realized that Knipp’s blackface drag show attracted an astounding audience of (mostly white) gay men.

To the best of my ability, I have educated myself on the content and intent of Knipp’s work. Let me offer truth-in-advertising, however. I have not seen Knipp’s live performance, so my estimation is based on his web-page, audio and flash clips, as well as transcripts of his work. It seems unlikely that a live performance would alter my view, but I like to be honest.

Let me pause also for those who might suggest I lack a sense of humor about such things. They are probably right. I do lack a sense of humor about such things. This blog, after all, is called the Center of Gravitas. As such, I am compelled to speak out on these types of issues. I think it is a federal law or something.

I would never, by the way, suggest that Knipp should be censored either. We all know that GayProf worships at the alter of free speech. This entry is not about trying to get Knipp to be quiet. Nor am I looking to toss out blanket accusations of racism to his audience. With those caveats in mind, I want us, instead, to think about what his popularity suggests about the current discourse on race.

Most of the humor in Knipp's sketches involve stereotypes about southern blacks that have existed for centuries. He trades on the image of black women as hypersexual, poor, uneducated, and a burden to society. During his performances, Knipp’s character introduces herself as the mother of nineteen children who collects welfare. Clearly Knipp intends Shirley Q to provoke strong responses from audiences. Some suggest that Knipp’s character exists as a satire of previous minstrelsy characters. Knipp even won an endorsement from RuPaul.

Arguing that Knipp’s performance is parody, I think, gives him too much intellectual credit. When questioned about the potential racism in his act, Knipp retorts that people of color have endorsed his visage. “To be honest,” he reportedly said, “people of colour who have seen my shows live... overwhelmingly tell me how much they enjoyed my accurate portrayal of a certain genre of the gritty, witty Southern women that they fondly remember, no matter what her race.” This last statement alone makes me suspect that Knipp lacks the intellectual nuance for us to consider his performance satire. Instead, he defends his character’s racist stereotypes as “an accurate portrayal.” At a basic level, in other words, Knipp believes his blackface character to be based in reality.

Likewise, his claim that the character could be of any race falls flat. Why? Because he did not make her white (his own racial group). Instead, he made a conscious decision to put on blackface. Likewise, testimony from a couple of real-life African Americans does not negate the problems. It is a serious mistake to presume that people of color can’t also have problematic ideas about race (or even be racist). Finally, Knipp conveniently ignores that the majority of his audiences are white.

Minstrelsy first appeared in the U.S. on the eve of the Civil War. We might expect that blackface shows developed as the sport of slave holders in the South. In reality, however, blackface minstrelsy developed and had its greatest popularity in the nineteenth-century urban North. The white, working-class became the most devout audience members of this form of entertainment.

These white performers “borrowed” black cultural materials for white consumption. Knipp might be surprised to find that his minstrel forefathers also claimed an authenticity to their blackface performances. Stereotypical performances only have currency, after all, if people think that they are true. It might also be news to him that white men often performed blackface drag in these shows. In the nineteenth century, minstrel shows made slavery seem amusing, right, and natural (even fun). U.S. popular culture since that time has constantly returned to minstrelsy whenever discussions of race became heated in the U.S. Films from Birth of a Nation (1919) to Soul Man (1986) had white actors who put on blackface makeup for whites'amusement.

Knipp’s popularity, it seems to me, shows that the nation continues to feel uncomfortable addressing social injustice and racism. Much like the first minstrel shows reenforced slavery as the natural order of things, Knipp and “ghetto parties” legitimate an unfair economic system that links race and poverty. Rather than addressing institutional racism, these types of blackface images simultaneously valorize poverty while also repressing real discussions about the nation’s racist present. The current glamour around "bling" and "ghetto style," for instance, implies that there is something special about being poor in the U.S. There is nothing heroic or interesting about being poor. It only makes you tired and hungry.

Knipp’s performances and popularity bother me most of all because they involve gays. Come on, queer folk, we need to work this out. United as gay brothers and sisters, we should never be enemies.

