A Mother's Response Makes for a Beautiful Moment

“Was she beautiful?”

 

It was a question but also a response.

 

I turned to the man walking next to me on the crowded street. I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to. I had to express my gratitude. A simple thank you. You see, he was the father of a little girl walking a few paces in front of us that had exclaimed, “I just saw another drag queen!” with such excited gusto that one might think she was the winning contestant on Spot! That! Drag Queen!

 

It was the little girl's mother , however, who’d responded, “Was she beautiful?” The response heard round my brain.

 

I was touched. Beyond touched, maybe. I felt something spread through my chest. Expand inside me. This seemingly heteronormative nuclear family with two children—one boy, one girl—was in the gay mecca of Provincetown, Massachusetts, in big-gay July. Bear Week to be exact. So, I had to believe they knew where they were. But this response…this one, from a mother to her child, hit me hard in such a positive way.

 

I immediately thought of my own parents on a vacation with young Michael. First, they never would have taken me (or themselves) anywhere near a gay mecca, so let’s acknowledge that immediately. (Fifty-five years later, they still wouldn’t be caught there.) Second, I can’t quite imagine their response being anything near that positive.

What I can imagine is their fear of queer life leading them to pull me away from the “freaks.” I can imagine my confusion and curiosity instigating a question or two. I can imagine the sound of crickets riding on a wave of silence as they hoped I would let it go if they avoided answering me.

I was so moved in that moment by a mother’s response to her child that I had to say thank you to her also. I mouthed those words as I passed her. She smiled and said, “You’re welcome.” I kept walking, her smile burning its way into my memories. She didn’t make a man dressed as a woman a bad thing, a negative thing, or a we-have-to-protect-the-children thing. Her response immediately normalized, for her child, one of the most historic expressions in queer culture.

 

My brain churned this moment round and round the thought processor for hours. I was very aware of the sensation that flooded my body in that moment: my heart leapt. One might even say that it was Grinch-like and grew three sizes that day. I felt so much joy mixed with a dash of surprise. That’s why I had to say something to the father. I wanted to thank him for giving to his child something that young me recognizes that I didn’t get, something that I still long for.

 

Can I fault my parents for their, shall I say, innocence? Like me, they grew up in that same small southern county where I was raised. Can I fault them for passing their phobias on to me? I can’t really. But I do.

Drag queens are fierce, strong, and bold; loud and visible. I remember when I first started watching drag performances in the early 90s, how much I loved it. I was mesmerized.  The work that went into it. The makeup. The over-the-top glamour. The humor. The precision. The fabulousness. The fear of finding myself in a drag queen’s sights then on the other side her quick-witted, vicious tongue but sitting close the stage anyway. Drag queens are necessary in queer culture, and with respect to the current fear mongering perpetrated by conservatives in the United States, they aren’t going to harm children. Drag is performance. It’s art. It’s theatre. It’s expression. It’s fearless.  And if a parent can explain Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire, then they should have no problem explaining Lil Miss Hot Mess reading a damn story to children in a library. But I digress. 

I can only imagine a world in which I grew up not afraid of being myself. Not afraid of being different. Not worried that different was wrong or bad. Not confused by the pure joy I felt when wearing a pair of my mother’s heels or one of her skirts. Not afraid to ask questions. Not afraid of the answers. I can only imagine how I might now accept my own queerness. How I might accept my femininity. How my insides might feel less twisted with fear as I ponder the possibility of my own transness.

I can only imagine how beautiful it might have been if my own mother hadn’t been afraid. How beautiful it still could be if she would only engage with me about my queer identity.

So, I return to that question: “Was she beautiful?”

Yes. She was. From my perspective, she was a beautiful woman, a beautiful mother, and a beautiful human being. I hope her daughter realizes how lucky she is. 

My Day at Dior: A Liaison Between Desire and Jouy

The champagne may have been joyful with bubbles, but it was I who was bursting with effervescence. 

