Hello, (Gay) Young Lovers, Wherever You Are

Yesterday and the day before, while riding public transit in Ottawa, Canada, I've seen the same couple of twentysomething gay men openly displaying affection at the front of the bus -- leaning their heads on each other's shoulders, embracing, giving each other a peck on the lips.

I wonder if they realized the two middle-aged men next to them were also a gay couple, even though we did not engage in such an open, public display. I wonder if they realized that, at their age, to have done so might have put us at risk of being expelled from the bus, or verbally and physically harassed and abused.

I came out in 1974, five years after the Stonewall riots. I have been involved in the gay liberation movement, mainly in the mid-1970s and the late 1990s. I legally married my partner in 2005.

But, to this day, I do not feel comfortable holding hands with my husband in public -- let alone exchanging a kiss -- except in a darkened cinema, or the safety-in-numbers of a Pride celebration.

On the hit television show Glee, Chris Colfer is the poster boy for gay teens. He gets to be outrageously, screamingly, flamingly gay. His blue-collar father supports and goes to bat for him. But I notice that, even in the 21st century, poor Chris still doesn't have a boyfriend or a lover. Glee is about as realistic a portrayal of gay life as Queer as Folk was a decade ago, which is to say not at all.

Equal rights and same-sex marriage are laudable goals. But real equality, real freedom, will not come until gay men and lesbian women can walk down the street, arm in arm, hand in hand, and hug and kiss like any straight couple would do, without blinking an eye.

The words of the poet Robert Frost apply admirably to the gay rights movement:

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Whitney Houston: Her True Legacy

In the days since the untimely passing of Whitney Houston, we have heard much about the legacy she leaves behind: her music, her voice.

Except that we will hear only the faint, distant echo of Whitney's voice, like the Echo of Greek mythology: a disembodied spirit. After a while, even that echo will fade. "I will always love you," we fervently say now. But always is a long, long time, and love dies like everything else in this imperfect world.

Whitney's true legacy is that she serves as a powerful reminder. Beauty, talent, wealth, and fame -- none of these shield and protect us from the stark reality of death. Even if we are surrounded by friends and family at the end, in the face of death we are utterly and inevitably alone. And no matter what great things we may have accomplished in life, in death we will ultimately, sooner or later, be forgotten.

For Whitney, "love" and "always" now have another, different meaning. Whitney, wherever you are, I hope you have at long last found Someone who will truly "always love you". I wish you joy and happiness. But above all, I wish you love.