Much to my dismay, however, many gay men and women still do not take issues of race seriously. While searching for information on this topic, for instance, I found many willing to defend Knipp. Still others see debates about Shirley Q as being unimportant. One has to wonder, though, if these supporters come from a rather comfortable class status. Because these images don’t seem important to them and don’t affect their daily life, they believe racism is not important to the larger gay community either.

Today the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force released a report that documents that gay Latino couples face great disadvantages compared to their gay Euro-American peers. Gay Latino couples, for instance, earn less than their white counterparts and are much less likely to be able to own their own homes. It would not be unlikely to find similar reports about African-American gay couples as well.

One of the greatest difficulties facing the queer community, it seems to me, is the chronic indifference of middle and upper class gays to these realities. For many individuals, the nation allows just enough flexibility for middle-class gays to enjoy a fairly comfortable life (myself included, btw). As a result, many of these middle-class gays ignore or, in Knipp’s case, mock the misfortune of others. We can’t take Knipp’s popularity lightly. We have to consider that the reappearance of blackface minstrelsy within the gay community suggests a much greater and complex system of institutional racism.

What to Wear, What to Wear?

Halloween proves a tricky holiday for me. It is, after all, the holiday of my gay brothers. Living in small-town Texas, however, grants few opportunities to take full advantage of this day. Local churches push hard to forbid their children from trick-or-treating. They cry out that it is Satan’s holiday (or do they say it is Santa’s holiday? Sometimes I have trouble understanding their Texan accents). These mega-churches offer alternative events such as hay-rides or carnivals. What confuses me, though, is that by organizing such events, aren’t they still acknowledging Halloween as a day for celebration? Okay, so they cut out the candy and the costumes, thus making it 100% less fun. Still, they give it credence even in their denial of it.

Regardless, scarey, evil Christians do not make me wonder about this holiday. Those bible-beating bastards could not deflate my love of Halloween. What does shake me, however, is that I can never create the costume that I desire. Let me give you some examples of what I aim for and the disappointing results.

What I would aim for: Wonder Woman. No surprise here. Lynda Carter remains the bench-mark for human incarnations of the Amazon heroine. As Diana Prince, Carter also had the distinction of being one of the few Latinas on television (few people outside the Latino community, btw, ever know that Carter is Latina). Who wouldn’t want to slip on those star-spangled panties and deflect some bullets?

What I would end up with: Bad Drag Wonder Woman. Lynda Carter has quite the size 6.5 red boots to fill. It would be impossible. (Note: Not an actual picture of GayProf).


What I would aim for: Mary Richards. What gay man hasn’t sung “I might just make it after all?” Mary’s merry disposition makes her a favorite among gay folk. Pulling off Mary Tyler Moore’s iconic television character would mean that I could also light the world up with my smile.

What I would end up with: Mary Cheney. This is one scarey, self-hating woman. Far from turning the world on with her smile, she sells out her queer sisters at every moment. Aiming for Mary Richards, but appearing as Mary Cheney is too much to risk.


What I would aim for: Jacqueline Kennedy. This woman had a cool, sophisticated, style that we all should aspire to attain. She redecorated the White House, insisted on the value of being literate, and set trends with her suites and hats. Man, that woman knew how to use accessories! On a trip to Chicago I attended the Field Museum’s Jacqueline Kennedy exhibit. I was within inches of her pill-box hats! Inches! It would be a dream to slip one on my little head for Halloween.


What I would end up with: Ladybird Johnson. Don't get me wrong, there is a soft-spot in my heart for Ladybird. Her campaign to blanket Texas with wild flowers makes Spring the only bearable season here. Plus, she genuinely intended good things for the nation. Still, let’s face it, she had some terrible luck following Jacqueline Kennedy. Plus, I would love to have her nose filled with nickels. It would make me a rich man. I know -- I can be a mean bitch sometimes. Honestly, I would be lucky if I could pull off Ladybird.



What I would aim for: World War II Sailor. Gay men and sailors go together like, oh, I don’t know, gay men and sea-men. From their nifty hats to their crackerjacks, these men embody queer masculinity.

What I would end up with: Gilligan. No disrespect to the recently departed, but Gilligan hardly inspired lust in many viewers. Rather that an alluring man of the seas, I am more likely to end up as someone’s “little buddy.”

