I recently returned from Manzanar, a place I’ve wanted to experience for a very long time. The visit was important, powerful and poignant. When I tell people where I’ve been they look at me strangely. Either they don’t know what it is/was, or they wonder why I would want to visit such a site in our state’s troubled history.

I had been interested in the Japanese American relocation camp for many years. During library school I compiled an annotated bibliography for an Ethnic Bibliography class in 1980, which necessitated meeting with Japanese American librarians and activists, a visit to the Japanese American Citizens League, and and research at various Japanese American libraries.


The following year I attended one of the many redressment hearings, at Golden Gate University. I still remember the palpable anger and sadness in that auditorium, as I listened to painful, personal testimonies. In 1988 I was heartened when President Ronald Reagan officially apologized to the 80,000 survivors and offered them each $20,000. It couldn’t undue the lamentable episode in U.S. history, but it was an acknowledgement of the tragic “mistake”.

That said, I learned a lot by visiting the camp, alternately referred to as a relocation, concentration, or segregation camp. The energy of intergenerational psychic trauma at Manzanar was unmistakable. Driving to the camp, parking the car, and walking toward the museum, I was overcome by an inchoate sadness, which I simultaneously tried to embrace and dispel.

I thought I understood the internment of Japanese Americans, but it’s one thing to read history books and memoirs and to watch documentaries, it’s another to actually stand at the isolated site. I didn’t have to imagine the harsh windswept terrain, set against the beautiful Sierra Nevada mountains.


I recalled my grammar school classmate June Shozi, whose family owned the local strawberry stand in our Southern California suburb. I assume she and her family were incarcerated, but it was never discussed. In fact, the entire episode was not taught, even though it had taken place less than twenty years prior. I wonder to what extent it is now part of California’s curriculum.

The museum is installed in Manzanar’s former auditorium. I learned that Paiute Indians lived in the area before the town of Manzanar was founded in 1905. Apple, pear and peach orchards were planted, until the City of Los Angeles began to secretly buy up water rights in the Owens River Valley, and Manzanar was abandoned by 1929. The area was bulldozed to level the ground in preparation for the building of the camp, which exacerbated the continual blowing of dirt and sand.

We watched the short documentary film, which provided an excellent overview of the historical events. I hadn’t realized the extent to which racist antagonism directed toward the Japanese Americans — mainly jealousy for their hard work and financial success in agriculture and other endeavors — predated the relocation. The attack on Pearl Harbor and the professed fear of espionage was merely convenient propaganda for Executive Order 9066 authorizing “segregation” of an innocent minority group. In most cases the Japanese Americans didn’t understand where they were going, how long they’d be gone, or why they were being moved. They packed what they could carry, leaving their homes and businesses to nefarious or benevolent neighbors.


We learned about families torn asunder by misguided attempts to prove their Americaness. Japanese-born Issei (who were not allowed to become American citizens) often spoke Japanese, while second- and third-generation Nisei and Sansei spoke English. Traditions were frayed by intergenerational living and eating arrangements, as well as divisive answers to a confusing loyalty questionnaire. Much of this was never spoken by the stoic survivors. “Shikata ga nai” was the attitude: it can’t be helped.

Allen compared the exhibits to Allegiance, based on George Takei’s experience as a child incarceree. Though critical of the Broadway musical, Allen admired how it instigated renewed attention to the underacknowledged episode.

After exploring the exhibits, we walked to the reconstructed barracks, mess hall, and other buildings, seeing first hand the cramped quarters with no privacy for sleeping, eating, or personal hygiene. One surprising realization was an internee’s oral history describing how the camp experience was actually beneficial for his mother, who, freed from her traditional obligations of cooking, cleaning, and other household/family duties, was able to blossom artistically and culturally.

By car, we circumnavigated the one-mile square camp, getting a sense of its magnitude. We stopped at various historic sites including the cemetery and the ruins of Pleasure Park, a beautiful garden created by the internees, later renamed Merritt Park for camp director Ralph Merritt. It was completely consumed by the desert and only recently rediscovered. I thought I would buy a souvenir of my long-awaited visit, but as I perused the well-stocked shop, I couldn’t bring myself to purchase anything other than a postcard of an undated “Manzanar” fruit label.


