Essay, LGBTQ, Life, Love & Romance, Millennials, Movies, Thinkpiece


I watched Call Me By Your Name on a flight back from Amsterdam recently (brag!). And whether it was the combination of airplane red wine and altitude, or perhaps a human, beating heart, I was so deeply affected by the viewing that I’ve floated in a fog the last few days, one that I’ve characterized as a “gay funk.”

A gay funk is a peculiar and particular kind of funk for me – and trust, I’ve got plenty of funk genres. It comes from a place of mixed happiness and sadness – the font of queerdom, the well of homosexuality.

I’m not going to get into it here – for a multitude of reasons, including that you are not paying me, sis, and also I doubt my psychiatrist would recommend that I do it – but I’ve spent the last few months coming to terms with the fact that a lot of my high school experience was fucked-up, and painful, and distinctly not okay. It’s hard in a lot of ways, to recharacterize something after the fact, but I’ve felt lighter for it.

So the idea of watching a movie that essentially splays out the past traumas I’ve been dealing with – youth and queerness and masculinity and love – sent red flares in my vision and, if I’m being honest, I actively avoided seeing the movie. But with the stretch of eight hours ahead of me and nothing to do but sit, I finally relented.

It also comes from a very legitimate place of cynicism. Queer men, particularly gay, white men, are luckier than others in our community in the fact that we have had more and varied representation in the media. But still, the idea of a movie that depicted my experience made me wary and scared. We get so few chances, and I didn’t want one to be squandered. I wanted to remain unseen.

But in a similar way to Lady Bird, Call Me By Your Name truthfully and honestly depicted shades of my life in ways that felt like a tribute, rather than an exploitation.

It was painful to watch, Call Me By Your Name, but it was a curious pain because I felt it lancing me softly and beautifully. I felt parts of me uncoil, spirals of sadness that have been clamped up for so long. I was sad watching the movie, and jealous in ways, and unjealous in others.

Surprise, surprise, but I did not have a love story like Elio and Oliver’s in my high school experience. I had one, very intense and unrequited love – in the way that only seventeen-year-old closeted kids can love – but I related to the breathless, heartsick trill of their relationship. And honestly, I can’t ignore the fact that Armie Hammer is of the same mold as my high school crush: blonde and strappingly all-American.

So much of the romance in my life has been wrapped up with shame, longing, sadness and guilt, and that what I felt the movie portrayed so honestly. How love is propelled by a desire to satiate your own loneliness, quell the turmoil and the self-sabotaging desire to jump. Despite growing up in a world that was growing more and more tolerant of being gay, I don’t recall any positive representation of queer love in my childhood. I had no interactions with gay people, had no inkling that they could be thriving adults.

Watching Call Me By Your Name invoked a sadness similar to the first time I read Giovanni’s Room, sadness that our experience of love is so often colored by pain. I know that this can be a universal experience, but it feels particularly like the nexus of queerness. It’s sad, but it’s also comforting; that we’re a part of a lineage and history that extends beyond your singular, mortal self, despite that mantle being so wrought with pain.

Hence the gay funk: so many of the queer people I know didn’t get to have clean, cut-and-dry first experiences. They were tainted by who we were, and how the world treated us. So watching Call Me By Your Name made me viciously jealous of a tenet of teenhood that I missed out on. The movie made me sad for the kid that I was. The kid who was robbed of so many things, so many experiences. For all the love that I did have, there was so much love spilled on the ground, wastefully draining away. I’m sad for what he had to go through, for what he didn’t realize he was going through, and for what he would be going through.

But the movie made me happy in a lot of ways, because that pain was clarifying for me – it crystallized, for good and bad, the person that I am. It made me a fighter and empathetic and clumsy, complex and ruthless and fragile. It made me question who I was – it made me fight for myself. It grounded me in my own soil. It also reminded me that, in spite of it all, I loved being a teenager. I loved feeling all the nuances and complexity of emotions – first best friends, first break-up, first disappointment, first triumph. Like Mike Phelps was built for swimming, I was built for feeling things deeply. A lot of that (lol) was depression, but I think that even without being depressed, my body would be carved for intensity of feeling.

And it’s funny, because if I saw that kid – seventeen-year-old me – I would think that he was beautiful. I would admire his grit, his humor, his broken attempts at concealing how deeply and tumultuously he cared. I would’ve found him brave, and witty, and endearing, even as he attempted to be as spiky as possible. It’s the lasting echo I’ve carried with me since watching the movie: deep, bursting love for the kid that I was, despite everything, despite all the pain. And that’s what the end of the movie was about. Closing yourself off from grief is another kind of trauma. Feeling things deeply is not a curse, it’s part of the experience.

