FATHERHOOD

On the morning of September 20, 2011, I came across a video on CNN showing a gay soldier coming out to his father. It was the day when the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy in the US military was officially repealed, and that soldier has decided to show his face to the world. There was something very compelling about this tired, young airman, stationed in Germany, so far away from his family in Alabama. All throughout his conversation with his dad, he kept looking for reassurances that his father still loves him and accepts him, no matter what. That video went viral on YouTube, and later millions learned more about this young man, Randy Phillips, who took to social media to help himself going through the process of self-acceptance and coming out.

For me, though, it was equally the story of Randy’s father, whose name and face were not disclosed. Whereas Randy knew he was gay since he was a teenager, prepared himself for that call, and chose the time and the way for him to come out, his father didn’t have all that. Randy’s father didn’t have the benefit of knowing what the conversation is going to be about. He didn’t have the time to come in terms with his son’s sexual identity, the benefit of months of building up courage, social media and friends’ support, and of course, he didn’t have the knowledge that everything he was about to say will be recorded and posted online for the world to see. Randy’s phone call caught his father completely off guard, in the middle of the day, minding his business. Yet, in an almost matter-of-fact way, dad’s response the news was one of love and acceptance. Much like Randy, I was at the edge of my seat, yearning to hear his father’s reassuring words, that he still loves his son just as much, and that Randy’s coming out changes nothing. And his dad came through so perfectly. There was no second-guessing, no debating, no doubting, and no rejection, no shame or blame, only pure fatherly love, unconditional, automatic, and accepting without any hesitation. His response moved me to tears. Later, watching this with my wife, it brought me to tears, again. Love is a powerful thing.

I have two young boys; one is ten years old, the other is eight. They are the sunshine of my life, and I’m so proud of them and happy with every step they take in this world. Literally every step, from their first baby steps, and even before that. I have a happy and fulfilling marriage. I love my wife and she loves me. We’re best friend, and though we go through the occasional ups and downs, for most parts we work together rather well. I’m not gay, but ever since I remember, I cared about human rights, with the issue of LGBT rights being specially close to home (but that’s for another blog). Of course, my boys are still very young now, but around the time I was in six-grade (which is but nine months away for my oldest), I knew who I was attracted to. I can only assume that my kids will soon know, too. Whoever they are straight, gay, or anything else, I want them to be able to live their lives true to themselves. I want them to be comfortable with who they are. And I want them to be open with themselves and others as early as they can. I want them to know that I don’t put any expectations from them before my love to them. I have neither plans, nor road maps for them. All I want is their happiness, as defined by them. I want them to be able to grow up and to love and be loved by whoever they may be attracted to, without fearing rejection at home, or discrimination elsewhere.

When I became a naturalized US citizen and a registered voter in 2007, the hottest topic on the California ballot (where I live) was proposition 8, the constitutional definition of marriage as a union between a man and a woman. I voted no. Unfortunately, it didn’t help, but it made me keenly aware of the detrimental forces of fear and ignorance, politics and religion, and how much is still needs to be changed in California and the US. The country I come from, Israel, recognizes same sex, common-law marriage, as well as foreign same sex marriage, and since military service is mandatory, LGBT serve openly, like everyone else. It didn’t happen overnight, but if in a country that does not legally separate state and religion, where ultra-orthodox have the power to decide who’s going to be the prime minister, and where pressing issues of life and death weigh heavily on the political system, those achievements are quite remarkable. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBT_rights_in_Israel).

So, when I came across Randy’s story, I wanted to know more. It’s amazing how one’s mind works. Past horrific murders, like that of Matthew Shepard, or terrible and suicides, like that of Tyler Clementi, shook me, but didn’t move me to action. Yet, this one story of success, hope, and triumph, made me want to do more. I guess my brain responds better to happy endings. Might have also to do with being a father of boys growing and about to come of age. I wanted to follow Randy’s story and see where it goes. So I opened a Tweeter account with an alter ego name and followed @areyousuprised. Randy Phillips went back into his routine, and relative anonymity, serving his country overseas, but boy, was I in for a fun surprise. I have stumbled upon this amazing group of men, from all walks of life, all ages, marital status, and nationalities. Some deep in the closet, others on their way out, or completely in the open. Some victims of misinformed families, social ignorance and rejection, hate, prejudice, and discriminatory laws, others afraid of becoming ones. (You know who you are). It seems everyone was united in the need to express himself in an accepting and judgment free environment. I loved it. It was uninhibited and refreshing… and quite consuming. Most of all people genuinely cared for strangers, sought advice, and for most part, were down right funny. This made me very happy. I feel very comfortable and quite intrigued to take part in this loose Tweeter group and see where it goes.

I’m always available if anyone wants to talk about anything.

Alon Bar

Tweeter: @TitusWild

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thealonbar

email: TIITUS-wild@yahoo.com

Phone # available upon request.

A KID WITH A DREAM

I first met Evan when I was thirteen. He was two years older than me. I was the youngest participant in the Youth Film Workshop at the Tel Aviv Museum of Art. In fact, I was too young, and it took some convincing to get the administration let me in. As I was the only kid who took the bus into the big city from a bedroom suburb, which was the very definition of “the wrong side of the tracks”, I was at awe with the city kids. I was an eight grader from a poor family of immigrants, who grew up climbing trees and running on sand dunes, and they were in high school, had famous parents, traveled to Europe and America, and in Evan’s case, already had careers in music, theater, TV and film. Every week, for one afternoon I lived in a fantasy world of color, music, creativity, and surprisingly for a world of teenagers, non-judgmental. The museum where the workshop took place was tucked between the city’s main concert hall and the National Theater; it is Tel Aviv’s version of New York’s Lincoln Center. I could see musicians from the Israel Philharmonic, singers and dancers from the Tel Aviv Opera, and stars of stage and film hanging out on the sidewalks and cafés. Evan knew many of them, and though he came from a different world than mine (or that’s how I chose to see it then), he was never too shy about talking to them, or introducing his somewhat dorky, ill dressed, awe stricken, four eyes classmate (me) to them.