Experiencing Manzanar over seventy years after its 1945 closure seemed appropriately timely. Annual pilgrimages take place, involving the friends and families of internees, as well as students. People who were incarcerated as children are now in their 80s. I believe every American citizen should be required to experience the site of this tragic miscarriage of justice.

Representations of Hate


I have been presenting a program entitled “How has Hollywood (Mis)Represented Homosex538fc7b68b01e9d276c63f9e5aee3295uality” at which I show selected trailers from Jenni Olson’s compilation DVD Homo Promo. Initially I thought the depictions of gay men, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people (e.g. Myra Breckinridge and Christine Jorgenson) from the 1960s and ’70s was merely a convenient, campy way to engage in a dialogue about LGBTQI representation and difference. First presented at my pal Doug’s progressive church, it was such a success that I pitched it to the Eureka Valley Branch of SFPL and the JCCSF, where it was equally well-received. This week I am presenting the program at the Potrero Branch and at Morrison & Foerster law firm.

Recently I attended a talk by David Pilgrim about his book Understanding Jim Crow: Using Racist Memorabilia to Teach Tolerance and Promote Social Justice based on the collections of the Jim Crow Museum at Ferris State University in Big Rapids, MI. I was horrified by the poignant stories about the destructive power of mammy cookie jars, pickaninny posters, and a chauffeur’s cap. I began to think about demonization of other groups: centuries of anti-semitic depictions of Jews, inscrutable”Orientals”, Mexicans, Irish, Italians… Like Rodgers and Hammerstein remind us, “You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear…”

I wondered if there was an analogous material depicting sexual minorities. Fundamentalism religions (of many stripes) that proclaim “God download (1)hates fags” might be a place to start. Popular culture examples such as movie posters and pulp paperbacks another potential source to investigate how members of the groups are pathologized. How imagery and iconography help exert control both from outside (mainstream) and within (personal and/or LGBTQI communities. The stereotypes are rampant. Take your pick: predatory lesbian, depraved gay man, sex-crazed bisexual, confused transsexual. What do these images do to produce and maintain hatred of the “other”? But equally important, how do they impact the psyche of those who identify as LGBTQI or question their sexual identity or orientation?

After showing the trailer for the film adaptation of Mart Crowley’s play The Boys in the Band I joked that watching the film retarded my coming out by several years. I realized that download (2)there might be some truth to that, and wondered about the insidious damage done by these images.

In light of the recent shootings in Orlando, this idea seems increasingly both less historical, more contemporary and less far fetched.  Might there be materials in the holdings of the Hormel LBTQIA, the GLBT Historical Society and/or other repositories that might lend themselves to such an exhibition?

When I posed such questions to the audience, several enthusiastically suggested examples: The Lambda Conspiracy by Spendownloadser Hughes, a 1993 novel that “dramatizes with frightening realism the path this once Christian nation is taking, as society persists in rejecting the biblical foundations of our culture.”

Chick tracts, those short Christian evangelical booklets published by Jack T. Chick in comic book format.jackchickbirdsbees04




I researched religious American homophobes: Anita Bryant, Fred Phelps of Westboro Baptist Church, “Dr. Laura” Schlessinger, Janet Mefferd’s “mainstream, faith-based Christian radio”, Donald Trump, Steven Anderson, Scott Lively, North Carolina Governor Pat McCrory… and the list goes on. When it comes to hate, there are apparently no limits to those who incite violence.


I believe this ubiquitous propaganda has pernicious potential for individuals and society. What do you think?



This example suggested by Dianne:

download (3)

Poem for Tom


In an already crowded apartment 
filled with flowers and food and music,
prescriptions and absorbent pads,
ebbing and flowing with friends and family,
nurses and caregivers,
laughter and tears.

The body in the recliner, 
the center of attention, 
almost in the way,
now talked about as much as talked to.
outpourings of memories, 
photographs,  here and electronically,

many proceeded by “Tom would hate this…”
recalling a life well lived, now ebbing.

A sad, sweet scene,
one that has taken place since time began,
in caves and plains,
parlors and bedrooms, 
hospitals and nursing homes,
wherever there has been life, there will be death.
After seven days of waiting and watching, I quip
“The Jews got it wrong; this is sitting shiva.”