What I would would aim for: Ann Marie. Who doesn’t love Marlo Thomas’ zesty feminist ways? As That Girl, she had a fabulous apartment, her own theme song, and a cherry-sweet outlook on life. For an unemployed actor, she also had an astounding wardrobe.



What I would end up with: Lilith. Sadly my public affect does not emote the bubbly giggles of Ann Marie. Instead, I would end up being the severe and reserved Lilith. Not to mention that recreating Ann Marie’s trademark flip would require enough Aquanet to burn an ozone hole over Texas. Still, we are free to be you and me.


What I would aim for: Mr. Clean. This man of house-scrubbing fame is one of my all-time favorite gay icons. He seems as obsessed with ending soap scum as I. Plus, his hunky, white tight t-shirt would delight all the queer folk at any club, if I could pull it off.

What I would end up with: Dick Cheney. Believe me, this could be the scariest costume out there. Young children would easily wet themselves seeing this thing approaching them in a haunted house. Still, I want to be lemony-fresh Mr. Clean, not criminally-insane Dick Cheney.

What I would aim for: James Dean. Over a half-century later, James Dean still can get my blood going. Queer and cool, Dean’s angst epitomized a generation’s struggle with stifling conformity.


What I would end up with: Marlon Brando. Even in his best days, Brando never appealed to me. His screeching for Stella or his other portrayals of rough trade working-class brutes always fell flat for me. My quest for Dean would result in the unwashed Brando.

What I would aim for: Eva Gabor. Along with her sister Zsa Zsa, Eva has the accent and aristocratic flair that pleads for gay men’s imitation. I forgive Eva for Green Acres. As a costume, she would ooze style.

What I would end up with: Thunderbirds’ Lady Penelope. Okay, so she has the same wardrobe as Eva. She even gets to drive around in an ultra-fabulous pink Rolls Royce. Still, my shot at being Eva would leave me as plastic as Penelope.

What I would aim for: Diana Rigg. Here is somebody who not only had the chance to marry James Bond in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, but also kicked ass as Emma Peel in the Avengers. Could there be an icon of cool other than Rigg?


What I end up with: Me in a fur hood: enough said.

Warp Factor -- Fabulous

So, I am slower than other bloggers on commenting on the recent self-identifying of Hikaru Sulu George Takei and Sheryl Swoopes as gay. Being a major-nerd, Sulu's Takei’s outing is great news for me. Sorry, I am just not into the sports thing. On principle, though, I support the WNBA, at least more than I support any other sporting activity. Unless, of course, you count the Annual Challenges on Themyscira as sports.

I firmly believe that the more visible gay folk who are out there, both famous and at the local level, the better our chances are for fighting for our rights. One should also note, however, that both Takei and Swoopes tied their outing to other quests for social justice. Many people still presume queer folk to be white, or that sexuality trumps race and gender.

Each of these two high-profile cases, though, should prompt new discussions within the gay community about race and gender. Takei linked his sexuality and his racial identity together. He drew a moment to note that racism and homophobia still impacts individuals in the U.S. Likewise, Swoopes spoke candidly about the ways that sexism and homophobia influence the general public’s perception of women’s sports.

Though many gay activists are quick to draw parallels to the African-American quest for civil rights, they often presume that the two movements had been divorced. This ignores the many queers of color who have been intimately involved in both movements. Mainstream gay publications and images still focus on white men.

Until we change that, let's salute Swoopes and Sulu Takei. Warp-speed, Mr. Sulu Takei. You score, Ms. Swoopes (Again, I don't really do the sports thing, so it is the best I could think of).

On a side note, I wonder if there is new significance to Sulu’s line in STIV:TVH, “San Francisco, I was born there.”

Zorro

Antonio Banderas’ impending sequel reminds me of my complicated relationship with Zorro. “What?” you ask, “GayProf has a complicated relationship with a mainstream-media icon? How unusual.” Yeah, yeah, I know. I am nothing if not predictable.

Still, blogging on Zorro is better than, say, dealing with my breakup (Does it show that avoidance is one of my coping strategies?). It is also better than writing the two encyclopedia articles that are now three weeks overdue.