So much of life is love tempered with pain. One doesn’t exist without the other.

LGBTQ, Pride 2017


(This is the second most-creative Pride and Prejudice pun I’ve made. The first one was a concept for a Teresa Giudice spin-off show entitled Pride and Pregiudice).

I saw boobs at Pride, and I need to be chill about it.

I wore a Golden Girls t-shirt to Pride this year; it got a lot of positive attention and led to me screaming, “OLD NAVY” in a lot of public places. The doorman of my friend’s apartment building confided in me that his favorite was Blanche (mine as well); a woman whose path I crossed in the street screamed at me and pointed to her own Golden Girls t-shirt, which she had cut into a cuter shape. We screamed together, hugged briefly and then went our separate ways.

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LGBTQ, Life, Politics, Pride 2017


One year ago today, June 12, 2016, the world woke up to the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history when a gunman entered Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, killing 49 and injuring 53.

This was not only the deadliest shooting by a single gunman in U.S. history and the deadliest terror attack since 9/11, it was also a hate crime of epic proportions. The gunman went into Pulse, a gay nightclub, and killed 49 people, queer men and women and those outside of the gender binary, as well as their friends, family and allies. It was also Latin Night, so most of the victims were Latinx and people of color.

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It’s a weird moment in time when ‘90s sitcoms intersect with 2010s drag culture, but if anything can be said about 2017—it’s nothing but weird moments in time.

Candace Cameron Bure, who played DJ Tanner on Full House and used to be Elisabeth Hasslebeck 2.0 on The View, was recently seen on her Instagram wearing a shirt that says “Not Today, Satan.” Before we dive into the real deep drama, let’s just focus on the fact that Bure, a noted conservative and Christian, saw that shirt and thought, “Oh my god, I totally feel like that.” Wouldn’t you, as a Christian, wear a shirt that said, perhaps, “Never, Satan”? Should Satan come back tomorrow? I’m being mean and dumb, so let’s continue.

In fact, the phrase, “Not today, Satan” originates from Bianca del Rio, the winner of the sixth season of RuPaul’s Drag Race. In that moment, Bianca is responding to fellow contestant Courtney Act’s comment that Bianca always wore the same silhouette. The phrase went on to become the title of Bianca’s comedy tour, and was so well-known that it spawned those t-shirts—one which would eventually find its way onto the body of one former child star. I’m betting that Candace didn’t know that.


Bure is known for having conservative blonde views—particularly on The View. In 2015, she defended bakers who discriminated against LGBTQ customers.

“This is about freedom of association. It’s about constitutional rights,” said Bure. “It’s about First Amendment rights. It’s about having the right to still choose who we associate with.” Raven-Symoné, who was also on the show at that point, countered with, “I refuse to associate with you right now.”


It’s also worth noting that Bure’s brother, Kirk Cameron, is an Evangelical Christian and notoriously anti-gay. He called homosexuality “detrimental” and “ultimately destructive” to the foundation of civilization. Now, I don’t want to blame Bure for her brother’s opinions, but I think it’s important for context. She is associated with him and, to my knowledge, has not rejected her brother’s very public opinions on homosexuality.

So Bianca del Rio reposted the photo with the caption, “IF ONLY, THIS HOMOPHOBIC, REPUBLICAN KNEW…”. Her fans flooded Bure’s page with accusations of homophobia. Bure responded with a comment on Bianca’s photo, saying that “Loving Jesus doesn’t mean I hate gay people or anyone…I hope next time you’ll spread love and kindness, even when you disagree with people.”

First, I would like to state, unequivocally, that I do not condone flooding people with hateful comments. That accomplishes nothing and, in fact, only serves to reinforce negative stereotypes that these people might already be holding. However, I do think that Bianca and her fans were warranted in reacting to Bure.

Cultural appropriation, because that’s what this was, is never okay. Whether or not Bure knew the origin of that phrase, the fact that she—someone who has professed actively anti-gay sentiments—would wear a shirt with a phrase made popular by a drag queen is ludicrous. She does not get to be a part of that zeitgeist. Black women have been facing cultural appropriation forever. Like the Kardashians wearing cornrows, mainstream society is co-opting what they find “cute” about black femaleness without giving the actual people any respect or due.

