TOPHER PAYNE | 7.2.2008
Here’s a little pointer on European travel: until George Bush is out of office, just tell people you’re from Canada.
I learned that lesson in Ireland, when upon hearing my American accent, locals would accost me and demand answers regarding Dubya’s general incompetence. For a while, I tried to defend myself and my country against the tirades, but then I discovered the Canada solution, and my situation improved considerably. Everybody likes Canada — Good old genial, non-threatening Canada. It’s like the Ellen Degeneres of nations.
So I spent a summer lolling about the Irish countryside as a fake Canadian, never having visited the country I called home, and not actually knowing anything about it. But here’s another pointer: Nobody else knows anything about Canada either. I’ve wondered since then if any of the Irish people I met later traveled to our northern neighbor, and if they were surprised that the main thoroughfare in Quebec City is not named Celine Dion Boulevard, as I claimed.
At a pub in the village of Clonmel, I met Danny, the owner of the local pizza parlor. He was around 30, and the only gay man in town. He sniffed me out with relative ease, using that beautiful sixth sense that every homo in a small town has: Attuned to every gesture or pop culture reference, any indication that they’ve crossed paths with one of their own kind.
He invited me back to his flat, to see the view. It was good to know that closeted or not, regardless of culture, every gay guy had the same few cheesy pick-up lines.
Danny wasn’t out. Not to his family, or his employees, or even the guys who shared this flat. The concept of living a life where he could be out to everyone, even strangers, was beyond his imagination. When I tried to describe my experience of marching in Pride Parade, he couldn’t picture it.
“But you’ve seen movies, and TV shows, right?” I asked.
“That’s just Hollywood fantasy,” he said.
I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. In an age of the internet and gay marriage debates, people remain who cannot begin to fathom the concept of living honestly. It made me profoundly sad, and a little angry.
“It’s not fantasy, Danny. It’s my life. And all my friends, too.”
“Lucky for you,” he said, and the subject was closed. I returned to my vodka tonic. And then he kissed me. It was startlingly intense — forceful and hungry. I followed him inside, careful not to disturb his roommates.
“You don’t have to hide, you know,” I said later as we lay on his bare mattress, naked in the orange light of dawn. “You could have this every day if you wanted.”
“Let it go, pally. My shop’s doing well here. Not a bad life.”
I rolled over and rested my head by the little V-shaped thing below his belly button. I forget what it’s called.
“But if you know something is a part of you — something that defines you — don’t you owe it to yourself to live honestly, and fight for it?”
Danny gave a heavy sigh.
“Some things you can’t fight by yourself.”
“Then move! Sell pizzas someplace else! You’re a great guy. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m used to it,” he said.
“You shouldn’t settle for getting used to it.”
We meant to exchange e-mail addresses, but it never happened, and I left the country a week later. But Danny never left my mind, and serves as a consistent reminder whenever people ask why Pride festivals are necessary.
Pride is necessary because there are some things you can’t fight by yourself. So wherever and whenever we can gather to show the strength and validity of our lives, we are called by conscience to do so. Because there are guys like Danny all around the world who believe that the life we have is some unattainable fantasy.
It isn’t. It’s right here in front of us. And if we demand to be recognized, support each other, and are willing to battle for the lives we deserve, eventually people like him might feel strong enough to join us in the fight.
Topher Payne is a weekly columnist in David. Reach him through editor@davidatlanta.com.
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