(also posted on HuffPost)
I recently spent most of a day trying to create a book trailer for my website, and pulling out what few hairs I had left on my head. Despite the easy instructions on the “help” page, I found myself struggling. Just because I’ve mastered one technology doesn’t mean I can figure out the next one. They all take practice, so I tend to be good only at the ones I use the most. I’m a wiz at TiVo, but you wouldn’t want me to create an Excel spreadsheet for you.
I’m sure one of my millennial friends, coasting on intuition alone, could probably have rivaled Scorsese with the video and still had time to make popcorn to go with it. Unfortunately, that’s not me. What’s intuitive to me is the proper placement of a semicolon. That’s what comes from 50 years of reading books—on paper. That’ll teach me.
Reluctantly accepting my Ludditehood, I spent the afternoon fumbling through files, learning when to click and when to drag-and-drop merely by the process of elimination, and with the help of semi-incoherent youtube videos where 13-year-olds play professor.
As they say, getting old sucks, but it sure beats the alternative.
The other cliché that pops into mind is: youth is wasted on the young. My millennial friends are at the beginning of their adult lives, still smooth-skinned, healthy, and energetic, still excited about the possibilities that life has to offer. And I wouldn’t trade places with them for the world.
They think I’m joking when I say I would gladly turn back the clock to the 1980s—not so I could be as fresh-faced as they are, but so I could return to a pre-Internet world. In that world, I wouldn’t feel pressured to make my own videos, for one thing. Hell, I wouldn’t even need videos. There was no such thing as a book trailer in the 80s, and no place to post it.
(Yes, kids, there really was a time before social media. In those days we had media and we had social lives, and the twain never met.)
Every generation gets nostalgic in middle age, I suppose. Every generation thinks the new kids on the block have completely lost their minds. But I can’t help thinking it’s different this time. The changes wrought by technology in the past 20 years are exponential. The world I grew up in wasn’t all that different from the way it had been since 1945. Now, even 2005 seems like the distant past.
I love you, Amazon, but my heart skips a beat whenever I stumble upon that rarity of rarities, an actual bookstore. Browsing online, with some impersonal algorithm guessing and guiding me, isn’t quite the same as browsing in the real world, where all sorts of treasures unexpectedly turn up, where I can run my hands along the spines of books like Tom Sawyer running his along a white picket fence.
My only hope is that technology moves slowly enough that I won’t have to completely succumb. Thanks to my addiction to books, I’ve compiled a few towering piles already. If I keep it up, I may have enough on hand to sustain me once Kindle takes over the world. And if my DVD player holds out until they stop manufacturing them (fingers crossed against the gods of planned obsolescence) and begin forcing me to stream Cinemascope movies on my phone, my similar collection of films (yes, nearly all from the 20th century) should see me in good stead for the duration.
Somewhere along the way, the future has lessened its grip on me. Ambition isn’t really in the picture anymore, and it’s like a weight being lifted. I’m becoming more and more comfortable with the present, with what I have, and I seem to be forgetting the unhappy moments in favor of nostalgic reminiscence. How kind Mother Nature is to have designed that particular brain fart. While my millennial friends live in the future, as I once did, plotting and planning their lives, looking forward to 30 or 40 more years of work, I’m in the home stretch and glad of it.
So call me a Luddite. I’ll gladly embrace the term. The kids are welcome to their virtual reality. Just leave me with whatever’s left of the physical one.
There’s an old joke. A young man sits his mother down and says ominously, “Mom, I have news.”
“What is it?” says the mother, her face stricken with fear.
“I have brain cancer,” says the son.
“Oh no!” she cries. “My dear boy, anything but that!”
The boy smiles sheepishly. “Just kidding, Mom. Actually, I’m gay.”
For some reason, that’s the first thing that came to mind when I read Kevin Spacey’s tweet about his unremembered “inappropriate drunken” behavior toward Anthony Rapp 30 years ago, when the latter was 14. What started as a half-hearted apology veered quickly into a different kind of confession—basically, “I may be a pedophile. … No, just kidding, I’m gay.”
This would be a quite different situation if Spacey’s homosexuality hadn’t been rumored for years. He’d even started tiptoeing out of the closet recently, with his jokes while hosting the Tony awards (in Norma Desmond drag), not to mention the bisexual subplot on House of Cards.
