SALON: Even in the most progressive of neighborhoods, I find myself looking over my shoulder
With my boyfriend’s cousin out of the house on the second day of our visit, we decide to take a public bus to downtown Seattle from Shoreline, where she lives. It’s largely empty, though the space at the front of the bus is occupied by three 20-ish, husky white guys in baseball caps and flannel shirts. They seem around my age and remind me of guys I last talked to in high school but am still friends with on Facebook -- the kind who post pictures of themselves with their arms around each other, captioned “no homo."
They’re already there when we walk in, and as the bus leaves the stop, I wonder whether they paid attention to the way I walked on or to the sweater my boyfriend was wearing. A couple minutes on, my boyfriend reaches for my hand, and I nod him a silent “no” as I shuffle over, putting a few inches between us.
Not while they’re sitting there.
I can’t really remember the exact circumstances of when I first held a man’s hand in public. The emotions that preceded it have all faded, along with the person, in the ensuing years. What I do remember, throughout the five or so minutes that I grasped that boy’s moist palm, is anxiously searching every face around us, every person that passed us by, checking for any sign of potential trouble or disapproval. The simple act itself -- of taking my date’s hand -- seemed less a simple sign of affection than an open dare to voyeurs, an exercise in what my grandmother would have called “making a spectacle of yourself.”
In the five years or so since then, this anxiety at public affection has eased somewhat. In the course of our two-year relationship, my boyfriend and I have, naturally, made countless little public demonstrations of our affection for each other, made easier by the fact that we live in and generally frequent the more LGBT-friendly parts of generally LGBT-friendly Los Angeles. While holding his hand at the art house theater we regularly go to in Pasadena, or cuddling with him at the wine bars I like in downtown L.A., or even kissing him at the restaurants we frequent in Silverlake, I’ve learned to look around in suspicion a little less and to go with the moment a little more. » | Christopher Records | Published: Saturday, July 21, 2012
This essay originally appeared on Christopher Records’ Open Salon blog. [Sorry! I can't link to it; the server couldn't be found.]
* Public Dispays of Affection.