It happened on December 30, 2018. I bought my first piece of Dior. A bag, of course. Specifically, the Dior book tote in canvas embroidered with a burgundy Toile de Jouy motif. Happy New Year to me!

I’d been thinking about that Dior book tote for days. To be honest, the book tote in general had been on my mind since it premiered as part of the Spring/Summer 2018 collection: a new bag with style to spare using a vintage pattern--the Oblique--culled from the House of Dior’s archives and reintroduced by current creative director, Maria Grazia Chiuri, for a new generation. I was enamored. So were a lot of other people. The Dior Oblique book tote was immediately sold out with a waiting list on which I did not wish to put my name. 

Fast forward to late fall and the release of the Dior Cruise 2019 collection. Once again the archives of the House had been culled. But this time inspiration was found in a toile that had originally been created for the walls of Monsieur Dior’s boutique in 1947. 

For those who don’t know, toile can refer to the fabric or the pattern on the fabric. A toile pattern is usually a pastoral scene repeated over and over. But Maria Grazia Chiuri updated this toile with lions, snakes, monkeys, tigers, giraffes. Those quiet pastoral scenes are now dotted with danger and the allurement of adventure.  

The Toile de Jouy book tote--which takes its name from the French town of Jouy-en-Josas, where toile has been produced since 1759--arrived just before Christmas. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The pattern and the color had woven themselves together so completely in my brain that no matter how I tried I could not release myself from their grip. I checked dior.com almost daily to see if the availability at the 57th Street boutique in New York City had changed from “in stock” to “limited stock” or worse, the dreaded “out of stock.” 

I was a man obsessed. I even dreamt about it…twice. I woke from that first dream remembering the joy I felt from owning it. Every person I encountered as I walked down that dream street admired its beauty. Even awake, I could still feel the joy in my chest. Upon waking from the second dream I was left with no memories just a feeling of happiness.

A Dior bag does not come cheap. And it was an expense that I could not expend blindly. It's an investment. I mulled it over. I weighed my options. I talked to friends. I longed. I obsessed. I annoyed myself. 

In 1946, mere weeks shy of turning 42, Monsieur Dior founded his famed, and fabled, fashion house. He wasn’t a man in the midst of youth. He was a man 41 years wise and determined. World War II had ended. It was his time. He’d spent many years honing his skills in the French fashion Houses of Robert Piguet and Lucien Lelong. He even turned down an offer to breathe new life into the waning House of Philippe et Gaston. He knew what he wanted: his own House, his own name, his own rules, his own designs. 

Christian Dior is synonymous with glamour, beauty, style, strength, courage, and fearlessness.

I have long admired the man that I became aware of through my love of his gorgeously realized creative imagination. And the fact that he was 42 years old when he launched his first line only strengthens my admiration. It has long given me hope that anything is possible at any age. I’m 47, and while some see me as courageous, I’ve let fear get the better of me for more years than I care to think about. In Christian Dior, I see a man possessed with courage to start something new and a fearlessness that boldly transformed fashion. 

It was my time to engage with the glamour, beauty, and style. I was determined if not fearless.

As I walked east on 57th Street toward 5th Avenue, the awning, lighted in brilliant white illuminating the bold black name Dior, came into view. My pulse quickened. I was excited. I was nervous. I knew I didn’t have to buy the bag in order to step inside the boutique and see it. But I also knew I wanted the bag. My love affair with Dior goes way back.

As I stepped in front of the display window to the left of the entrance, I found myself relieved to see the mannequin I had seen on Christmas Eve still gracefully clutching the curved handles of the burgundy Toile de Jouy book tote. I felt an immediate sense of relief, as if I knew there would be a bag waiting for me inside, and that I would have no remorse in purchasing it. I walked through the glass doors.