But ironically, through his awkward and untimely coming out, Spacey has played right into the ugliest of stereotypes. If the current allegations are to be believed, he really did have something to hide—and it wasn’t his sexual orientation. By staying in the closet for so long (a Tony and two Oscars weren’t enough to solidify his career?), he made coming out of it particularly ugly. He may have been trying to make a distinction between homoseuxality and pedophilia, but all he succeeded in doing was to draw an unjustified linkage between the two. And in the process, he has turned gay men into the usual suspects.
With the preponderance of accusations now flying at Spacey, I can understand why the producers of House of Cards have called a halt to production. Ostensibly, they need to make sure they don’t have a hostile work environment on their hands.
What I’m not so comfortable with is the tendency of many people to equate the art with the artist. One of my friends posted on Facebook that he had searched his DVD collection for any of Spacey’s movies so he could throw them out. Perhaps merely looking at Spacey’s face on the cover of The Shipping News or Glengarry Glen Ross would be enough to turn his stomach. Never mind all the other actors, writers, and crew who worked hard on those films and whose work may now be boycotted as collateral damage.
To avert that eventuality, Spacey is now being edited out of a completed movie, All the Money in the World. I’m not sure what purpose that serves other than to make the filmmakers feel better about themselves. Apparently they’re afraid Spacey’s presence will drive down ticket sales, but the cynic in me is dead certain that if they leave Spacey in the film, sales will go through the roof. That’s not a reason to keep him in the movie, but self-righteousness isn’t a reason to keep him out, either.
I’ve always been more than willing to draw a line between an artist’s flaws and the work itself. Allegations of Wagner’s anti-Semitism will never come between me and the transcendent experience of the Ring cycle. I even watched and thoroughly enjoyed Feud this year, despite the feud I was having in my head with Susan Sarandon over her endorsement of Jill Stein. And no doubt I will soon watch Thelma and Louise for the 15th time, though I may find myself cheering at the end. (Movies are a great way to safely work out your anger.)
The “me, too” campaign in the wake of the Weinstein revelations has been successful in demonstrating the scope of Hollywood’s problem with sexual harassment and assault—and with Spacey, the scandal has reached into the gay community, as well. Maybe what we need now is a more upbeat version: maybe this is the time for other gay actors to come out of the closet as happy, healthy people who are attracted only to adults. Let’s not let Kevin Spacey be the poster child on this one, folks.
E.M. Forster was one of the first men I fell in love with. He was long dead at the time, but that just made it easier for us to get along.
When I came out of the closet, one of my priorities was to read as much as I could by and about gay people, and Forster was at the top of the list. Maurice, published posthumously in 1971, is actually one of the earliest extant openly gay novels, having been written in 1914. Forster shared the manuscript with only a select group of friends.
I read his novels in order of publication—one hungrily after the other—so Maurice was the last one I got to. But the gayness was as clear in his earliest work, the heterosexual romantic comedies, as it was in this story of a man consciously struggling with his love for other men.
Gay sensibility is rather difficult to pin down, but you know it when you see it. In Forster, it manifests in a number of ways—chief among them, the fact that his female characters seem even more vivid than the men, and the snarky camp before camp even had a name. What straight man could ever have penned the line, “Harriet with a smut in her eye was notorious” (Where Angels Fear to Tread)?
Mostly, what I found in Forster was an outsider’s viewpoint: his narrative voice was that of a person just on the edge of the world he was depicting. I had the image of a young man sitting with a notebook in a corner of the room, observing his friends and relatives—present but somehow not part of what was going on. As the observer, he could see more clearly what was happening, and he could project himself into the minds of everyone else—especially the women.
As I reread his work (Forster is the kind of writer I want to read again and again, like an old relative I must continually visit even if he tells the same story every time), I started paying attention to the marginal characters and speculating about them, wondering why he had set them on the side of his narratives rather than at the center.
I thought about A Room with a View’s Freddy Honeychurch, the rebellious boy always in his sister Lucy’s shadow. I imagined that Forster had split himself into these two, closely related characters: Lucy got his feminine sensibility; Freddy, his masculine body.