I hold Tom’s hand,
stroke his crepey arm,
tell him that he can go
to that big dance floor in the sky,
I will take care of his beloved Allen.
Allen who has so lovingly taken care of Tom
for almost 35 years,
keeping his secrets, 
enduring his stubbornness,
sharing his love of another era,
a deep, unbreakable bond
that will endure beyond this transition.

My own relationship with Tom more fraught,
the phrase “it’s complicated” seemingly developed for this situation:
a trio, 
a ménage, 
not always in balance, 
but buoyed by love and loyalty,
and sometimes rivalry.
As Allen explains it succinctly to the visiting nurse:
“like lesbians”

Over the years Tom and I developed a routine: 
he continually requesting lemons from my backyard tree
me arriving with a bag of yellow orbs
a peace offering, 
an attempt at connection,
until one last lemon is proffered:
refused to let go
slept with in his curled palm
all night long
until it too will inevitably be released…




“LOL” may be shorthand for “laugh out loud” or “lots of love” but for me it stands for “little old lady”. To be clear: these are not small women, in fact they’re larger than life.

I had lunch last week with Adah Bakalinsky. She is smart, funny, interesting, and beautiful. Still spry and always curious, she is the author of the beloved book Stairway Walks of San Francisco.  I have known her, not well, for ages. Neither of us can quite remember when we first met. It I may have been at a party given by my friend Margaret Fabrizio. I think I gave her a ride home that night, and our paths crossed frequently thereafter. I was delighted when she invited me to her 80th birthday party, many years ago. After we continued to orbit each other’s worlds, she invited me to lunch at the Towers. It was a lovely (re)connection and caused me to wonder about my attraction to what I lovingly call “little old ladies”.

My first little old lady was, undoubtedly like many, my grandmother. “Baba” was my Auntie Mame, with her flamboyant red hair, thick French accent, stylish clothes and jewelry, and a glamorous past.  She encouraged my adventurous palate by introducing me to such foreign foodstuffs as beef tongue, calf’s liver, sweetbreads, quenelles, braised lettuce, marinated cucumbers, among other culinary treats. The fact that she was an opera singer in Paris, with 78 recordings and theatre posters to prove it, only enhanced her role as antidote to my boring suburban experience.  I am proud to say she is the person who most influenced who I am today.

Another early lol was Helen Jean, whom I met in the very early 1970s through friends. “HJ” lived in a SRO in the Tenderloin, and strung beads to eke out a living. I had moved away from my family and friends and was just coming out as a gay man. HJ was my confidante, my mentor. She listened to my tales of love found and lost, and I commiserated with her always precarious financial situation and encroaching blindness. We had lots of adventures and lots of laughs. After decades of friendship we somehow lost touch, and I’m sure she is now long gone. I think of her frequently and fondly every time I drive past her Larkin Street apartment building.

Where did this intergenerational attraction come from? Is it particular to gay men?  I think of my friend Eric Smith’s collection of wonderful lol’s including “Irene Williams: Queen of Lincoln Road” about whom he made an inspiring documentary. What do we see in them, that others might not? How did Betty White become an icon of the gay community? Do we bask in their (fading) glory, desire to emulate their power, revel in details of their checkered or glamorous pasts? Who else participates in this particular pantheon?

Years ago when Michael Montlack was compiling an anthology entitled My Diva: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them, some of my writing partners and I decided to contribute.  Patrick Letellier wrote about his admiration for Queen Elizabeth I and Lewis DeSimone explored his adoration of the fictional character Auntie Mame. Other offerings included opera stars, popular singers, movie actresses and a few literary figures. My contribution was an essay entitled “Dinners with the Diminutive Diva”, which concludes, “To the world, Betty Berzon was a pioneering gay rights activist, psychotherapist, and bestselling author. To me, she was a dear friend, whose inspiration guides me daily even as her absence deeply affects me.” That sums up my inexplicably deep connection to Betty, and her partner Terry DeCrescenzo. When Betty died I went into such a tailspin you’d have thought I’d lost my own mother and mentor.

My childhood friends were mostly girls, with whom I played jacks and hopscotch and house. I always liked talking to their moms, who seemed nicer than my own. I had no aunts (or uncles, for that matter.)  Why was I so attracted to female energy?

These days I try to spend as much time as possible with my friends Bev Case, who recently turned 91, and and Margaret Fabrizio in her mid 80s. Not because I have any official obligation or for altruistic reasons, but because I enjoy their company. It’s as if I want to experience every drop of wisdom and wit from these wonderful women while they’re still around.

