Being Gay in Indianapolis, Indiana

Well, I said I'd do it, and here it is: a follow up to my second most popular entry to date. When I was in Colombia, I lamented how Colombian gay culture lacked the welcoming vibe I found in Spanish and US gay culture and how it had been Stockholm syndromed by straight culture. And here you definitely do find both of those things here, though their manifestations are different. Some places are more welcoming than others, of course. Greg's being the first to come to mind and Tini's being the last, because that place is bougey as hell... But coming into gay culture in New York City has left me eternally spoiled by what I expect from gay and queer culture, and Indianapolis is no exception. While the welcoming vibe almost certainly has to do with it being a smaller city, that also presents problems as well.

I know, I know. Keep it in mind as you read.

The first and most striking difference I notice is how a lot of people are obsessed, to a greater or lesser extent, with looking like a whore or not looking like one or they can't decide which they want to be. So many sexual stories I'm told, especially by people who I may not know well, start with a disclaimer: "I'm not a whore, but..." I don't care if you're a whore. Sleep with everyone. Sleep with no one. Whatever. Why is this even an issue? Why are we making this a thing? We're humans. We fuck. We're gay men. We fuck double because we don't have to worry about pregnancy and until recently marriage wasn't really in the cards. In New York, by and large, this is something we pay little attention to. Everyone kind of manages their sexual life in whatever way they want to without much of a hang up one way or another. Much like how you can throw into a casual conversation you smoke marijuana and take for granted the listener either smokes too or doesn't really care what you do with your own lungs. Here, however, the judgement level is high. Pun intended. Better not mention you manage your health responsibly and take PrEP, regardless of how many sexual partners you plan to have, or it's the scarlet letter for you.

As in I am awesome at not letting my Puritanical upbringing shame me
into making bad health choices.

This is a product of two things: a smaller gay community (to where, unlike New York or Madrid, you can actually call it a community) and mainstreaming. The latter is something that gay culture has been verging toward ever since marriage equality became the major political push. I think in a public sense, mainstreaming is good. It's unrealistic to expect straight people to really get us, despite the opposite being possible. They surround us. You either get it or you just get the world. It is not, however, reciprocal. Mainstreaming in shared and public spaces allows us to find common ground, but the problem is when it infiltrates gay spaces and becomes an end rather than a means to an end. There are things about gay culture that deserve and need to be preserved. It pushes the envelope; it shows that gender binaries and roles in relationships are arbitrary; it shows us alternatives to marrying your high school sweetheart and reproducing copiously: You can get married and have an open relationship. You can not get married and have a closed relationship your whole life. You can have a relationship between three people. You can do whatever works for you, which has been the amazing thing about gay, and especially queer, culture. But what's happening isn't this wonderful melange, but rather, assimilation. Gay life, for many, is becoming extremely suburban, and if that's what you really want, I'm not going to stop you. Part of this whole post-modern queer utopia I'm dreaming up is trying to let everyone do their own thing, but I think that a lot of those people are just looking at their straight counterparts and painting by numbers rather than forging their own identities and exploring who they are with the freedom they've been given. Being gay is no cakewalk just about anywhere in the world, but if that's the cards you've been dealt, play them the best way you can, which is not going to be the same way as your straight neighbor with their full house. See I made another pun. (That one was about babies.)

Stephanie Tanner!
What did I just say about shame and sexuality?

Last but not least, misogyny takes a whole new form here. I'm not going to pretend that misogyny isn't a problem in gay male culture everywhere (also, sometimes, a result of mainstreaming), but there's something that makes it a bit different here. I've noticed big, loud reactions of disgust from a lot of guys whenever anything female and sexual is mentioned: vaginas, periods, sex with women, whatever. Women, while not my preferred gender, are still beautiful; their bodies are beautiful; and there is nothing inherently displeasing about them. I'm willing to admit that maybe if you're a full-tilt six on the Kinsey scale that you don't really find a naked woman's body appetizing, but I think you can save the deliberately loud and deliberately public declarations of your disgust especially when you're in the company of women. One of the reasons I'll admit that the New York gay scene is more misogynistic toward women is that you don't see nearly as women (whether they be gay or not) in male gay bars (despite, I am told, their not having many of their own). Here, it's not completely uncommon to see women in a gay bar. So, can we all make a little agreement? If a woman is in a gay bar and she's totally acting chill and being cool, could you not go on a rant about how you find her body or parts of it disgusting? I talked last entry about straight people being good guests in gay spaces, but that goes both ways. We need to be good hosts.