It is not so much the new Zorro film that interests me. After all, Banderas hasn’t held my attention since he stopped working on Almodóvar movies. Rather, it is the interesting ways that the character Zorro crosses two intersections of my identity: queer and Latino.

When I was growing up, there were very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very few Latino characters in the mainstream media. Connect that with my life-long love of flowing capes, and you have an explanation for Zorro being my second-grade Halloween costume. I would provide a picture, but given I was the third child, my parents had pretty much lost interest in keeping a photographic record of their family by the time I was in the second grade. It's just another thing to add to my therapy sessions.

Annnnnnnyway, GayProf must stay focused. So – Zorro -- right.

Zorro’s many incarnations provide rare opportunities for us to see a Latino hero. Zorro contrasted the stereotypical Latino images that plagued U.S. visual culture. He was smart, handsome, charming, and committed to fighting social injustice. For those who don’t know Zorro’s original story (basically ignored by the Banderas’ movies), Diego de la Vega turned to vigilantism when Spain’s imperial authority over Alta California became corrupt. During the day, he lived out his role as the lazy son of a wealthy land-owner. Whenever the bumbling Sargent Garcia wrongly arrested somebody, though, Diego dashed off to the cave below his house. He put on a black costume, cape, cowl, and a small brimmed hat. With this outfit, he suddenly became invincible. He could burst apart corruption and help the weak, only stopping to carve Z’s into his enemies’ underpants.

In many ways, Zorro inspired the subsequent generations of superheroes who emerged in comic book form. Zorro, created in 1919, predated Superman, Green Lantern, and others by at least twenty years. Bob Kane, the creator of Batman, found more than a little inspiration from Zorro. Both characters, after all, are wealthy bachelors who, after going to their secret cave, play dress-up in long flowing capes. Indeed, Kane had young Bruce Wayne and his parents watching The Mask of Zorro before their untimely demise. All of this suggests Zorro’s strengths as a Latino icon.

Yet, Zorro’s story is not that simple. In contrast to many people’s assumptions, a Latino did not invent Zorro. His actual creator, Johnston McCulley, participated in the existing racial and national discourse from his time. Creating his hero for a popular pulp magazine, McCulley made Zorro an exception to the otherwise blood-thirsty and corrupt Latinos who surrounded him. Moreover, Diego de la Vega existed as a “racially pure” Spaniard in his first incarnation. The mixed-race and indigenous people who surrounded him appeared incompetent or in need of his rescue.

McCulley allegedly based Zorro on Joaquín Murrieta, a real-life California folk hero. Murrieta, however, fought gold-hungry Euro-Americans who threatened and harassed the existing Mexican population in the 1850s. McCulley apparently did not like this element of the story, probably because it exposed the negative elements of U.S. westward expansion.

McCulley made his version of Murrieta safe for Euro Americans by turning back the clock. Because Zorro’s stories took place before the arrival of Euro Americans in California, he never drew attention to the injustices that Latinos faced in the U.S. If anything, his adventures justified the U.S. invasion by showing most Latinos as incapable of self-government. Zorro’s archenemies, particularly the corrupt alcalde and incompetent Sargent Garcia, served as excuses for Manifest Destiny a hundred years later.

Zorro’s relationship to Latinos, though, is not the only element that intrigues me about this character. Zorro also has a peculiarly queer history. In many of his appearances, Zorro showed some sexuality-bending tendencies, the aforementioned flowing cape not being the least of which (Seriously, when are capes ever going to come back into fashion for men?). One has to wonder, for instance, just why did he always stop to cut off other men’s trousers? What are we to make of his carving his initial in their underpants? Was he marking his territory? And we won’t even begin to explore his love of the whip.

During the day-light hours, Zorro’s alter-ego, Don Diego de la Vega, spent time lounging about, often in a fey manner. Supporting characters in the 1940 Tyrone Power version probably came the closest to calling Diego a big-flaming queen, but hints existed through most of his many incarnations. Power, incidently, had a reputation for being a man-loving-man himself.

Then there was Guy Williams’ basket in the Disney televison show. I hate to go to the gutter, but take a new look at this old show. Diego’s costumes showed that Williams was packing. His matador trousers, I am sure, helped many queer boys discover their real interests. No wonder he had such following! But, I digress. . .