Friends sometimes tease that I’m turning into a little old lady. I can only hope it’s true.

I’ve certainly had many amazing role models.


Cinematic Souvenirs


I recently toured the handsome new facilities of Pacific Film Archive and Berkeley Art Museum. As head librarian Nancy Goldman showed the group of art librarians the rich resources of the library, she made passing reference to souvenir movie programs. I thought of my personal stash of programs, collected in the 1960s and ’70s and asked if she might want them for the collection. I never looked at them, but couldn’t bring myself to dispose of them. . I was thrilled when she said yes. Now they would have a permanent home, and be of potential use to future researchers. As I took them off the shelf and packaged them for delivery, I took one last look at these mementos of my youth.

It was a trip down a veritable memory lane, as most of them were bought at theatres along Hollywood Boulevard, where I saw so many movies for the first time. I loved going to the movie palaces along this famous street: Grauman’s Chinese, The Egyptian, The Pantages and The Paramount (aka El Capitan). Sometimes with my parents, sometimes with a school group, but mostly with my grandmother, who lived not far away.

I spent hours reading in magazines about movies being made and eagerly awaited their release. I stepped on or over famous names on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, many of which had to be explained to me by my parents. I was fascinated by special effects, dreaming that one day I would work in the industry. The programs offered a tangible memento of the experience. Filled with behind the scenes stories, biographies of the stars, and stills, some of these promotional materials are merely advertising, others offer fascinating information. Most are standard formats, either 8 1/2 x 11″ hardcovers or 9 x 12″ brochures, others diverge. Is it significant that those for Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey and Barry Lyndon are offbeat sizes and shapes?

download (2)download (1)

My eclectic collection boasts many musicals, including classics like My Fair Lady, South Pacific, Funny Girl and Camelot. Julie Andrews is well represented: Thoroughly Modern Millie, Star!, Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music. 51ihuDp0xEL._SX382_BO1,204,203,200_

Less successful offerings: Sweet Charity, The Happiest Millionaire, Hello, Dolly! and Doctor Doolittle. I bought the soundtracks of many of them, and compared them to the Original Broadway Cast albums that I borrowed from the library. I favored Gwen Verdon to Shirley Maclaine, Mary Martin to Mitzi Gaynor, and Julie Andrews over Audrey Hepburn. But, forgive me, I did prefer Julie Andrews over Mary Martin’s Maria von Trapp.

I would have been ten in 1962, when How the West Was Won and The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm were released at the Cinerama dome, where a few years later the Battle of the Bulge played. Images from the star-studded western were indelibly imprinted on my adolescent psyche; the fairy tale backstory and the war movie not so much.

While waiting to see the film adaptations I devoured lengthy novels like Gone With the Wind, Doctor Zhivago, Hawaii, and Far From the Madding Crowd. I scarcely understood that Franco Zefferelli’s Romeo and Juliet and The Taming of the Shrew were based on Shakespeare or that A Man for All Seasons had been a recent play.




I loved the Biblical epics, The Bible, Ben Hur, and King of Kings. Can I count Cleopatra among the ancient extravaganzas? Other historical favorites were Is Paris Burning and

Before the days of videorecording, I often played the soundtrack and looked at the program, reimagining the experience of watching the movie. My bedroom walls were covered with images from magazines and sometimes even record albums, but never, ever, would I cut up my precious souvenir programs.

My penultimate perusal of these artifacts from the past returns me to my adolescent self and my love of movies. They are permanently imbedded in my heart; I no longer need their physical presence to remind me. After nearly fifty years on my shelves I am delighted they are moving to a new home.

Civil Vigilance


Every Tuesday at noon, San Francisco is assailed with a siren. After a fifteen-second “wall” tone, a recorded message intones: “This is a test. This is a test of the Outdoor Public Warning System. This is only a test.” Depending on one’s proximity to the 109 city-wide sirens, the succinct message is clearly audible or its unintelligibility becomes yet another element of urban noise pollution. Originally, fifty sirens were installed, in 1942, obviously in response to anticipated threats related to WWII.

