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I looked at her in surprise. How many people our age have read Dante’sInferno? “Yes, Bolgia, two to be exact—”
“Upside down in shit and howling mad.”
I didn’t want to admit to her how pleasing I find picturing Reverend Jack and his congregation upside down in shit—shit thrown at them by Reverend Jack and his Bible—as they howl and fight amongst themselves, so instead I laughed. “Yes.”
“But that was for flatterers. How do preachers fit in?”
“They flatter the faithful by assuring them they are walking in the path of righteousness and then play on their fear that others not following the same path threatens their sanctity with eternal damnation, thus turning people against each other.”
MJ popped her gum as she does when she is in deep thought.
“OK, enough talk about religion. We have work to do.” We were supposed to be looking at the central tenets of change management theory and using them to create a strategy for a corporate merger scenario our organizational psychology professor had assigned us.
Sunday, March 19, 1978, University City—DAX, awed by Jackson’s pervasive but easy masculinity, and after declaring him the last of the great men, has assigned him the title, “his butch hotness,” which I think embarrasses Jackson. DAX uses the term much as one would use His Majesty to refer to the King of England: “How was his butch hotness when you left for class this morning?” “Do you and his butch hotness want to go seeThe Rocky Horror Picture Showthis weekend?”
I think this masculinity of Jackson’s, his ability to “pass,” will serve him well, as tomorrow he will start his plumbing apprenticeship. He says the guys he’s met are “all right,” though a bit aggressive and rowdy. If they notice his reticence to talk about women or his straightforward disinterest in female staffmembers of their company, they chalk it up to “shyness” and his being a preacher’s kid.
He’ll apprentice for five years; he’ll have to get 2,000 hours of on-the-job training and 224 hours of classroom instruction each of the five years. I’ll graduate before he finishes his apprenticeship, but once he’s done, he’ll have his journeyman plumber’s license.
It feels good to be able to plan a future together.
Friday, March 24, 1978, University City—I was reorganizing the director of student living’s files when Noel, our student receptionist, stuck his head in the door and said, “Here come the Ning sisters right on schedule.”
I sighed and stepped out into the reception area to watch the familiar drama. I busied myself misting the plastic plants—best way to fight dust—and eavesdrop. Jon, from the depths of his chair, muttered, “No, no. I’m not talking to them again.”
The “Ning” sisters—I’ve yet to learn their real names—are freshmen like me. They are Jewish sisters, twins who come in at least thrice weekly to complain. Their complaints range from the slowness of their high-rise dorm’s elevators to the absence of name badges on the work-study students who staff the security desk, to the temperature of the hot water in their room. Their biggest complaint is about some unspecified defect in the construction of their dorm that is causing them to be sick; the symptoms of the alleged illness are as vague as its alleged cause.
Months ago, they’d stopped by late on a Friday afternoon, as was their wont, to insist that some action be taken. Frustrated, Noel had dragged out Jon, the director of student living, who was already half shrugged into his coat. I watched him frommy position beside the plastic plants. He, with his balding pate, bowed legs and flat behind, tried desperately to find out what was wrong. “We’re sick,” they insisted repeatedly. Each time they said “sick,” I added, perhaps a trifle too loudly, “ning.” The name stuck and henceforth they were known as the “Ning” sisters.
Jon and Noel were still in Jon’s office furiously whispering. I sidled up to the counter, misting bottle in hand. “Listen,” I said addressing the sisters, “I’ve been here for a while, so I know you’ve been having symptoms.”
They nodded rigorously.Finally, someone is listening.
“Well, I’m not sure folks here can help you. But I remember my granny—God rest her soul—always recommended having an enema whenever you were feeling unwell for a period of time. ‘Flushes out the system,’ she used to say.”
The sisters nodded vigorously and, chattering excitedly among themselves, turned to leave. “Thank you,” they called out over their shoulders.
“Let me know if it works.”
When Noel finally reemerged—sansJon, I noticed—he asked, “Where’d they go?”
I shrugged. “Guess they got tired of waiting.”
Tuesday, April 4, 1978, University City—We were working on our presentations for our Gender in Media course, which examines media representations of femininity, masculinity, and orientation, the impact of that messaging on consumers of media, and the role and responsibility media reporters play in shaping public opinion, when MJ said, “I’ve never metanyone like you. At school, there were girls who were suspect and whispered about—teachers too—but they were all so uncomfortable, it was as if they were wearing wool sweaters in the dead of summer.” MJ had attended one of the most exclusive girls’ boarding schools on the East Coast.
“That’s because they were trying to meet parental expectations and fit into social norms, and by the way, when people say something like heterosexuality is normal, what they really mean is ‘common,’ but we tend to accept their definition of normal and let that shape us into believing we are abnormal, deviant and as such,less thaneveryone else. That’s the thing that struck me immediately about Jackson. He wasn’t interested in being what everyone thought he should be—even if he was a preacher’s kid. He was defiantly himself. At sixteen, he asked me out on a date—”
“But that’s just it. You seem to go beyond defiance. You seem so…comfortable in your skin.”
“I have eczema,” I said. “I am uncomfortable in my literal skin. I can’t imagine being uncomfortable in my metaphorical skin as well.”
Friday, April 28, 1978, University City—In my Romance in Fiction class today—I’ve decided to minor in English Lit—our professor asked us to name great romantic couples. The usual was offered up: Romeo and Juliet; Antony and Cleopatra. When she called on me, perhaps because I was tired from working and classes and studying and loving Jackson, I blurted, “Batman and Robin.” There was initial silence, then the not-unexpected twittering and giggling. The professor rapped on her podium. “I don’t understand this reaction. If two people love each other, the fact that they are of the same sex does not negate that love.”
I was stunned. I’d never heard anyone make such a statement before. I didn’t feel validated, for from the moment I first kissed Jackson, I have been of the school ofIf loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.But I felt seen, worthy of acknowledgment. If Jackson and I hadn’t stumbled into a new world, it was certainly an unimagined territory.
“Batman and Robin weren’t gay. They weren’t a couple,” said one pale, effeminate, long-haired student who I thought of as the “reluctant gay.”
“Who’s to say they weren’t?” I asked.