Though Zorro wooed women, Diego de la Vega spent most of his time dressing and undressing with his faithful servant, Bernardo. The early eighties even took this character divide to its logical extreme with the parody Zorro: The Gay Blade. In this version, the Diego character split into two twin brothers (Freud calling on line one). One brother, straight, becomes injured and can’t continue as Zorro. The other brother, gay and named Bunny, becomes an outrageous Zorro figure. Losing the traditional black costume, Bunny adds a splash of color. Still, he appears as competent as his straight brother in fighting injustice.

My love-hate relationship with Zorro, as you might deduce, is based on all of these conflicting elements. Oh, who am I kidding? I just want to wear that cape . . .

I Get Phone Calls. . .

Despite my heartache, I know that the rest of the world is continuing with its business -- bastards. Given my self-obsession over the past few days, I hadn’t been thinking too much about the impending vote on Texas’ constitution. For those who don’t know, the governor proposed an amendment to the state constitution that would outlaw gay marriage. My first-ever blog entry even mentioned this. True, the state legislature has already passed hateful laws like this. But why miss an opportunity to harass gay folk? If people don’t vote “no” on proposition two, the state constitution will have an explicit measure designed to deny folk of their rights.

Last night I was cycling through a period of numbness over my personal woes when the phone rang. Rather than a well-wisher or a concerned family member, this caller identified himself as an automated political message. His text went something like this:

Hello – I am Reverend Hick McHick and I am calling to tell you to vote no on proposition two. I fully support this measure’s intention. Gay people threaten traditional marriage and the safety of our families. The constitutional amendment, though, puts at risk straight people! It has sloppy wording and it is not explicit enough about naming gay people. Real families might suffer. Remember, vote no.

What the fuck? If this is a message from the right, who is doing their market research? I couldn’t be on more gay, pro-choice, anti-hate mailing lists if I tried.

Because the message suggests to vote no on the amendment, however, I fear that this is something actually coming from the left. It has the end-result (voting “no”) we want, but it goes about it in a hateful means. To convince people to vote no, they side-step the impact on gay people, and try to frame it as something that threatens the most important people in our society: happy, married, straight folk. If this does come from the left, have they simply decided that people can’t be convinced that gay people deserve basic human rights?

It reminds me of the local battle for the U.S. House of Representatives during the 2004 election. Our district fell under DeLay’s master gerrymandering re-districting plan (may he rot in prison). In this instance, the Republicans attempted to use our area, which is profoundly right-wing, to unseat a Democratic Representative. The election became ugly. The Republican, a wicked woman named Arlene Wohglemuth, appeared slightly to the right of Benito Mussolini. She plastered our area with television, radio, and printed ads that talked about her burning hatred of all things queer.

The Democrat’s response to Arlene's campaign of hate? He began running ads with ministers who testified that he, also, despised gay people. Just like Arlene, the Democrat promised he would never vote for anything that protected gay people.

I understand political expediency, but do they have to sacrifice us? How badly has the left deteriorated if they don’t even take basic principal stands on human rights anymore? If our only goal is to win elections, even if it means tossing out equal levels of hate, are we actually accomplishing anything?

Queer Images: The Good and the Bad

Allow me to be a pale imitator of Susan Douglas’ Where the Girls Are: Growing Up Female with the Mass Media. If you don’t own this book, buy it. It is too funny to put down. While you are at, pick up Vito Russo’s The Celluloid Closet. It is old, but worth reading as well.

Douglas discusses the media’s relationship with women viewers. In the same spirit, I want to think about the ways that the media also plays a coy game with gay men. Many times, gay men become the fun joke or the “adult-theme” that adds zest to their shows, magazines, or films.

Most of these images deserve condemnation as homophobic. Soon-to-be-Ex, for instance, rightly gets outraged at these representations and writes about them in his blog (see his post on "Brokeback Mountain," for instance). Most times I agreed with him.