Into the gleaming brightness I stepped, and there, past the towering red toile-covered giraffe, I saw the object of my desire. There were four of them beautifully displayed on a rack. I made a beeline. I asked the nearest sales associate if I could take one from the rack and was given permission. It was the first time I had admired its beauty up close. I already knew that each tote required more than 1,600,000 stitches and took over 42 hours to create, but as I held it in my hands I could see the artistry, and it was spectacular. 

I made my way to a woman standing at a display case behind me to inquire about some things of which I had questions.

There’s a certain expectation of bonhomie that comes with shopping in a high-end boutique like Christian Dior. But I never take that for granted. Probably because I don’t feel like I deserve it. I’m still a bit stuck in that stale mindset. However, I do deserve it as much as anyone else who desires that experience. So I proceeded, believing, if hesitantly, that I belonged.

That woman was Lauren, and it was serendipitous that she be my sales associate. You see, I had called the boutique the previous Friday to inquire about the bag. It was Lauren who had answered my questions. It was meant to be. 

Lauren was kind and so easy to talk to that she heard more about me than she probably wanted to hear. But she never let on that it was an imposition, choosing instead to participate with her own stories. She was generous with her time and attention. I felt like a queen. Say what you will about this being the sales associates job, I know when someone connects with me. I felt that she and I existed in our own little Dior world most of the time while I was there. 

A major desire of mine is to own my own “Bar” jacket. Introduced in Dior's inaugural collection of 1947, the “Bar” has been updated throughout the years by various creative directors during their tenure. It remains an iconic staple of the House. I felt comfortable enough with Lauren to ask her if she would help me figure out my size and fit. 

Up the stairs we went, past walls in motion with the Cruise 2019 fashion show. I took the bag with me. I barely put it down. Limited quantities and fear of loss can make one ridiculously possessive. 

Lauren indulged me in all things “Bar,” knowing that I wasn’t planning to buy the jacket, without a flicker of irritation. I’ve experienced that reaction before in an upscale boutique. It’s so disheartening. But on this day, the stars aligned to create for me the most exciting Dior experience I’ve had since my first trip to Paris when I stepped inside the Dior boutique at 30 Avenue Montaigne and breathed the air.

While my bag was being placed in its box--a piece of art itself--Lauren asked me if I wanted anything to drink: water, champagne? For a split second I thought “No.” I was feeling unworthy and undeserving; a waste of time. I quickly realized it, and that negative thought, of which I am so prone to default, was replaced with, “You’re in Dior! Have the champagne!” Lauren basically voiced that sentiment aloud.

Jouy directly translates to joy, and the liaison between my desire and the Jouy brought me nothing but. 

With my head swimming in champagne, I stepped into the chilled December air of a New York City evening and took my bag home.

Le reste c'est la beauté.

When Damaged Goods Reveal A Deeply Rooted Problem

It was page 362. I was roughly halfway through devouring my fashion meal that is the September issue of Vogue, when I turned the page and there they were. I gasped.

This amuse-bouche was unexpected and deliciously seductive.

Three models wearing three different colors — and styles — of shoe with the same fabulous heel. In bold type I read, “Sies Marjan Shoes” followed quickly by the subheading, “At long last, the label’s lust-worthy footwear collection has arrived.”

I did lust. 

The shoe from the image that caught my attention was in a beautiful shade of blue. I immediately read the article to which the image was attached then put down the magazine and headed to my computer to do some research. 

I learned that the silhouette of the shoe was inspired by the penny-loafer; that it had a one inch platform in the front to go with its 4.5 inch heel. I learned that it was covered in Nubuck, which is the material used for Timberland’s. And that her name was Ellen. It was that heel, however, that turned my lust to love. It’s flared shape was the distinguishing feature that made it nothing short of intoxicating. (Who knew a magazine could feed you and get you drunk?) There was a twist though: the blue shoe, which might be a bit less conspicuous for a man to wear, didn’t seem to exist. Everywhere I searched Ellen Nubuck Ankle Boot it was only available in pink. Pink! 