This weekly interruption of city life invokes, for me, growing up during the 1950s. Considered to have begun in 1947, shortly after the devastation of World War II, and ending in 1991, with the dissolution of the USSR, the Cold War’s legacy is legion.

pb-110817-duckandcover-rs.photoblog900Throughout grammar school I remember duck-and cover drills, diving under our desks, to avoid impending Russian bombs. These intermittent trainings somehow seemed much more terrifying than the emergency fire drills of walking calmly out of the not-actually-burning building. With our hands protecting the back of our youthful necks we were instructed to imagine the glass exploding from the wall of windows at Buena Terra Elementary School. Vivid descriptions of the first flash of intense heat and light of the developing nuclear fireball were invoked to motivate our participation. I don’t recall similar preparations for natural disasters like earthquakes (much more likely in Southern California) or tornadoes. We learned that some families built bomb shelters, filled with canned goods and all the necessities to survive. Were we being taught not to stick our necks out in more ways than one? Were they being overly cautious, or were we flirting with danger?

What else were we taught about those Russians? Most of what I learned was from the nefarious Boris Badenov, “world’s greatest no-goodnik”, and curvaceous Natasha Fatale on episodes of “The Rocky and Bullwinkle boris_and_natasha_by_rongs1234-d4ydjfuShow”. Would I have felt differently about those Russkies had I known that my grandfather had hidden the fact that he’d been born in Russia? Was my xenophobia generalizable?

The promotion of suspicion and paranoia seemed pervasive. I was eight in 1960 when Mattel released Lie Detector Scientific Crime Game. I remember hours of interrogating suspects, sticking the stylus into the “scientific” machine and waiting for the needle to register whether their description is true or false. What effect did this have on my developing psyche? Could my own utterances be so easily be decoded?






I was an eager James Bond fan of both novels and films. I watched “Man from U.N.C.L.E.” and “Get Smart”. I wanted to be a suave, sophisticated spy, seducing beautiful women, or at least sipping martinis — shaken not stirred — after a full day of covert adventure.

After being humiliated for playing with my friends’ Barbie and Ken dolls, I was too old by the time GI Joe doll was released in 1964. My younger brother had one, and I envied his ability to navigate doll-playing as an acceptable masculine behavior. There were so many aspects of masculinity I didn’t quite grok. The boys on the block played endless games of baseball, but I was bored. They also built customized model cars, but that too was a skill that escaped me.


I preferred reading biographies and catching (and mounting, I’m sorry to say) butterflies. It all felt like a subversive plot, expecting me to act like a boy which meant betraying my authenticity.

I was expected to stand with hand on heart, intoning words that were meaningless. “I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” This jingoism ran hollow then, and has only become more so after reading Howard Zinn’s seminal A People’s History of the United States and John Perkins’ more contemporary Confessions of an Economic Hit Man. How could I be expected to participate in this nationalistic charade, similar to endorsing the equally suspect cult of masculinity.
I wanted to eradicate fear, mostly my own, which seemed to accelerate, not dissipate, with each drill. One must always be alert, ready to act in event of attack. When the alarm sounded, day or night, one must know exactly what to do. Our lives depend on our vigilance.

Every Tuesday I wonder: am I ready?

Pocket Books


“Where are the Pocket Books?” I asked the clerk in the large discount department store. I was killing time while my parents were shopping elsewhere. A common occurrence.

“Ladies’ handbags are over there,” the salesperson pointed across the expansive space. .

“No, no. Paperback books,” I quickly corrected. I was humiliated that I had incorrectly asked for paperback books by the brand name. I didn’t know that the publisher was just the first of many imprints to produce and distribute pulp paperbacks. This wasn’t the first time I’d made the mistake. I soon found the section of rectangular repositories of information and other worlds. I couldn’t afford hardcover books so I waited impatiently for them to be released in paper. I loved perusing the racks of new releases.


In junior high I won a contest the prize of which was paperback thesaurus. I didn’t really want it so I managed to trade it for one I did: Elizabeth Taylor by Elizabeth Taylor, published in 1967. Having followed the controversial filming of Cleopatra and admiring her recent roles in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf and The Taming of the Shrew, I devoured the movie star’s autobiography. I vividly remember learning of her intense dislike for the appellation “Liz.” She preferred to be known as Betty Burton.


Another memorable book was The Bridge at Andau, James Michener’s nonfiction account of the 1957 Hungarian Revolution. The paperback was passed around my pack of pubescent boys as if it was pornography. I think we were less interested in the political events, more titillated by detailed depictions of torture. I went on to read many Michener tomes, including The Source, Hawaii, and my father’s copy of Tales of the South Pacific.