Drag Race is an interesting case study because so much of it has become self-referential. Laganja Estranja’s “Okrrrr” and “I’m feeling very attacked” are referenced and replicated in queens of later seasons. Khloe Kardashian utilized “Okrrr” in her capsule collection of Kylie Cosmetics lip-kits. When things seep into the mainstream, it’s often without the knowledge of where they came from. And so as Drag Race becomes consumed by a wider audience, you run the risk that people will take that culture—they think that because they watch it, that warrants a piece of queer culture. It doesn’t. Because once people who have no right to this culture begin to use it, it spills over tiers and tiers of society until it ends up on the chest of someone notably anti-gay.

The queer—particularly gay white men—community has a complex history with appropriation because a lot of what we use as slang comes particularly from the vernacular of black women. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention this—gay white men suck sometimes. But there are certain things that can be traced back to the beginnings of our culture—Paris is Burning—where phrases like “reading” and “shady” were used by queer people of color. “Why are you gagging so?” and “The library is open” pull from Paris is Burning and make regular appearances on Drag Race.

Particularly as RuPaul’s Drag Race has become more popular in the mainstream, I’ve noticed the adoption of queer phrases by straight people. Broad City did it with “Yas Queen!” However, they did it with the context that Ilana purports to be someone so woke and would still unintentionally appropriate a phrase. The people watching that show might not get that nuance and take “Yas Queen!” for themselves.

I’m not stupid, and I like that Drag Race is becoming more mainstream. I’m glad because it means that drag is becoming more widely appreciated. And drag queens can now make a career out of their passion. But with that comes with the need for acknowledgement. These words and snippets didn’t come from nowhere.

But beyond cultural appropriation, the t-shirt means something more.

Grindr ran an HRC-purchased ad as a banner in February. It applied to a specific radius of the Conservative Political Action Conference, an annual gathering for conservatives and notably anti-queer.

The ad read: “Attention CPAC Attendees: You can’t be with us in the hotel room and against us in the CPAC ballroom.” There have been numerous incidents of lawmakers (particularly Republicans) who pursue anti-gay laws that are found seeking sex with men. The most recent is Oklahoma State Senator Ralph Shortey, who was arrested and charged with child prostitution because he was found with an underage boy. Shortey ran on a campaign of family values.

The CPAC ad speaks to an issue bigger than just one woman wearing a t-shirt. But the sentiment is the same. Queer people are struggling, sometimes literally, to survive. And people like Bure and Shortey, who have influence in pop culture and politics, have the choice to either help or hinder us. And too often they choose the latter.

For me, the t-shirt and the ad are inextricably tied. Both lead to an erasure of queer representation. Both diminish the roles of queer people. You don’t get to be with us when it’s convenient for you. If you’re not going to take steps to provide safety and equality for us, then you don’t get to be a part of our culture.

People like Bure, who are against us, don’t get to use our phrases for cute Instagrams. You don’t get to pick and choose what of the queer community you want to accept. So while she might not have meant any active harm—harm was caused nonetheless. Because when she takes phrases like “Not Today, Satan,” she says that gay culture is only acceptable when it’s valuable to her. When it can be commodified. But when it comes to our rights and our bodies and our equality, it’s not acceptable. You don’t get to take a slice out of this pie. You need to accept everything or get nothing.

Essay, LGBTQ


A few weeks ago I was hosting my sister and her friends at my apartment. Cram five queens into a three-by-three-foot box, and it’s pretty hectic. But whatever, it was fun and they bought me Patron (the toilet Patron from “ONE-TWO-THREE”!) as a thank-you present. On Saturday, when they were heading out to da club and I was heading to a house party, one of my sister’s friends brought over a friend from the area.

He walked in and my high-school-heart beat a little bit faster. He was just like every frat boy-wannabe I went to high school with (an all-boys Catholic prep school)—non-psycho American Psycho hot face, slicked back long hair, Oxford shirt buttoned tightly over lacrosse muscles, canoe-like leather shoes and blue jeans. Yung Wall Street.

And when I introduced myself to him, it wasn’t me. It was a strong, firm handshake and a voice that was like mine, but several octaves lower and controlled. “Hey, I’m Danny,” he/me said.

It’s a voice I pulled out a lot that weekend as I met my sister and her friends’ straight guy friends. That afternoon, I was downtown and I got out of my car. “What’s on your sweatshirt?” said-shouted a straight guy on line outside the bar I was going to. I looked down. I had pulled on a cross country hoodie from my sophomore year of high school, underneath an olive-green bomber jacket.