Where I split with him and others, though, is that I also think popular culture offers means of resistance. As much as the mainstream media derided (and continues to deride) gay men and women, it also created (and creates) opportunities to claim queerness through these same images. We have collectively interacted with the media, both accepting and rebelling against their assumptions about our sexuality.

It is too simple to limit our understanding about our queer past to iconic civil-rights leaders or events. Obviously, I am not at all minimizing these leaders. Believe me, I spend many of my classroom lectures informing my students about Bayard Rustin, Alan Ginsberg, Stonewall, Gloria Anzaldua, Harvey Milk, among others. It would be impossible for me to claim my queerness or enjoy my rights in this country (such that they are) without them.

Yet, I am willing to gamble that most queer folk don’t know about many of these leaders. Many of us learn about these figures after we have already come out (sometimes decades later). Instead, it is through popular media, I believe, that many (most?) gay men and lesbians ultimately claim their identity in the United States. Unlike queer civil-rights leaders, almost everyone could identify the list of characters below. Probably the media was one of the first places that we all learned about “men like that” or “those women.” We, therefore, have much invested in media representations. Simply condemning these images ignores the many queer folk who also find validation in them.

Certain television shows come to mind. These offered some of the most prolific queer images, and many of them continue to live on through endless cycles of re-runs. These visions of queer men sent contradictory messages. Often these characters had the most popularity of their shows. Because they broke with gender expectations, they had much more fun than their hetero counterparts. Straight male characters faced lives of responsible drudgery working in stale offices. Straight women characters faired little better. Their days seem to center on pondering new ways to clean fingerprints off windows.

Queer characters, however, appeared above these hopelessly boring activities. In many ways, they seemed to offer an antidote to the tedium of suburbia. They also usually arrived with the best jokes, always made at the expense of straight-folk.

Still, these characters traded in stereotypes and appeared clownish. Almost all of the images that could be read as queer were white and middle class. As such, they served as a warning about failures to conform to those racial, gender, and class expectations. Their fun always came to an end. Queer characters appeared as threats to the domestic ideals of straight-white families. Always coming from outside of these happy homes, their time in the domestic sphere usually resulted in unsettling an otherwise happy family. While they may have laughed for twenty minutes, queer men ultimately faced banishment in the last two minutes of these shows. They almost always appeared alone and divorced from sexual activity.

Uncle Arthur

Before Paul Lynde became the iconic “Center Square,” he captured the nation’s attention in Bewitched. Samantha always welcomed visits from her fun uncle, at least initially. Spending your days avoiding Mrs. Kravitz and mindlessly mixing cocktails for Darrin would prompt you to welcome Arthur’s quirky humor as well.

On the one hand, Arthur made no apologies and offered no explanations for being single. He delighted in his catty bitchiness. Arthur thumbed his nose (literally) at Darrin’s gender conformity, refusing to take on the conventional guises of masculinity. With his magic-driven practical jokes, he broke the stifling dullness of Samantha’s suburban prison. Arthur also appeared unique as the only one in the Bewitched world who never feared Endora (a lesbian icon waiting to be unpacked).

On the other hand, any explicit queer desires that Arthur may have had went unnamed in the show. The queerness that he did manifest was only permissible because of his association with Samantha’s secret magical world. Like most of her relatives, Arthur could not function, and was not welcome, in the day-to-day hetero mortal world. Arthur’s exaggerated theatrics inevitably became a nuisance to Samantha, his only consistent friend on the show.

We, the audience, weren’t suppose to identify with Arthur. Rather, his bitchiness and refusal to adapt to suburbia ultimately isolated him from other people on the show. In the end, he always returned to the magic world alone.

Lost in Space’s Dr. Smith

Smith existed as an unhappy and unwanted addition to the ultra-perfect space-family Robinson. Seemingly he was as smart, or maybe smarter, than the Robinsons. He worked as a medical doctor for NASA, but he kinda forgot his medical training as the show progressed. He also was the only one besides the ever-eager Will who could repair the robot (most times he repaired it as an instrument to try to murder the aforementioned Will). Like Arthur, he offered one-line bitchy zingers to the hapless heteros who surrounded him.