He had lent me his well-loved copy and told me that it was an adult book, so that if I encountered anything I didn’t understand, just ask and he’d be happy to explain it to me.
I kept coming across a phrase that I knew was nasty but couldn’t figure out exactly what it meant. I finally summoned the courage to ask my dad.
“What letter does it begin with, “ he wanted to know.
“S,” I said shyly.
Armed with the appropriate volume of the World Book Encyclopedia as well as a dictionary, we sat down. “What’s the word?” he asked gently.
I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud, so I pointed to the page.
“That’s the word?” my father wanted to be sure.
“Yes,” I confirmed with trepidation. “Is it bad?”
My father tried unsuccessfully not to laugh. The word was: “so-and-so”.


Another book that severely derailed my attempts at self-education was David Reuben’s Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (*But Were Afraid to Ask). I was 17 when it originally came out in 1969 and didn’t know not to believe everything the “doctor” said, specifically about homosexuality. It turns out I wasn’t the only teenager struggling with his sexual orientation who was misguided. Fortunately I ignored his “information” and discovered my own truth. By then I was able to laugh at Woody Allen’s wacky 1972 film “adaptation”.


I devoured movie tie-ins. I remember Funny Girl (Pocket Books), Thoroughly Modern Millie (Bantam), and (surreptitiously) Reflections in a Golden Eye (Bantam). I didn’t distinguish between novelizations of feature films, often with “16 pages of photos from the upcoming movie,” and adaptations of bestselling novels. When I learned that the Sound of Music was based on the real-life Trapp Family Singers, I bought a paperback of Maria’s autobiographical account, justifying my purchase by writing a report entitled “The Trapp Family Singers and The Sound of Music”.

Now paperbacks proliferate. There are mass market and trade paperbacks, paperback originals, and who knows what all else. In American Pulp: How Paperbacks Brought Modernism to Main Street, Paula Rabinowitz investigates the role of paperback books in democratizing access to literature. I may not have been scouring the wire racks at drugstores and bus stations, but I sure did love me my “pocket books”.

Birds of a Feather


Yesterday afternoon I happened to look into the backyard, which I do frequently. Through the screen door I could see that my fountain was filled with birds. Often a hummingbird is darting around or sometimes two or three birds are frolicking. (I don’t know what kind, despite having bought a card to help identify them).

Yesterday there were over a dozen, maybe twenty, cavorting in the fountain. And then I noticed the trees surrounding the yard were alive with lots more. There may have been as many as one hundred, of various species. It looked like a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I tried to take a picture, in vain. I wanted to somehow be certain that it was really happening. Then all of a sudden, in unison, they lifted up out of the yard and soared across the sky. An amazing moment of whispered grace. I thought I had witnessed a spiritual moment, and perhaps I had.

This morning when I went down to nap in my hammock, I discovered that there was indeed physical evidence of their visitation: the hammock with covered with bird shit.

A Blessing in Disguise


It’s not often one can say that a flat tire was the best thing to happen to me today.

I was already late, having run an errand on the way to pick up friends for a drive to Bolinas, and from there to Oakland. Not the best time to have another driver honk and point to my tire: you have a flat. I immediately pulled over to take a look. Damn! It was totally collapsed. I was nowhere near a tire shop or even a service station. I alerted my friends to the situation, then called AAA.

Yes, I was in a safe space. Yes, I had a spare.

I waited impatiently and expectantly while cars whizzed past. Finally a bright yellow truck rolled up from which alighted a dark skinned young man, smiling. I was grateful to see him. When I told him I was trying to get to Bolinas, he asked: “To watch the fight?”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, until he explained about the boxing match “of the century”. Everyone was excited that Floyd Mayweather had finally agreed to fight Manny Pacquiao. He was going to watch it on television with friends at his mom’s.

He might as well have been speaking a foreign language. I feigned interest, realizing that he and I moved in different worlds. Akin to the AT&T representative who recently failed to fathom that I wouldn’t be interested in a discounted bundle that included cable because I didn’t watch broadcast television, “not even the news when you get home from work?”

The mechanic said he could fix the tire, quoting me a price of $30. I gratefully agreed.

