My Gay Old Soulmate and I settle in to the company of older gay men, joined by younger companions. Why do I relax so readily in the sofa, unguarded? We are, in fact, just getting familiar with thse men. But though we come, in some respects, from divergent backgrounds, in others, we share a history.
The unfolding conversation confirms it. One man knows of the Rock River, up to its nude, gay, swimming holes. Another mentions a bath house, and we all remember the unfearful sex of the seventies. Then, a word or two turns us to more sober times, when the angel of death lived even more closely among us than it does today (or so we imagine). The musings and the stories–always the stories–continue.
This is more than aging veterans tiresomely repeating old battle tales. Like old military vets, we have wisdom to share. The younger queer men among us learn the context of their liberation. Perhaps they will take away some lessons we learned along the way. Even an off-handed joke about someone we once loved or dated conveys a message that relationships have complexity, are negotiable, and, when they don’t turn out as expected, may survive in other forms—or at least be survivable.
None of us who knew it would return to the closet. Still, we remember dancing with reckless abandon in hidden bars. As we recall those joys, and the brief connections found in cruising spots, we tell the next generation that love cannot be outlawed. Our anecdotes continue to celebrate sex and banish shame. Those of us, who stepped out before it was safe, paid a price. But the stories we tell of alienations, exclusions, firings, and lost relationships shed light on resilience that rises unbidden in queer life.
Does the new generation find our old battle accounts tiring? Perhaps they have become unwanted tethers to a past considered better forgotten. Will my generation be forgotten? I suppose the men who carved out an entire life in a closet had the same question for my generation. The men who thought we were too loud and pushy and too dismissive of their altered pronouns and refusals to name affections must have wondered whether we valued their stories. Inheriting their question, I do not know whether my Gay Old Soulmate and I, along with the men in this room, will be remembered or forgotten.
Known or unknown, our stories have shaped the next generation as the gay tales of our predecessors shaped ours. Seen or unseen, our lives made a difference. We did change the world.
As I look around the room, I can hardly believe it could seem so easy to be gay compared to when we grew up. But I doubt the young men opposite me find it easy. They have other barriers to surmount, other valleys to traverse. They, too, will change the world and add their stories to the legacy. Long after my Gay Old Soulmate and I have passed into oblivion, they, too, may wonder whether they will be valued by the generation that follows them.
I ease deeper into the sofa. I smile at the men around me and relish the comfortable company of older gay men and our young companions. I sense in myself, and in them, an invisible host, a queer cloud, bearing witness in our living here today. In this company, I know myself, and I am known.