My Son, aka Lovely

P-town, August 2017: the theme was Gods and Goddesses at Carnival this year. Medusa, Athena, and a hell of a lot of topless gladiators were out in full force.

There were many six-packs to be admired, and some kick-ass dykes on bikes valiantly rocking leather under the steamy summer sun. The Provincetown police department appears to be  almost entirely queer and as fashion-forward as my Aunt Edith.

I brought my 21-year-old son James to Provincetown this year—it was his maiden voyage. As the week wore on, I saw his shoulders gradually loosen as he experienced what we all have the very first time we arrive: you are welcome here. Even a white privileged teenager coming out in Brooklyn in 2016 can have a bumpy journey. There is nothing quite  like letting your true colors fly completely unfettered.

We spent the week with my best friend. He’s big on coordinated outfits  and doesn’t trust my fashion sense so he’d ordered  matching togas for all of us.  We tried them on the day before carnival. Mine was too tight  for my middle-aged middle and  way too femmy for me. It  cried out for kitten heels and a clutch—I'm more of a high-top converse and army backpack kind of gal. Then we  switched togas and found our personas.  I  became the soft butch goddess of the resistance, wearing a long rainbow cape and holding  a homemade "Love Conquers Hate"  sign, acknowledging what had just happened in Charlottesville. James let his  inner drag queen fly. After a quick trip into town to the House of LaRue (because of course Provincetown has a store selling heels in mens size 12) we were ready for the parade.

At 6’ 3”, wearing a new auburn wig aptly named “Lovely,”  4-inch glossy lipstick red stilettos, and a toga mini skirt, James looked ravishing. And more importantly, he was radiating joy as he strutted his stuff down Commercial Street. Walking beside him, watching him soaking in the winks, waves, and catcalls was divine.  

We were mother and son, side by side, celebrating ourselves, each other, and the community around us. Our rainbow genes have never fit so well.  Here’s to P-town, and family pride.

The Kate Clinton Epiphany

I have a feeling we could start a club: the Kate Clinton Epiphany Club. Mine happened on a Saturday afternoon, about six months after my divorce. It was a non-kid weekend, and I was still feeling the acute despair of  not seeing  my children for two days.  It's not something you get over, by the way, but you learn how to keep busy to keep it at bay.

I had just watched Kate Clinton MC an ACT UP fundraiser at the Brookyn Academy of Music, and was, of course, in love.  She is the bomb: hilarious, satirical, silly, searingly intelligent and sexy (in that middle-aged way that is so heartening to those of us who fear obesity and oversized denim shirts are right around the corner).

I flopped down on the couch with a collection of her essays, Don't Get Me Started. If you haven't read it, get it immediately and save it for that bad, bad day that requires massive doses of  escapism, laughter, chocolate, carbohydrates, and diet coke.

Now, let's be clear. I am reading the book NOT because I myself am gay, but merely because I find Kate Clinton hilarious and want to know more about her. Right.

So I'm halfway through the book,  and have just finished reading about one of her ill-fated early relationships gone horribly wrong, when I get to a story about a young college student who is inspired by Clinton to come out of the closet. Something happens--is it lightening bolt? Sappho's ghost arriving for a brief visit? Or the deft hand of Kate Clinton pausing lightly on my shoulder....

I sit bolt upright, close the book, and say to myself, "I'm gay."

Obviously, this was not  a Moses and his tablet moment. There had been lots and lots of subtle shifts and signs along the way. But even though they were welling up, coming closer and closer to the surface, it was something about the way Kate Clinton wrote about the experience of coming out that broke through the final layer of denial.

Therein begins the journey that has led me, six years later, to this lateblooming blog.

Thank you, Kate Clinton.  You are the bomb.