The most telling moment in A Room with a View—or is it just the most titillating?—is the swimming scene, when Freddy coaxes George and Mr. Beebe to strip naked and “have a bathe” in the woods. There’s something at once innocent and erotic about the scene, and I wondered: what if this were a love story not about George and Lucy, but about George and Freddy? What if Forster, in those early days of his career, had been able to write and publish a story that hit a bit closer to home?
Thus, Channeling Morgan was born.
As any fan of the master knows, Forster’s middle name—which was favored by his friends—was Morgan. So, while my hero, Derick the ghostwriter, channels the voice of his subject, Clive Morgan, the title also refers to my attempt to pay homage to my favorite author.
Channeling Morgan is full of inside jokes that will be clear to people who know Forster’s work, particularly A Room with a View. I hope it also reflects a bit of Forster’s tone and sensibility, but I can’t claim to come anywhere near his genius. Forster had a way of painting a world in just a few words. His characters jump off the page, and his cleverness lies in perfect harmony with his remarkable empathy. I don’t know of another novelist who can be as witty and profound in the same breath.
So this one’s for you, Morgan. With love.
Just before a recent trip back home to Boston, I mentioned to someone that I might look up old friends from high school. I had reconnected with a few people recently through Facebook and thought it would be fun to see them in person after all these years, but I had some trepidation, since our lives had diverged so much. (High school was a very long time ago.) In fact, I said, I had had to unfriend a couple of my old classmates when political conflicts erupted after the election; god only knew what other surprises they might have in store for me.
In what seemed a non sequitur to me, my friend asked if I had ever come out to these people.
“Come out?” I asked. “You mean, like, actually say, ‘I’m gay’?” I hadn’t had that conversation with anyone in more than 25 years. Surely it wasn’t necessary anymore. I posted my life on social media—pictures of my partner, political screeds about homophobic politicians. I’d published two novels featuring gay characters, for heaven’s sake. Why would I need to “come out”?
The last time I had come out, in so many words, I was 28 years old. Since then, I haven’t felt the need to—for a number of reasons, both personal and cultural. The world changed in the interim, and god knows I did.
The last time I’d “had the conversation” was before Ellen, before Will and Grace, before marriage and “don’t ask, don’t tell.” And, of course, before I had moved to the Castro.
Writing teachers make a big deal about “showing” over “telling.” In fiction, if you want to elucidate a theme or convey a point, it’s much more effective to do so by having your character do something than by simply talking about it. Instead of writing, “Joseph was a frightened man,” you put him in a situation and show him trembling, sweating. You paint a picture with words; otherwise, they’re just words.
So instead of saying the words, I long ago decided to live them. I no longer sit people down to tell them I’m gay: I casually mention my partner. I talk about Provincetown, the opera, RuPaul—the artifacts of my culture—as breezily as other people talk about sports.
The truth is that, even when I was doing it, I resented the coming-out ritual, the presumed need for it. I resented the notion that my sexual behavior came with an expectation of strobe-light disclosure. No one had ever pulled me aside to confess their heterosexuality. Why should I have to make a big deal out of telling them I’m gay? By living my life matter-of-factly and without secrecy, I was making all the statement that needed to be made. I was, in fact, making an even deeper statement, I thought: I was proclaiming that my sexual orientation was not an extraordinary thing. I was telling the world, by implication, that it was completely normal.
Of course, I didn’t always feel this way. Certainly not when I was growing up in barely working-class Chelsea, Massachusetts, where the word faggot was thrown at me every day of my adolescence. Now I have the privilege of living in San Francisco, where people are more likely to criticize you for wearing pastels than for being a bottom.
But San Francisco is indeed a bubble, and after 24 years inside that bubble, it’s easy to forget that the world outside hasn’t changed as much as I’d like to think.
For other people, because of where they live, what they do for a living, or how they were raised, coming out can still be as difficult as it ever was. With such thoughts rattling through my mind, that disconnect took over as the main theme of my new novel, Channeling Morgan.
The title character in the book, Clive Morgan, is a successful actor who fears what coming out could do to his career. The notion of a closeted actor, of course, is so familiar as to be cliché, but in this instance it was that very familiarity that I believed would help bring the point home. Gay rumors have followed movie stars all the way back to Charles Laughton; and even in our current era, there are only a handful of out film actors, despite the obvious attraction the profession has for gay people.