He effortlessly began to remove the tire and pulled out the big nasty screw that had caused the flat. He obviously knew what he was doing and enjoyed his work. Suddenly our conversation somehow shifted. He mentioned karma, yoga, and his Black and Salvadorean parentage. His brother’s arrest for drug trafficking, how his mother’s prayer had saved him from the penitentiary, but INS immediately deported him back to El Salvador. At first I was just being friendly.

As we chatted he told me about how he had played sports, and had been offered multiple college scholarships. But as the youngest male, because both his older brothers weren’t able to, he was obligated to provide for his mother and younger sister. He went to work, a deferring his dream of playing sports professionally. We talked about the evils of alcohol and pot, racism, sexism, and junk food. We compared notes on how San Francisco was changing: housing, traffic, and homelessness. Without rancor, he recounted repeated experiences of racial profiling. This good-looking guy was an angel, beautiful inside and out. I admired — envied — his self-assuredness. We acknowledged overtly our differences: his skin was brown, mine was pink; he was 24, I was 62; he was straight, I was gay. So many insignificant differences. None of that mattered. We understood — and moved through — the universe similarly.

In less than an hour the tire was fixed, but something more had taken place. I can’t quite convey the power of our unexpected connection. I was impressed with his way of making manifest what might be called “Tikkun Olam.” Literally.

A moment of – dare I say – grace had occurred. And not just because he rescued me from the side of the road As he replaced the tire, he assured me that his repair work would hold, but gave me his name and number, repeatedly insisting that I should call if it didn’t. As I offered him $40, he was appreciative and we shook hands. I couldn’t stop marveling at this magnificent young man as we both drove off in separate directions.

Postscript: The trip through the GGNRA to Bolinas was beautiful, as was most of the route over to Oakland. We were going there to see a musical, directed by my partner’s high school drama teacher with whom he had recently reconnected after forty years. A high school production of “Hairspray” at Bishop O’Dowd High School. Whatever. But I had experienced an opening. I was different. Set in the early 1960s, the show was sexy, and smart, with catchy songs and lots of heart. It was a wonderful production, nearly as professional as the touring company I’d seen some years ago. As I watched, I wept, continually. Something about its young, talented, multiracial cast, its theme of integrating the Corny Collins dance show, and its all too timely setting of Baltimore, the site of yet more racial unrest in this country where it continues unchecked. I was heartened by the thought of a religious school promoting acceptance of difference, risqué language, and cross-dressing.

Maybe there is hope for the world after all.

“Thundering Silence”


I was sitting on the porch reading Silence: The Power of Quiet in a World Full of Noise by Thich Nhat Hanh. The sky was mottled granite. Off to the east a salmon glow emerged from the belly of the hippo clouds. In the backyard, the heavily laden lemon tree drooped across the fence, the three-tiered fountain burbled in the center of the garden.

As I sipped from my mug of English Breakfast tea, I read about quiet and solitude and beauty and mindfulness. The chapter was entitled “Thundering Silence.” I was flooded with a mix of sensations: sweet sadness, joy, gratitude, awe. Then I noticed a fine mist cascading onto my book, my chair, me.

I sat a while longer, embracing the waxing light of the misty morning, the previously imperceptible moisture. When the mist began accumulating I thought to retrieve the brightly colored cushions from my Adirondack chair, left there from yesterday afternoon’s reading idyll. I set down my mug and descended the stairs. I retrieved the lightweight cushions and turned to retrace my steps.

Suddenly I heard a loud, low hum. What was that? Alert to urban noises, I wondered if it were a plane, the pump on the fountain, some malfunctioning mechanism.

I turned my head see a hummingbird had flown past me and was cavorting in the top tier of the fountain. Its iridescent green back sparkled in the muted light. Then its head turned to reveal a bright flash of magenta. Back and forth, green and fuschia, as it sipped and soaked. lt looked like Princess Aurora’s dress as the fairies changed it from blue to pink and back again at the end of Walt Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, the first movie I ever saw in a theatre, with my grandmother.


For several minutes I watched the hummingbird dip and dart. The patterned cushions, one in each hand, felt like ballast. Had I not been holding them, I would rise up out of the yard and into the sky. I stood hovering between worlds, until the hummingbird eventually skedaddled and I was granted permission to move away from an amazing moment of grace.

Only as I climbed back to the porch did I realize it was Easter Sunday.