For days the image of that shoe popped in and out of my head. I would find myself on a break at work Google imaging it. Finally I screen shot the image and saved it to my phone (duh!) so I could drool over it whenever I wanted.

MONDAY

When I awoke on the morning of October 2nd, I decided it was time to go to Barney’s on Madison Avenue and see those shoes in person. Why not? "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” and I wanted to behold. Plus, it never hurts to look. 

They were gorgeous. Shocking in their pinkness. I hesitated to touch the one on display but it called to me in a dulcet tone saying, “Pick me up. I won’t bite.” The softness of the suede was like the rose petal butter cream that fills a rose-flavored macaron. I wanted them. I only hoped they had my size. After someone stripped a mannequin of her footwear I admired them on my own feet in the reflection of a mirror. I was apprehensive about the color yet exhilarated by it at the same time.

I walked out of Barney’s with those shoes in tow. Yep, I did more than look. In 20 years of living in New York City, they were my first Barney’s purchase. As I headed toward the subway to take my beautiful pink shoes home, I was floating on air. Excitement was exploding from my body. It was ricocheting off of every person I met. I wondered if they could feel it. 

It was after arriving home that the dreaded realization emerged. The shoes were damaged. The heels weren’t even. I couldn’t tell this in Barney’s as the shoe salon is mostly carpeted. But on my hard wood floors it was obvious. One rocked. One didn’t.

I didn’t quite fully panic, but my insides did get that tingly spread that happens during a panic. I went into search mode. I saw there was a pair of the shoes in my size available on the Barney’s website. So I called. I spoke with a very helpful customer service representative who connected me to Barney’s, and from there, my sales associate, Andrew. Andrew said he would get that pair from the warehouse delivered to the store so that I could try them on and make sure they were perfect, then exchange the pair that was damaged. I relaxed…a bit. 

WEDNESDAY

The bad news arrived: the shoes inside the box in the warehouse were a size 39 instead of the marked 40. They were searching for the 40’s but had been unable to locate them. Andrew was holding out hope. I was not. 

FRIDAY

Barney’s was unable to locate the size 40. I returned the damaged pair to the store. I mourned.

Then I got the bright idea to reach out to customer service at Sies Marjan. I spoke with a customer service concierge named Amena. She was wonderful. She immediately began to search for the shoes in my size in order to “rectify this problem.” 

Later that day she texted me with the “bad” news. The only other pair of the Ellen Nubuck Ankle Boots available in my size was at Selfridges in London. I was heartbroken. Yes, I know they’re just shoes. But when you find something you love and you actually have it in your possession only to lose it, there is a sense of loss and heartbreak attached. 

SUNDAY

It took two days before I finally realized that the Universe was giving me exactly what I wanted but that I didn’t like the option for how to get it. I was playing the victim, a role that I have perfected over the years even as I try to stop the type casting. There was not another pair of those shoes in my size in the United States but there was one pair in my size in London. I didn’t want to order them from London. I had PTSD from the first pair being damaged and certainly didn’t want to order that only pair available in my size from another country. What if they didn’t fit? What if the color was off? What if they too were damaged? I was prepared for the disappointment without giving one thought to the possibility that they would be perfectly, beautifully, exactly what I wanted. 

This led to a deeper discussion: Why won’t I allow myself to be happy, Why can’t I find the joy? Why is it easier for me to prepare for the gloom and doom than to live in the moment and the happiness that is waiting for me to embrace it?

I don’t have an answer to either. The universe was giving me exactly what I wanted. All I had to do was place an order. That’s all. If something happened to be wrong with the boots, I could return them. In my mind, the idea of returning something to London was such a burden. But then again, what if the shoes were perfect and no return was necessary? I couldn’t seem to give a positive outcome as much credence as a negative one.

I began to wonder if there was a moment in my childhood where I learned to feel bad for my desires, when I started thinking I didn’t deserve the things I wanted out of life. I remember my father saying that he hoped I found a good job when I grew up because I had expensive tastes. I remember feeling bad about that in the moment. That little gem burrowed its way deep into my psyche.

