I Came Out for This? (10 page)

Kimba told me all of this between bites of hotdogs (she wanted to get nachos, but I upbraided her and explained that you M
UST
eat hotdogs at a ballpark and she indulged me) and between good plays, during which
Kimba leapt up and screamed her head off. Kimba is a sports nut and her energy was infectious. It was a good game, with the Tribe winning on a two-run double by Jim Thome in the ninth. Kimba is also hilariously funny. When a guy a couple rows down got drunk and kept yelling stupid things at the players, she yelled, “Hey, shut up down there,” and then she crunched up her hotdog wrapper and threw it and it hit him on the head. He didn't notice, but I just about died with laughter. Here's this competent professional woman who has risen through the ranks of NASA, but inside she's still this wild hillbilly girl. She's got a flow about her; she's not herky-jerky, like I am. She's very funny, tossing off these piquant remarks that made me laugh until I almost fell off the chair. She has an adorable, flashing smile and almond-shaped green eyes and a body that's nice to look at, coltish and leggy with a nice tight ass where the saddle would be. (She would say something real smart-ass in response to that.)

I felt kind of like a dud with Kimba. I was missing Terri during the whole game, which was ridiculous because I was with a woman who is my kind of people— funny, irreverent, and smart. And she's crazy about baseball, which means something to me because I'm one of those people who got taken to ball games by their dads as youngsters and who swell with bone-deep pleasure upon finding a ballgame while station-surfing; hearing “foul ball off the catcher's glove” over the low roar of a crowd is as soothing as the smell of a baby brother's sweat. Terri doesn't even like baseball. To her, a slider is probably some sort of treated dildo. I tried to have fun
with Kimba. She made me laugh and I liked her so much, but I couldn't shake off that blunted feeling. Why can't I stop missing Terri? It doesn't go away. I still feel as though someone cut me open and scooped out all my insides.

I have a funny feeling I've reached the end of the road. I feel like doing something bad like smoking marijuana in front of the police station so I can see Judge Holmes again. Maybe she'll send me to some minimum security prison. I would like not having to make any decisions, not to mention being with all those bad girls. The problem is, there would be people in there trying to tell me what to do. I don't like people telling me what to do, unless it's someone of my choosing, like Judge Holmes. But if Judge Holmes ordered me into some prison to get told what to do by
other
people, that would be a Catch-22. It's like the old sally of my dad's: “You remind me of that man.” “What man?” “The man with the power.” “What power?” “The power of voodoo.” “Who do?” “You do.” “I do what.” “You remind me of that man . . .”

I feel sorry for Dad. He so wanted to pull out all stops for my wedding. And here I am, gay. But I think he was relieved when I came out. Everything kind of fell into place at that moment. He said, “All that's important to me is that you be happy.” And he meant it. He can be a monster sometimes, but I'll always love him for that.

May 2000

I have come up with a strategy for not feeling like a little nobody surrounded by world-beating honchos. I decided to write an article for the
City Rag
, DC's largest weekly (formerly known as “alternative”) newspaper. I e-mailed a few story ideas to the editor, along with my credentials, and he sent me back an assignment. I put my top choice at the bottom, knowing that editors never choose stories at the top of your list, and that's the one he picked. I'm going to write about the gentrification of the U Street Corridor, which is my neighborhood, and how the old-time residents feel about it. It won't be a cover story, first of all because I'm a new writer for the paper and second, because the topic isn't suitable for a feature story; it's more newsy. He's going to use it for the Street Talk section.

I want to write this article because I've been upset by the racial tension in DC ever since I've moved here. My jail altercation with that hellcat who referred to me as “white scum” was just one indication. It seems to me that DC's black residents are so angry at being ignored and disregarded that they are mean. When you walk down
the street, the black folks either pointedly ignore you or glare at you, and when you're in stores or other places they won't look at you even when they're waiting on you, and if you ask them if they have a certain item they automatically say “No,” or “I don't think so,” as though they want you to be disappointed and get a taste of how
they
feel as unempowered residents of a federal city that ignores them. The resentment is fueled by the fact that there aren't any working-class white people in DC for black folks to relate to. The only white people they ever see are power players in their expensive suits, tourists tripping around with their little maps, privileged college students, and older people shlepping around in boring clothes, who don't care how they look because they are rich.

In neighborhoods like mine, where whites are moving in, buying up property, and driving up housing costs, you can cut the tension with a knife. Middle-class flight and the 1968 riots destroyed the once-vibrant neighborhood, and now white urban pioneers are “bringing it back,” pissing off the established residents. As is typical, many of the homesteaders are gay men. It's nice to see so many gay people around here, but it pains me that our black neighbors view us as invaders instead of allies. I want to go up to one of these black women who glare at me at the bus stop and say, “Listen woman, they did me wrong too! I've been disenfranchised just as you have!” But she would be likely to say, “That's your punishment for goin' against the Lord. So don't be cryin' to me, sinner!” And then she'd get up on the bus with her big behind glaring at me, leaving me feeling worse than I did before.

But this article cannot be personal. It will be straight journalism. I have no idea how it's going to come together, but it will get attention, because it's a hot subject in this town. Of course, I shouldn't be presumptuous, because the same thing could happen as what happened with my Coming Out piece that I wrote for the
Cleveland Free Times
, which I thought was going to be such a big sensation and there wasn't even one letter to the editor, and in my self-righteous irritation I refused to acknowledge that it was a terrible piece, with my dumb metaphor of wandering through the woods for thirty years. The problem was that I was all hung up on the impression I would make while I was writing it. With writing, the process is everything. You can't be preoccupied with the results— with all the respect you'll get from people and all the power you'll have over them and how you'll become rich and famous and win the girl and live happily ever after. You just can't do that. So stop doing it. Yes, you. Stop it. Right now.