That's about the long and the short of it, my friends. Oh, and stop reading gayguys.com. That site is the worst.

Louisville with the incomparable Neill and Bachelorettes

Last week I took a trip to Louisville to visit one of my dearest friends, Neill. Neill and I became friends in New York. We went to the same theatre school, the American Musical and Dramatic Academy, but didn't become friends until one summer when we both worked at the New York Renaissance Fair. It was then that he pitched an idea for a staging of Christopher Marlowe's Doctor Faustus, and that was the start of a string of many plays we worked on together through Haberdasher Theatre, the company I was once the managing director for.

"Reminisced fondly"

I left for Louisville directly after the Business English class I teach Friday nights, and after I arrived, we spent the rest of the night catching up. We reminisced fondly over our days in New York and how sometimes we feel tempted to return but then remember that what we miss isn't there anymore. Our time there was this perfect combination of factors that made that decade great: the amazing support network of friends, the luck Haberdasher had in getting by on such a small budget, being young and in a big city after living your life in the midwest, that feeling of discovery and adventure, getting into trouble and barely getting out of it by those certain miracles that are only afforded to the young. "It was this moment in time," he told me. And what a glorious moment it was for all of us.

The next day we tried to do a few things around town. We had breakfast and went to the Science Center. "It smells like a daycare in here," I said as we were about to pay our entrance fee, and as we went through the museum, it turned out to be basically that: a daycare. Everything was geared toward small children, and while that's not too much a problem in itself—I can easily revert back to the mentality of a six year old at the drop of a hat—I would feel like an asshole when an actual six year old is there waiting. "Oh, you wanna play with these building blocks? Fuck you, toddler, I'm Indominus Rex and I rule these lands! RAWRRRRRRRRRRRR!" Fortunately, the guys at the ticket desk were gracious enough to refund our ticket fee, and we shuffled along to take in other sights and sounds around the city.

"The giant bubble maker is MINE!"

After a short gaming break, we went out into the night. We started at a pretty swanky bar called Proof with an art exhibit below it and some really good cocktails. Then we hit up a few gay bars, including Chill Bar and The Connection, where a drag queen pulled my shirt off as I tried to tip her for her back-to-back set of Alanis Morisette's "You Oughta Know" and Evanesence's "Bring Me to Life." (I'm not sure who got more out of it: her with the dollar or me with the ego boost.) However, we didn't stay long at the first bar we went to, Nowhere, because it had become invaded by bachelorettes. I absolutely hate when bachelorettes have their parties at gay bars. I know I really should be inclusive, but gay bars are where gay people go to relax and feel normal. Most bachelorette parties run in there expecting things: they expect the atmosphere to be a certain way; they expect all the gay men to be their automatic best friends and ready with a quick comeback and snaps in Z formation; they pound their hands on the bar if they feel like they're not being served fast enough. Basically, they come in and act as if the bar belongs to them and that we're all circus animals whose purpose is to entertain them. I understand it's someone's special day, but really, you're a guest in this territory: be considerate, slow your roll, treat us like normal human beings without the assumption that we're supposed to be great dancers and want to paint your nails, and you might just find we can be very welcoming.

The night ended with dancing on a light up dance floor, and the next day I had to drive back to Indianapolis to go to work. Life resumed, and in my last hour of work, I looked at the calendar. Twenty-one days until I arrive in France.

Back in The Shire

Bonjour, mes amis! Here we are again. Gearing up for another season abroad, this time in France. I'll be in the city Le Mans, which is to the southeast of Paris and about an hour travel time by high speed train. The city is famous for having a sports car race called the 24 Hours of Le Mans, in which cars go fast in a circle without stopping for twenty-four hours straight. This is beyond ironic because I've been in Indianapolis, my hometown, since I got back from Colombia, which is also famous for a race: The Indy 500.

In a way, I've always felt a bit like Bilbo Baggins and Indiana is The Shire. It's a place whose people, like the Hobbits, often don't leave. They are born here, they stay, sometimes they go away, but then they often return. And when they do go, they don't go too far: Chicago, Cincinnati, someplace like that. And many of them, also like Hobbits, are quite content in that. They don't need to leave; they're perfectly fine being here, living their lives day to day, raising families, and growing old. But there are a few of us, the Bagginses of the bunch, that are born with a desire to go out and see the world, to see how far we can go, and it's only a matter of time before our destiny catalyzes it and off we go, off to have adventures, and sometimes write about them.... and apparently also dabble in translating "several works from the Elvish." (Or Spanish or French or Japanese or whatever, right?)