I shifted my jacket and showed him. “Fuckboy Prep,” he said (name has been changed, because duh). “Yeah, do you know it?” I asked, my voice hitched in the bottom of my throat, my vowels pitching backward into my esophagus.

It’s difficult to describe the “straight” voice, but it’s like that: instead of projecting forward, the words make a boomerang: out from the bottom of my throat, below my Adam’s apple, jut forward and then careen back into my collarbone.

“No, but I went to Yung Money Prep in Maine,” he said. We nodded at each other. End of conversation.

It’s a voice that I unearthed from the deepest recesses of my early tweenhood. Monotone, soft, deep. A voice I had discarded when I came out at fifteen and, shaky in my gayness, hurtled towards the opposite end of the scale and went full “Agaytha Christie.” What a gay joke. Neither were my actual voice, which is decidedly average and can veer equally into deep monotone and higher-pitched modulation.

It’s something I do when I’m meeting straight guys for the first time. I drag my voice back into low-pitched “sups” and “yo.”

I do it for a few reasons: I want to be taken seriously by another man, and I want to survive.

“Survive” sounds so extra, but let me remind you—I went to an all-boys Catholic high school where I was already harassed enough. Lowering my voice into a monotone was at least one attempt on my end to make myself seem like less of a target.

I have one vivid memory of sitting at a lunch table at fourteen. I was saying something when across the table, a mean hot redhead said to me, in brusque masculine tones,

“Talk like a boy.”

This was before I came out, so I was vibrating with anxiety about being “found out.” I couldn’t respond to him, so I picked up my tray, shakily threw out my trash and hid in the library. In the moment, I was doused in ice-water dread. Later, I would feel a coiled mixture of revulsion and attraction to him. Revulsion that he could embarrass me with four words, and attraction to him and his masculinity.

Because that’s what it comes down. We as queer boys are taught to hate our femininity and strive towards masculine attributes. It might be why gay guys work out so hard at the gym, sculpting Adonis bodies and artfully manicured scruff. Why we put “masc for masc” on our Grindr profiles. We eschew femmes and shame bottoms because we never, ever want to be put in that vulnerable position again.

So instead of living our truth, we shut it off and hate it. We fight against it. We slit the throat of our femininity and let it drop to the floor, a sick survivalist instinct to protect ourselves in a masculine, heteronormative world.

But in that “passing” is a hidden desire uncomfortable to admit: that part of passing for straight is not just out of a survivalist instinct, but undeniable envy.

I would imagine that queer people have thought about it; some of us have the ability to pass as straight in a heteronormative society. To not appear different or othered. It’s a dangerous thing because it’s a temptation to step outside of your marginalized group.

In a day-to-day scenario, it’s easier being straight than it is gay. When I’m walking late at night, with a female friend and we come across a group of straight guys, I put my arm around her, or I move closer. We both tacitly understand that those guys won’t respect a woman not wanting to talk to them, but they will respect a boyfriend because there is the notion of women as property.

And as much as it is a protection against catcalling for her, it provides me with a dangerous taste of heteronormativity. It provides me a glimpse of the luxury, respect and authority that being a straight white male awards you. The ability to express physical affection without wondering if it could get you gay-bashed. The respect given to you by straight men who don’t see you as Othered or predatory or sissy.

In a lot of ways, when I lower my voice, I’m still that skinny little kid who wants to impress straight boys. Look how manly I can be! Hear how low my voice can go!

It’s a muscle-memory reaction, a hit of fight-or-flight adrenaline, and it’s something that complicates me even now. It complicates my relationship to my sexuality because for so long, I have been taught to hate it. And when that didn’t do anything, I moved on to hating myself. And others. And everyone.

It’s easy to forget, six years on, that I have been irreparably damaged by the strain, stress and assault of living in the closet for fifteen years. And it’s easy to forget that that strain and stress does not disappear when you come out. That the reason I dress more plainly and simply now is a way to avoid being labeled as flamboyant. That I keep my hair messy to not seem prissy. That the reason I like mean guys is because in the hidden depths of me, meanness is associated with masculinity, and thus, idolization.

There is damage in having been Othered. There is damage in hating a part of you because society has deemed that part to be malignant.

But there is power in reclaiming that damage. I started wearing nail polish recently. And even that small bit of femininity has eased me a little. Because I am a feminine person in some ways. And in just as many ways, I am also masculine. Everyone is masculine and feminine; labeling or coding one as negative only serves to incur further damage.

My voice rings up high when I’m excited. I talk fast. I use my hands a lot. I’m expressive. These are just descriptors. They’re not bad or good, they just exist. My voice is my voice.