Though a popular character, Smith portrayed the worst stereotypes for someone who bent gender expectations. In the first episode he took a bribe from some unknown traitor to murder the Robinsons. Throughout the rest of the show, he continuously brought chaos and destruction to the real heroes of the show: the happy, white, suburban family. He screeched and screamed whenever the robot warned “danger-danger.” Time and again, his lack of proper masculinity imperialed everyone around him.

Cowardly and shrill, Smith served as a warning to young queers about being too flamboyant. If one didn’t settle down, even your best friends would hate you (or maybe even die!). Smith, who had the sex appeal of a pencil eraser, affirmed that queers were often fools and really needed a stronger, heterosexual man to save them in the end.

Jack Tripper

Three’s Company offered a character who explicitly identified as gay, at least part of the time. True, he wasn’t really gay. Instead, he only claimed to be gay so that he could live in a hot apartment.

For those who are under the age of thirty and/or don’t have cable, the premise of the show revolved around a straight, single man living with two straight, single women. The landlord of the apartment building (first Mr. Roper, later Mr. Furley) didn’t want any “hanky-panky” (his words, not mine) in his building and, thus, would have forbidden Jack from living there if he knew the truth.

Clearly the show traded on homophobia for cheap laughs. Whenever the landlord appeared, Jack began to swish and mince around the apartment, batting his eyelashes at the dim-witted landlord. These were the ways he pretended to be gay.

Still, Jack didn’t usually see claiming gayness as threatening to his own sense of masculinity. Despite his harsh and explicit homophobia, Mr. Roper/Furley accepted Jack as part of the family. Oddly, he even preferred to have a gay man living in his apartment building than a straight man. Jack Tripper’s character also opened the opportunity for me to ask my sisters (my source for all worldly information until I was 12) what it meant for someone to be “gay.”

Will and Grace Jack

Does anyone even watch Will and Grace anymore? I haven’t seen an episode in five or six years.

Regardless, for the first time network television offered a long-lasting show about openly gay characters. Unlike their queer predecessors, who mostly appeared as guest stars, Will and Jack had a guarantee to return week after week.

Taking their inspiration from The Object of My Affection, the show centered around the relationship between a straight woman and her gay best friend. Will and Grace made queerness safe by asserting a heternoramtive model of domesticity. Beyond the sex (and I think they might even had sex at some point), they looked like every other hetero couple on television.

We already know my feelings about Sean Hayes (click here to read that diatribe). His character Jack, though, is a recycled version of Uncle Arthur. Just like Arthur, Jack brings chaos to the happy domestic world of Will and Grace. Jack lacks a job, lives alone, and is the constant joke of the show. Like Smith, he is often cowardly and shirks any real responsibility.

Together, Jack and Will make an uncomfortable gay couple, with Grace as an unwieldy third. The show tells us that gay people exist, but that being a gay man does not involve dating other men. Rather, being gay seems to be about fluttering around apartments and drinking.


Queer Eye for the Straight Guy

Much virtual-ink has already been spilled over the queer-eye guys. Still, they became such a media sensation it is hard not to comment on them.

Rather than the isolated sadness of Uncle Arthur or Dr. Smith, for a change we got to see five gay men who worked together and seemed to have fun. They still acted in a bitchy manner, but they also showed that they cared about each other. Each had talents that went beyond one-line zingers and practical jokes (except maybe Jai, who seemed fairly useless).

Each episode could easily be interchanged with another. Some hetero guy, who apparently can’t figure out how to work a toaster (probably because Mommy always did that for him), calls for queer help to set him straight(er). The queer-eye men appear at his door, instantly bond with him, and serve as his gay mammies. They take him shopping, show him how to order food from a caterer, and give him lots of free stuff for his house. Countless episodes culminate when the queer guys help the dumb-bell het propose to his hapless girlfriend (as if she could say “no” with an army of cameras zooming in on her face). All the time, the queer-eye guys never mention that they lack the same rights to marry their loved ones. Instead, we are treated to close-up shots of the queer eye guys getting teary-eyed as the proposal unfolds before them.

The queer-eye world contends that there isn’t an oppressive and homophobic nation that keeps many gay people in fear. Instead, queer men in the show are consumed by solving superficial problems (how to get a straight-guy to wash his face, for instance).