Just witness the difference between the Tonys and the Oscars every year: at the former, barely a male actor accepts an award without thanking his husband, but in the world of American movies, where success means appealing to a wider and less urban audience, you take your life into your hands by being anything less than butch. But are we really supposed to believe that stage actors are more likely to be gay than movie actors are?
I may not agree with my characters, but my job as an author is not to point the finger at them. My duty, rather, is to portray these characters honestly and as empathetically as possible. My duty is to see myself in them. In this book, that meant understanding the things that keep Clive and others from expressing their true identities.
So, I had to ask myself: What does it mean to be closeted in 21st-century America, in a culture that has often been called post-gay? What kind of pain does that cause? And why would you inflict it upon yourself? Surely, the Clives of the world know what they’re missing. Surely, even if they’re privileged in other ways, they are not immune to envy when they see how many of us are living more open lives.
Because these days, in this culture, the closet door is seldom locked from the outside. Like Dorothy and Oz, we all have the power to leave it at any time. That may mean leaving the things you’re used to—the place you grew up, the family or church that condemns you for being who you are, or the career that has made you rich as long as you agree to hide the truth.
In the course of developing Clive’s story, though, I realized that there are lots of closets out there. And some people just trade one for another. So that had to play into the story, as well.
I’ve always believed that sexism lies at the heart of homophobia, at least when it comes to men. Homophobes seem to make a clear distinction between the sexes: men as strong, women as weak. But that same belief can infiltrate the gay community as well. Witness how often bottom is thrown about as an epithet (usually with passive-aggressive facetiousness) among gay men. While many proclaim they have no issue with being gay, for some, there’s still residual shame in being fey.
We all have our closets, of one sort or another. And though I like to think I’ve broken out of mine, I can’t deny that I still carry a piece of it with me. Perhaps we all do.
In the wake of Trump’s election, there’s an awful lot of Monday-morning quarterbacking going on—from Hillary Clinton’s own memoir to articles and books full of information about how this travesty fits into a pattern. And yet, none of these alleged patterns was called out before November 9. Could it be that Trump was simply the missing jigsaw piece that suddenly made the whole picture clear? Or maybe we all saw the signs. We just didn’t believe it could get to this final level of absurdity, so we didn’t ring the alarm bells too loudly. The Berners kept up their childish idealism, the Clinton haters pretended that it was a contest between two evils. And Clinton herself may have grown too confident: her election, many people thought, was a fait accompli. When I expressed my anxiety to a friend last October, he looked at me with a shocking sense of calm. “I’m not worried,” he said. Like many, he believed Clinton would be elected because the alternative was unthinkable. And it was all moving like a well-oiled machine: people looked upon her campaign with the same sense of pride as shipmakers waving a proud farewell to the Titanic as it left port in Southampton.
Despite all the theories that have been bouncing around lately, I keep looking for an explanation that resonates. So far, Pankaj Mishra’s stimulating book, Age of Anger: A History of the Present, is as close as I’ve found to one. In fact, it explains a great deal about our contemporary world. What I especially like is the fact that Mishra focuses less on ideology than on notions of disempowerment, thereby drawing a line that connects insurgent movements from the French Revolution to ISIS to Donald Trump. He traces the phenomenon back to the 18th century. Many people point to the Enlightenment as the primary dividing mark of history, the moment when modernism (the rights of man, the death of God) began. And there’s a lot to be said for that, of course. But it was a cultural shift that didn’t bring everyone along, and still hasn’t. The crime, perhaps, is that it never has affected enough people. The freedoms unleashed by the Enlightenment were accessible primarily to elites—whether financial or intellectual—and it has remained difficult for people who aren’t blessed with money, talent, or education to get to the same point. Our failure to educate all of our people is largely at fault. If people are empowered, as they are in a democracy, they need to know what they’re doing.
Mishra doesn’t let the disempowered off the hook, though. He delves into the psychological process that’s at play here. In a word, ressentiment, Kierkegaard’s term for a combination of envy and hatred whereby one debases the very thing one wishes to become. This is the motivation of the schoolyard bully who beats up the kid with good grades, the Nazi who executes Jews, the social loser who kills pretty women who won’t sleep with him. It’s Mohammed Atta going to a strip club before he crashes a plane into a building for Allah. It’s Donald Trump berating the New York Times just to see his name in the paper he allegedly reviles.
