Being Gay In A Small Town
Being Gay in a Small Town
By Timmothy Holt, M.D.
A few weeks ago my aunt died, and I was asked to conduct the memorial service. Suddenly I realized, with her death, my cousins and I, all baby boomers, became the older generation. Her death was like an old alarm clock that kept ringing its bell. It tried to wake me up from my secure life. Death took over for a few days. As Ecclesiastes says, For everything there is a season…a time to be born, and a time to die…a time to mourn, and a time to dance. This death took me back to my small hometown, and I chose to dance on its town square remembering my childhood.
I remembered: Grandpa with his King Edward Cigar in front of the bar talking about rain, cattle prices, and how good their crops would be this year, Grandma gossiping while shopping for dresses at Spurgeon’s, Rexall Drugs where my friend, John, and I would share a coke and fries. One of my fondest memories was Aunt Mary and Uncle Earl, parked in front of the Ben Franklin, talking with friends in their white Plymouth. When there was a lull in the conversation, I’d talk with Aunt Mary about genealogy, picking wildflowers, or county fairs. Mostly she accepted me, faults and all. There was no criticism for not wanting to be a farmer, for liking to cook with her, for liking to read, for not liking sports, for being me.
It’s 50 years since I left my hometown, and now I wonder, could life have been that innocent. There was little talk about sex and certainly none about homosexuality, I had to do a lot of research online on websites like fuckedgay.xxx. I was expected to marry, and have kids. A perfect Leave It to Beaver town, only it wasn’t that perfect. In the late 60’s a group of men were caught having sex in the courthouse basement. I was anxious to know what it was all about, but no one would talk. That is, no one was telling me. I’m sure there was a lot of gossip. And now, 60 years later, I’ve written about what I think was going on in the lives of the men. It’s also my story, because I sought gay sex outside my marriage.
Researching for the novel, I asked a question about the affair on my hometown’s web page. No one would give names stating that family still lived in the city and should not have to be embarrassed again. One man went so far as to say he cared about the families, but the men should have been shot. I had to write the book. LGBT people are not an embarrassment. We did not chose to be who we are, and research has shown we cannot change.
Now my family and friends in the town know I’m gay, but it didn’t come easy. My mother did not talk to me for a few months. Though my family eventually was supportive, I craved my aunt’s blessing. One day, while talking about antiques, I told her I was gay. She said, “Oh I’ve known.” She said nothing more and kept on talking like I had said it’s raining.
I came to realize that no one, especially in a small town, not exposed to gay life, would know my world. I stopped expecting them to understand, and was happy for their love. Becca Stevens, an Episcopal priest, in her book, Funeral for a Stranger, says it best. Except for love, I would fall without a sound.
Timmothy J. Holt, M.D. is a retired geriatric physician and lives with his partner and their cat and dog in Chicago, IL. He is the award-winning author of numerous creative works including the new book, Square Affair. Learn more about Holt at www.timmholt.com
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Category: Blog