The shoes were the catalyst revealing something that goes much deeper. Why don’t I think I deserve happiness, joy? This issue has tentacles that touch every aspect of my life: I have a good job, what if I get fired? I love my apartment, what if my lease isn’t renewed? This guy is great, what if he thinks I’m stupid…or bad in bed? What if my next blog piece fails to connect? What if the shoes are damaged? What if, what if, what if?

They’re just shoes. I know that. But to me they are yet another step in my expression evolution. To walk out into the world, to ride the New York City subway, to show myself in pink heels elicits old adolescent fears of name-calling or maybe even physical contact. It may be an irrational fear at this point, but my adolescence — and living in the Age of Trump (even in NYC) — gives me reason to pause. My guard is always up. I often wonder how it might feel to live without that guard: to exist, breathe, express myself without fear?

I shouldn’t let any of the above keep my happiness at bay. And none of it should keep me from experiencing joy. That’s on me. Fear though: it takes a toll on us that we don’t often see. 

By Sunday night I had gotten out of my own way. 

Selfridges delivered the shoes two days later. They were perfect: a confectionary delight —no sugar, no carbs.

The day that I wore them out into the world for the first time my guard was way up, but in the safety of friends I found my joy. 

We’re meant to enjoy our lives. With this blatantly obvious reveal, I am now trying to really experience the joy that I find, live in its light. Damaged shoes do serve a purpose. Who knew?

Operation Carnation: A ‘Little Girl’ Story

The excitement hung in the air like confetti forever frozen in a snapshot. It was palpable as we sat around the kitchen table staring at the piñata shaped like a baby carriage; it’s contents waiting to be whacked from its pastel-covered card board. It was like Christmas morning. But there was only one package to be shared by all of us, and we were all eager to know its secret contents. That is, those of us who had not already played this game.

I received a text message a couple of weeks prior to this particular October day that included an ultrasound picture and the words, “Are you ready to be a faux uncle?” I was caught completely off-guard by the image…and the words. So much so that I teared up immediately. I was so excited—overwhelmed, really—I could barely type my response. One of my dearest cousins (a member of The Family Band and basically a sibling) had finally made it past the first trimester and was now sharing her exciting news with her nearest and dearest who weren’t her immediately family. Other Band members already knew this information (you know who you are), but being the only other boy in the Band besides her brother I was the last member to know. I’m okay with that, but by now I would have thought I was an honorary girl, but I guess all those times I’ve said, “I’ve got a penis” after somebody calls me, “Girl” has paid off. I digress.

Cousins can become the best of friends. Three of mine, along with my sister, make up The Family Band (just a name we gave ourselves like The Little Rascals). The extraordinary thing for me is I’m the oldest (seven-and-a-half years older than the next of us) so I’ve seen them all be babies and grow into the people they are. And now I’m sharing in their lives as adults: sharing in their engagement surprises, attending their weddings, receiving their birth announcements. It’s an odd mix of feelings (love, happiness, anger, frustration, joy, contentment, excitement) all thrown together like the blend of seasonings that make up Shake ’n Bake: you might not know what they all are, but you know it’s good). We share our lives with each other—the important things and the mundane. “Cousins we shall always be. Special friends from the same family tree.” I seem to have taken a detour down the path marked sentimental. The prettiest flowers grow along that path. And I’m a sucker for a pretty flower.

Back to the story at hand.

I had a trip to Kentucky, to visit my parents and my sister’s family, booked for the first full week in October. My cousin and her husband live in Nashville, Tennessee and it’s a mere two-and-a-half hour drive to where my parents live. She told me she was going to be able to drive up for the weekend I was there, but even more exciting than the opportunity to hang out with her was the fact that she was going to reveal the sex of the baby to us. She was going to find out the results within days of my departure and had decided it would be the perfect opportunity to share the news with the extended family.

