E3: In the Name of Love, Part I; S5: It's Live!

Tomorrow is Sunday.Three Saturdays ago—like this one, not last Saturday but the one before—we got a new puppy.The next day, Sunday at 11:00 a.m., I had my regular counselling appointment. I barely made it to my computer in time. Usually I “prepare,” which is probably a bad idea.I’ve always been a performer. I care about the quality of shared moments. Even in counselling.So there he was, in the Jane App.I told him about the puppy. Then: “I’ve been working on my podcast. And it’s been…”And then I fell apart.I started talking about being a whore during the AIDS crisis in 1980s Los Angeles.Every day, I looked for my first Kaposi’s sarcoma lesion.I was president of my high school—probably the first out ASB president anywhere, in 1986.We got death threats on my parents’ answering machine. I’d rush home to erase them.Mom thought not talking about it might discourage me.Dad thought white guilt had gotten to me. That I was trying to become a minority.Homosexuality was inevitable, he said. Just waiting in the wings.After that counselling session—thirty minutes of crying—I had my weekly Zoom call with my parents and brothers.We’ve done that since 2019, when Dad’s health was shaky. He’s 89 now.Mom had been out of it for weeks, but on the call she was back.My family’s shocked I’m alive.They knew what a whore I was in the late ’80s and early ’90s.I didn’t hide it. I was sex-positive in ways that might get you arrested now.But I thought I was going to die. And I wasn’t going to let anyone erase my sexuality.We never talked about any of it.I survived without HIV, though I got HPV lesions on my vocal cords in 2000.They almost cut off my airflow during COVID hospital shutdowns.Coming of age in the AIDS crisis meant sex and death were the same.Mentors became death.I didn’t have friends—who’d want to befriend someone who was going to die?Sex was enough.I had a relationship or two.Usually because a condom broke or a kiss turned bloody.Then it was: I guess we’re together now. Hopefully I die first.One boyfriend didn’t want to get tested.Maybe he thought if we were negative, the relationship would end.We were together almost two years.The night I decided to leave—panic attacks, debt, maybe less anxious if I left—That same night, his best friend hung himself after a positive test.He’d been beaten by his older boyfriend.The police did nothing. Two guys? Not domestic violence.Fag bashing was expected.That happened a few times.Once with a gun.My friend swung his belt buckle through motel windows to get help.No one came.That was the night after I came out at sixteen.Exciting.A week passed, settling the puppy.Next Sunday, on the Zoom call, I wondered: who are these people?My family.Because of the Defence of Marriage Act, I moved to Canada.My second foreign boyfriend.His visa was expiring.He was from an Islamic country.Then 9/11.It got complicated.My family worried.We planned to apply to Canada, then live in an Islamic country while we waited.Obviously, I always did things the hard way.Anyway, I broke open my Cadbury egg of trauma over my family.Poured it all over them. Rich and sweet.This past week, I’ve been writing.Because that’s what I do.This is the introduction.I think I’ll make the whole thing deep house with spoken word.You’re not meant to focus on the words.Part II will follow.Not sure how many parts there’ll be.Enjoy.Today is Saturday.Tomorrow… I wonder what will happen on the Zoom call.Don’t you?