At the end of one of our classes, later that year, a group of us went to a nearby bohemian café. We did that sometimes; the other kids, because it was in their neighborhood, and me, because I just didn’t want to drag myself onto the dreadful bus ride back home to sandville. We discussed our stories and our little productions, and just chilled. At some point everyone else left, and only Even and I stayed there. He looked at me and asked me if he can trust me with a secret. I nodded. He pulled out a notebook, looked at me, and said: “One day I am going to win an Oscar, and I have written my speech.” Now, just to put this in context, for a 15-year-old kid from Tel Aviv, no matter how cool I thought he was, to say back in 1979, that he plans to win an Oscar, would be the equivalent of a kid in 2011, telling you that he’s planning a trip to Mars, and showing you his plans for hiking the Red Planet and being dead serious about it. It would be that far-fetched. Evan read his speech to me, but I didn’t make much of it. I was thirteen, and I probably had homework and “stuff” I was worried about at that point.

The following year I joined the Youth Film Workshop again, this time as a freshman in high school. Evan and I were put on the same team, and our team’s assignment was to create an “epic” project, with sets and wardrobe and real actors. Looking back, it was silly, but we were teenagers and we were having fun. Evan was the director and I was to assist with the editing. The day the four-minute reels of super 8 Kodachrome film came back from the lab (those days before instant re-runs), Evan and I got in the editing corner to watch them. We were excited, and didn’t notice it was getting late. We were sitting in a semi-dark room, at the basement of and empty museum, watching the silent footage of our “amazing” creation. The sound of the rain falling hard outside and the warm glow from the Steenbeck film editing machine’s monitor made that room feel even cozier. At some point Evan looked at me. We were sitting very close, and I noticed he’s not looking at the footage. I glanced at him, and then back at the image on the monitor. He kept looking at me. I stopped the film and looked back at him.

— “You okay, Evan?”

— “Can I ask you for something personal?” he asked.

— “Yeah,” I replied.

There was nothing extraordinary about his request. Many times before kids in the workshop asked for a personal favor from one another. I was getting hungry, and I hoped he would suggest that we split a pizza.

— “Can I kiss you?”

— “What? Why?”

— “Nevermind.”

I didn’t know what he meant. I was fourteen. I was naïve. I was innocent. And I was really hopping for a pizza. I was not attracted to him, so it didn’t even cross my mind that he might be attracted to me. I didn’t even think in these terms then. I had a girlfriend at the time. My second one. I didn’t even kiss her, yet. My world was that platonic. Also, I grew up in a Mediterranean culture where it’s the norm for men to hug and kiss when they arrive and leave, or to hold hands and wrap an arm around the other’s shoulder as they talk. So, when Evan made his request, I didn’t make much of it. It didn’t even feel awkward. I just forgot all about it and moved on.

At the end of that year we all moved our own ways. I became more involved with volunteering and activism, Evan became even more famous. I learned from the papers that he had landed a leading roll in a movie, and later that he joined the armed forces (as all Israelis must, right out of high school) as a lead performer in a military performing troop.

I briefly met him again two years later. I was sixteen. My volunteer work led me to chair a youth conference in Jerusalem, and the entertainment was Evan’s troop. He sang, danced and made us laugh. He was really good. When his show was over, I briefly saw him backstage. The movie he was in just came out to rave reviews and to box office success. I congratulated him, and we decided that we’d get together at some unspecified point in the future to catch up. That was years before cell phones, Facebook and Tweeter made catching up a virtual activity.

That catch up meeting never took place. Three months later, as I was away from home, my mother called me and asked if I saw the paper. I didn’t. She read it to me over the phone. Evan was dead. He died from complications of Pneumonia, brought upon by a sever asthma attack. That was the official line. The terms HIV or AIDS were not used in 1982, not in public anyway.

Evan performance in that one movie he made, won him a Best Actor Award at the Israeli Academy Awards. Accepting the award on his behalf, his family quoted from that secret speech he once shared with me.

I always remember Evan as older than me, but he was just a kid. A kid with a dream and a secret. A kid who will forever remain eighteen.

The years have passed. I am no longer the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. The sand dunes of my childhood are but a fainting memory somewhere on the other side of the world. Most were paved and built on. I live my dream every day. All of Hollywood’s major studios are but a short ride from my home. I pass through those foreboding gats routinely. I bring visitors over, and they are dazzled by the sights and sounds that I now take for granted. Still, every time I set foot on that black, glittery pavement, adorned with pink stars and names of famous entertainers in brass, just outside the Kodak Theater in Hollywood where the Academy presents its Oscars, another ” Kodak moment” pops in my mind. That moment when I was watching super 8 Kodachrome footage, in a dimly lit edit bay, sitting next to a kid with a dream and a secret. A dream so infectious, that it became my dream, too. And as long as I live my dream, I hope that some of Evan’s dream lives, too.

Who knows, perhaps if all of us, dreamers, will keep each other’s dreams alive, one day, kids planning their trips to Mars, will not be a far-fetched fantasy.

Perhaps one day, kids with dreams will not have to keep who they really are a secret.