June 2000

My story ran in last week's edition of the
City Rag
, and I did a good job. That's what the editor said after I sent it. “Good job.” In editor's language, that means: “This is an absolutely perfect, fantastic piece.”

I covered a lot of ground in just 1,500 words. What surprised me most was how many of the black folks I interviewed expressed the conspiracy theory that the powers-that-be are working together to force all the black people out of DC. Young man in Ben's Chili Bowl: “They got a plan. Take my word for it. They got a plan.” One woman, a community organizer and editor of the newsletter
What's Goin' On
, described the psychological effects of gentrification: “A lot of our residents have been living in the same houses for their whole lives, had lifelong relationships with their neighbors, and suddenly there they are, on blocks full of showpiece homes, half their neighbors gone, and their homes are the rattiest ones on the block. How would you feel if that happened to you?” There was a lot of trash-talking. Two young female cashiers: “These white ladies want us to stop what we doin' to help them. They say, Do you have this? Do you
have that?” Cashier 2: “Get it yourself, bitch. 'Scuse me.”

I included statements from one white guy who has been living in the neighborhood for less than a year. “The racial tension around here makes me uncomfortable. I come from New York City, where people of different colors interact and don't even think about it. Here, like, if you just nudge someone by mistake, it's gonna cause a major war. I accidentally bumped into this woman on the Metro escalator the other day and she was ready to rip me a new asshole. Pardon my French, but my language is squeaky clean compared to hers. Motherfucker this and motherfucker that, and these motherfuckers think they can come in here and do this and that . . . It wasn't pretty.”

My writing was clear and succinct, my quotes were strong, and the organization was impeccable. Marty Engle was right; I did a good job. What gave me a special kick was that all my buddies in the house read it and they're all proud of me. Johnny and Guillermo came running into my room with a copy of the paper, gloating, and when their thug friends came galloping up the steps they thrust my article in their faces, saying, “Look what our woman Joanna wrote.” I stopped into Jerome's room to return his air freshener and he said, “You did a fine job,” just like the editor said. (The difference is, I'm sure the editor actually
read
the piece, but it was nice of Jerome to give me a little “attagirl.”)

Kimba, who never gushes, told me she thought I did a good job on the story, and Bette, who does gush, called and said she brought the article to work (she designs computer adult education programs) and her colleagues
said it was brilliant. To celebrate, the three of us went to this lesbo party with this horrid D.J. named Popo who plays house music, and Jean and Pia were in there and they had both seen my article and congratulated me. The five of us got drunk and crazy, and we accosted the D.J. with some song requests and she complied and let loose with some Carlos Santana (me) and Cher (Bette) and Dixie Chicks (Kimba) and some other rockin' stuff and we all danced up a storm. We decided to name ourselves “the Ditches”— short for Dykes in the House or something like that—I don't remember exactly because we were so drunk when we thought of it. But it has a nice ring. So now we have a gang. I love being in a gang because I'm very tribal, having grown up in a large family. (Kimba is the same way.)

The one thing that bothers me is that Terri still hasn't called. Maybe she still hasn't seen my piece. But how could she not have seen it? She sees everything. What if she saw it and hated it? Or what if she
never
sees it? She could be on one of her vacations. What if she's on vacation with . . . with
her
? Maybe she was just away for a long weekend when the paper came out, like for one of her diversity training jobs. But then when she came back I would think that one of her friends would have shown her the article. But maybe they wouldn't because they're so absorbed in their own lives that they would forget. Or they think it would upset Terri because everything about me upsets her. Or maybe they just didn't see it because it wasn't on the cover.

Stop it, Joanna. Just stop it.

Five letters appeared in the
City Rag
about my story. I am very pleased.

Most of the letters were complimentary. One woman wrote: “Unlike others, this piece got to the crux of the matter. The problem of gentrification has as much to do with morale as it does with economics. Even if you can afford to remain in a gentrified community, you lose your pride in that community when the newcomers take over and become the new standard-bearers.” A man wrote, “It's refreshing to read an article that gets to the heart of this touchy subject.” The only negative letter was from a lady who said she had been living in the Shaw neighborhood for all her 81 years and never had any trouble with whites and she for one is thrilled to death to see some new faces to “uplift” the neighborhood. I was happy to see that letter too, because if you don't irritate at least one person you haven't done your job.

I'm still waiting for a certain little someone to call. But I'm less stressed about it, now that I got some positive feedback. She's not the only person in this town, for
God's sake.

And five hundred bucks doesn't hurt my mood, either. I got the check today. I know the
City Rag
doesn't pay as much as mainstream publications like
The Washingtonian
, but I prefer writing for the edgier ones. If I had a bunch of kids to support, like my dad did, I would do what he did, and get a steady job that pays good money. My dad was a newspaperman, but after
The News
folded he went into P.R. and spent the next 20 years taking us all on nice vacations and to five-star restaurants. But I don't have any kids and I don't need to spend my life making bloated companies richer.

Poor dad. Not one of his kids turned out as well-off as he was. We're all poor, some of us are drug-addled, and others are mentally ill. It's not funny, Joanna. Stop laughing. Dad always says, “I'm proud of every one of you kids.” Maybe he means that we're all good people. No, that's mom's thing. “All my kids are good people.” Dad's proud of how scrappy we are in spite of our problems, and he's proud of our creativity and writing abilities. And actually that's a big deal to me. After he told me my piece was “excellent,” all the other compliments were just gravy.

Finally, she called me. It's about time. Yesterday afternoon the phone rang and I answered it and heard that voice, “Knadel?” Of course my heart started slamming against my chest, but then she told me that she and Sandra broke up last week, and I felt as though I could lift off and hover over the room all aglow, like a toy space ship. What a monster I am, to take delight in someone's misfortune!