This is where the excitement of Christmas morning comes into play. My cousin’s mom and brother were privy to the information already and her mom (my over-the-moon happy aunt Cindy) was excitedly sharing the story of their own piñata experience. Excited to the point of me being afraid she was going to spill the beans herself before our piñata could spill its contents. Think about how excited you are about that one particular gift you’ve gotten someone for Christmas. Example: for Christmas 2013 I got my niece a beautiful purple Coach bag. I couldn’t stand not sharing my excitement with people that I knew would be as excited as I was. I took a picture of the bag and texted it to two of my cousins (two female Band members) and then showed the bag to my mom once I arrived in KY. The only people surprised on Christmas morning were my niece and her mom (my sister). I had to make myself not tell my sister. So you get the picture, right? It was that kind of excitement and desire to share that was radiating from my aunt as we sat around the kitchen table. I wanted to talk about that bag, but I had to choose my words and text recipients correctly or I might have inadvertently spilled the beans before Santa arrived. Excitement can get you into trouble. Thankfully, she also chose the right words and told just enough of the story to not spoil anything. Whew!

On a side note: Once I’d gotten the responses from those I’d chosen to share my excitement over the bag with, I completely changed my tune. I became protective of the contents of that box and determined to keep it from being discovered. I wrapped that package and put it under the tree way back in the back so that it was hidden and therefore unshakable. I can be Grinch-y like that.

All of us who didn’t already know were asked to guess what we thought the sex of the baby would be. I did really have a guess as much as I had a desire. All I could say was I hoped it was a girl. I don’t know why. I just wanted it to be a girl. I wrote my name under the word GIRL (again I say, I have a penis) and mine joined the other names who’d guessed the same.

Finally it was time. Think of it as 7am when you’ve been lying in your bed awake since 6am listening for any sound that told you someone else was up so that you could run into the living room and see all the wonderful toys Santa left under the Christmas tree.

Now here’s the funny part. A few of us had been playing the card game Phase 10 (a variation on rummy) earlier in the evening. It was decided (by someone, not me) that the order in which we would take a whack at the piñata would be the order in which the Phase 10 players ranked—first to last—in the game as it stood when we broke for dinner. Wouldn’t you know I was in first place. So I was on deck to go first. 

Can you see this? I was not prepared for this task. Those of you who know me know that I don’t like to be laughed at, and I don’t easily laugh at myself. (If you didn’t know that, now you do.) I enjoy telling the story to comedic effect when the situation is over, but I do not enjoy being in the situation while it’s happening. That said, I was not ready to be laughed at or laughed with, but by golly I was determined to do it anyway. Embarrassment be damned. ‘Cause you know I was embarrassed. Thankfully, it was still kind of dark in the dull brightness of the combined lights shining from the front porch and in the garage. 

I put on the blindfold and was spun around the requisite 5 times. I was then pointed toward the baby carriage that was dangling from a stick in the capable hands of my cousin’s brother (one who already knew the answer) and set free to “take a whack Ouiser” (Steel Magnolia’s reference). Everyone was excited. I could feel their excitement. The energy in the air was electric. Even the baby daddy, Matt, who was joining us via FaceTime must have been able to feel it. I began to laugh, took a breath then…whack! I connected. First try. I remember hearing two pieces hit the driveway below. Someone behind me yelled, “It’s a girl!”

I removed the blindfold. I looked at the slightly broken carriage then saw one pink Starburst lying on the ground. After that I don’t really know what happened. There was too much cheering and laughing and hugging. A blindfold-free member of my family finished off the piñata. The pink-wrapped candy from the piñata's belly lay on the ground below. Maybe it was better than Christmas. It was my family sharing an intimate moment filled with joy and love that was more special than anything wrapped in Christmas paper. It was a celebration of new life, the beginning of a new family. Soon enough Little Girl will know exactly what I’m talking about. Our story goes on.