Sadly, Mishra offers no way out. His book is an analysis of what brought us to the current moment. It doesn’t offer a convenient process for solving the problem: that’s not his point, and it would probably lessen the impact of the book. It’s for someone else to pick up the baton and figure a way out. Mishra does offer examples from the past, particularly through the dialectic of countries like France and Germany, whose histories veered so much from one end of the scale to the other over time.
But this time it may be different, because this time the problem seems to be ubiquitous. And arguably, the United States is dealing with this phenomenon for the first time in its history, at least to this degree and at this scope: Donald Trump is not the governor of Alabama, standing in a school doorway.
Mishra’s done a great job of showing us the road behind. Now all we have to do is figure out which way to go from here.
I’ve never been one for skydiving or red convertibles, the cliché signs of a midlife crisis. My confrontation with mortality tends instead to lead to a less dangerous bucket list, one that’s focused primarily on places I have yet to visit—the Grand Canyon, Stonehenge, northern Norway for a front-row seat at the aurora borealis.
I recently checked off one of the spots near the top of my list: Normandy. My father fought in World War II and arrived in France a few days after D-Day (thus significantly increasing the chances that I would exist to be writing this today). He never spoke much about the war, so I got a better idea about what battle is like from Steven Spielberg than from him. In 1945, when it was all over, he was just 25 years old, and already battered by more trauma than I hope to know in a lifetime. I wouldn’t want to relive that much, either.
He’s been gone for a while now, but I wish I could tell him what it was like to step onto Omaha Beach 73 years after he did. The most remarkable thing is that it looks like a beach—just a beach. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting—angels hovering over the water, perhaps, or a John Williams score blaring from the clouds. Instead, I found a surprisingly narrow strip of sand, with children playing on it.
There’s a monument, of course, Allied flags still waving from tall poles, and a modern sculpture that looks like wings emerging from the sand. But what moved me most was the expanse of the place. Beyond the sand, there are grassy fields, a road, storefronts, all on a flat stretch of land far from the hills upon which the Germans roosted on that fateful, fatal day. That openness, and the placidity of the place, gave me a shudder. The only phrase that came to mind was another cliché, both inadequate and inevitable: sitting ducks. When the hatches opened and the Allied soldiers emerged into hellfire, there was nowhere to hide.
But ducks don’t know they’re sitting. Those men knew exactly what was about to happen. And still they did it. They did it simply because it had to be done, because there was no living without freedom. They did it not for themselves—they all must have feared they’d be dead within minutes—but for us.
Later, we visited the American Cemetery, a beautiful, cliffside lawn where nearly 10,000 people are buried. It’s a sea of white crosses and stars of David, all facing westward, toward home.
I walked slowly, as reverently as an atheist can, through the rows of graves. And I found myself lightly touching each marker I passed and murmuring, Thank you. Thank you for putting principle over personal safety. Thank you for standing up to tyranny. Thank you for making the world a better place for the rest of us.
We were on vacation, and—especially these days—vacation means an escape from the news. I didn’t watch any television that week, barely checked the headlines on the rare occasions when I bothered to log in to Wi-Fi. But I carried the news with me. I carried the trauma that has haunted me since November 2016. I carried the knowledge that the country I was visiting, the one that had capitulated to Hitler, had soundly rejected protofascism in its own recent election, while ours—the country that had saved it—had gone the other way. And I carried the memory of Charlottesville, where a woman had been killed fighting against the same kind of hatred that had started the war this hallowed ground acknowledged. Just days before, fascists and white supremacists had marched through the streets of Charlottesville, torches in hand, proclaiming hatred for anyone who didn’t look like them. And, as I came to learn while I was across the sea, the president of the United States had refused to condemn them.
The markers in that cemetery are a tribute to the brave Americans who stood up to barbarians and sacrificed their lives for freedom. Those people did not die so that the president of the United States could pander to Nazis. They demonstrated bravery in the face of death, not cowardice in the face of poll numbers. If our current commander-in-chief set foot on that sacred spot overlooking Omaha Beach, the very ground would tremble in protest.