When I left Indiana, over eleven years ago, I thought I'd never return beyond a visit here and there. For a long time, I thought I'd stay in New York forever. But one day, I realized it was time to go, even if I didn't know exactly where to, and that's what I've been trying to figure out ever since. To my surprise, it has taken me back here, where, I guess you could say, it all began.

I'm not really as happy here as I had secretly hoped I would be. Though I grew up here, coming back was almost like going to a new place. I had, blessedly, forgotten most of my childhood, and what I can remember was all confined to just a small corner of the city. So when I got off the plan at Indianapolis International Airport, it was as if I were arriving in a new place. Whenever I go somewhere new, I always hope I'll land in a place that makes me think, "Yes, I could stay here for a while," but Colombia wasn't that place—though if I ended up in Medellin or Manizales, maybe things would have turned out differently—and Indianapolis isn't that place either.

On top of remembering so little of it, Indianapolis has really developed a lot over the last eleven years. The city is really coming into its own, or at least trying, and the visits I would make here and there allowed me to make and stay in contact with a great group of friends who have really made these three months worth it. People are really happy to see me here, and I'm happy to see them. They ask me about what I saw and did while I was away, and I tell them stories. Sometimes some of them had the chance to visit me, and then we made our own stories. In any case, it's been nice to share my experiences. I've always been motivated in life by the goal of acquiring experiences, like how other people collect bottle caps and thimbles. But it's never been just to have them. It's been to share them. It's why I was in the theatre, why I write, and why I teach: to share the knowledge and experiences I gain in my life. I don't want all of it to disappear when I die. I want it to live on through other people, through the words, through their memories which maybe they might even pass on to others in an unbroken chain through the generations.

But in the end, it just doesn't have the things I need. There's no real language school, except for the one I work at, and enrollment is low enough that many languages are placed on hold, sometimes for up to a year, before a class opens for them. It lacks the multiculturalism and opportunity I got used to in New York and took for granted. Now that I've been almost a year and a half without it, I see how much it was important to me. At least when I'm abroad, even if where I am is pretty homogeneous, like Colombia was, it's still new to me; it's still something I can explore and learn from, whether the things I learn be about them or about myself.

I guess going to France is just the next step of that search though, to find that place where I feel like I belong again, to see if I can find an environment that can help me deal with a certain kind of loneliness I've felt my whole life, which has only become more obvious to myself now that I'm not really from anywhere. How am I supposed to answer that question now? I've been gone from New York too long to really say that's where I'm from, and Indiana's not home; it's just where I was born. So how do I answer that question now?

Or do I just belong to the world now? Yes, I think that's it. I am of the world, and it's time to go back into it once more.

Signing Off

Well, folks. This is it. I leave for the United States Wednesday, and tomorrow is my last day with access to a computer for a week or so. I've decided not to continue writing while I'm in the US. Just too many other projects that I want to be able to focus on. I will be back mid to late September with entries from France most likely, so it's not really good bye, just see you later.

Speaking of good-byes, I had a giant round of them two weekends ago when a lot of us in Fulbright got together, rented a country house a few hours from Medellin, and hang out. It was one of the most fabulous weekends in Colombia yet. Good times were had by all. There were much merry-making and fun, and I'm glad that it was my last trip in Colombia. Highlights included a day trip to El Peñon, a swarm-of-locus-like invasion of bugs which some helpful, neighborly toads came by and cleaned up for us, monkeys dancing on power lines, and a game of King's Cup in which I realized I have incredibly poor reaction time. Also, there was wine. It was the first time I had wine in about a year. It was delicious.

But really, that was just the beginning. This whole week has been about good-byes, and I realize how much I hate them. It always feels like you're leaving something unsaid or undone. The good-bye never feels real until years later when you look back and realize that you never did see them again and you probably never will. Until then, it's just another see you later, like the end of any other day.