Though they express genuine fraternal affection with each other, nothing is ever said about their individual romantic lives. Like Will and Jack, for these men being gay is about everything except having sex with other men.

After twenty something years with televison, I hoped that they would offer more rounded versions of gay folk. Television executives, instead, offer us a bad compromise. We have a few more images of gay men, and they actually get to identify as gay. They exist, though, in a never-never land that we could never mistake for own reality.

Yet, these images also provide contradictory opportunities for us to identify with them. This helps explain why many queer men are quick to defend things like "Brokeback Mountain." Rather than simply dismissing them as trivial, we need to consider our own complicated relationship with these visions of queerness. These images simultaneously provide a form of validation even as they lock queer folk into perpetual stereotypes.

Traditions

Homophobia reigns supreme at this university. One has to spend only twenty minutes on campus or the nearby vicinity to hear some type of anti-gay remark. It does not take long.

Yet, the university is riddled with homoerotic undertones. I have already noted that campus “art” centers around glorified images of muscle-bound men. Other elements of campus-life, however, show an even deeper level of unquestioned homoeroticism.

Terms to Live By:

Take, for example, terminology exclusive to this campus. All of these are real terms (Like Jimmy Carter, I would not lie to you):

Whipping Out: A greeting when two members of the university’s paramilitary group meets each other. If only they did “whip it out,” my days would be so much more interesting.

Redass: Someone who shows exceptional school spirit. Maybe because he has been pulling the train all evening?

Pulling Out: Shouting out the graduating year of the class before you. Remember kids, your partner "pulling out" does not prevent STDs.

Off the Wood: This is more of a command than a term. It means that people need to step off the bleachers during the campus song. Sometimes you just don’t want people on your wood.

Old Lady: Your male roommate. Seemingly all the men students are in some type of gay marriage. Good for them!

Ra-Ra
Then there are student “traditions” that seem loaded with homoerotic flair. Let’s take, for example, the fact that the university does not have any (zero) women cheerleaders. It is an all-male activity. I guess they don’t want women getting too close to the “tight-end” on the football field.

This manly-man squad offers the most interesting of cheers. I could not make this up. Believe me, I wish my sense of imagination had that depth. At some point during athletic competitions, these young men shove their ass out, mimicking “humping.” What do the call this cheer? "Humpin it." According to a quasi-official description of “Humpin It,” one must “bend over with the hands placed just above the knees, properly aligning the mouth, throat and back to allow the maximum amount of volume.” A date once offered me this same advice.

Men intentionally excluded women from other activities as well. When students constructed bonfires, women students could not touch certain parts of the structure. In particular, only men could make the center pole erect. Frankly, it is a policy I have adopted in my personal life.

Perhaps it goes along with:

When I was a band-nerd, I played clarinet. So, I don’t necessarily know the most relaxing position to hold one’s trumpet. Still, is it me, or do they seem to be compensating for something?

Honestly, I have never hung a flag off of my trumpet, either. Well, okay, maybe once at a party. . .

You don't have to be a cheerleader or a band member to get involved with this action, though. What better way to show your school spirit than leaving your house almost naked? How about painting your body muddy red? Even better, get some of your best friends to wear identical paint schemes.

It is just good male-bonding, I say, to roam around the streets with you best-buds in a Speedo and body paint. After all, don’t we see this time and again at circuit parties? Oh, wait, that is something else. . .

Fancy Dress Ball

As a historian, I am always looking for explanations in the past. Luckily, I think I found the origin of these homoerotic elements in the university archive.



For most this university’s history, it was an all-male school (until the 1970s). Men had their urges, though.

As with all college-aged men, Spring Semester always turned their thoughts to the fancy dress ball. What did they do, though, without any women students? “No problem, “ they said, “We will simply dress the younger classmen in drag!” Look closely at this picture from university archives. Click it to make it bigger.

Most of these men enjoyed their pretty, pretty dresses. Who wouldn’t?

This is the type of “can-do” attitude that is missing from today’s university students. Sure, some residual elements remain of this great history through whipping out, old ladies, and pulling out. Where, though, are the drag balls? Bring them back! Bring them back, before it is too late!