I prefer to just disappear, and really, it's what I would do if I had my way, but I know that other people want to say good-bye, that sometimes they need to, and so I do my best. But for me, that's life. People are here today and then, suddenly, they're not. Sometimes you get to say good-bye and sometimes you don't. It doesn't make too much difference: There's always something left unfinished. There's always something you wish you said or learned or experienced. Even here, even now, there are reasons I wish I were staying in Colombia. Are they enough to keep me from leaving? No, but I have them all the same. There were still things to explore, about the country, about myself, but the tragedy in life, at least for someone with my sort of outlook on it, is that you can't experience it all in one go. You do your best, and when it's over, it's over and you just hope you did it as completely as you could. Do it completely, burn it up, leave no trace.

So, to those of you who have been faithful readers, how do I say good bye to some of you?

The Good-Byes Have Started

Like really in your face...

Well, last weekend I took a trip to Manizales to say good bye to one of my friends here, Julián. He's the one Colombian person that I felt like I really connected with and a good deal of why I believe that paisas are the best Colombian regions and cultures. In most areas, Colombians tend to be very-in-your-face: loud, brash, intrusive. Julián was none of these things. He's the only person in the country I've met that I could describe as gentle and kind. Most of my encounters with Colombians, especially caleños leaves me viewing them as bulls in an emotional china shop: very clumsy and brash, which I think comes from not really considering how their actions or words might impact someone before they say or do whatever they probably shouldn't say or do. It's a kind of ignorance. I don't mean that in the sense that they're stupid, but more that they are unaware. It's that kind of ignorance that brings bliss, which I suppose answers why they're considered to be one of the happiest countries in the world.

Julián, on the other hand, exhibited all the characteristics I value in a person: intelligence, thoughtfulness, tranquility, humor, playfulness. He was a reminder of all the good things in Colombian culture: hospitality, curiosity, and national pride. Colombians are generally very proud of their culture, but instead of his pride leading him to think that it was some unique snowflake whose dimensions I would never fully grasp, it lead him to want to share it with me as much as he could, through typical dishes he would make me and bits of history and background he would share with me here and there as something came up. I only had the opportunity to visit it him twice since the time that we met back in my tour of the coffee region, but every time I made it out there, he brought me back from he edge when I was dangerously close to writing the whole country off. So when he messaged me and asked if I wanted to come visit for the holiday, I took him up on the offer.

The weekend was a super fun time. Friday night, we went to a kind of cutre gay bar and got drunk as hell on the open bar. (Yes, I know. I'm kind of mixing Spanish words with talking about Colombia, but that's how I do.) The music was shitty and we kept telling each other that, but we danced to it anyway because it was better than the alternative. On Saturday, we took a nighttime trip to the hot springs just outside the city and chilled out while some boxing match was on. Although Facebook and all its munchkins kept trying to tell me it was the event to see, we never figured out what the big deal was. Sunday I returned to Cali, but before I had to make the five-hour journey back home, we went to ride horses. While he got up on that horse like he had been born on it and was riding all-around, it and my first time and took me a little bit to feel comfortable. I was on the back of a powerful living animal with its own brain and everything, and I find that nerve wracking. Unfortunately, I think the horse could smell my fear and was not willing to work with me in an equal partnership of mutual understanding. This became clear whenever I tried to steer him out of the pin to go along a path and he kept shaking his head and making sounds and occasionally spitting out grass. (Rude!) He felt lazy, and I can respect that. But it was only going to be for like fifteen minutes. So when Julián asked if we should keep the horses past the thirty minutes we originally asked for, I said no, and we went back to his house to eat.

Speaking of which, he's a fantastic cook.

Listen, basically you need to know this and only this: Julián is Colombia's gem, a veritable diamond in the rough, which is why it was hard when I realized I would be saying good bye to him within a few hours. I don't leave until June 3 from Colombia, and this was happening on May 3, a whole month beforehand. I didn't realize the process of saying good-bye would start so soon, but here I was, in the middle of it and with the person that I would find the hardest to say goodbye to because I might never see him again. Sure, there's others I'll have to say good bye to. (I'm looking at you, fellow Fulbrighters! Especially you Caitlin Strawder!) But it's well within the realm of possibilities that I'll see a lot of them again. The chances of me ever setting foot in Colombia after I leave is very minimal. Though not impossible, I can't think of why I'd come back. I definitely don't want to live here, and I think my bitter experiences are going to repel me from visiting for vacation. After all, would a vampire go to the Vatican for its vacation? You see my point.

So how did I handle this very difficult moment? I just said good bye and went off to the bus station. I'm not sure how to really deal with good byes other than to say them, but I'm always left wishing I had said something I didn't, even if I don't know what that was. So that's it, first and probably hardest good bye down.