When I first viewed the photo, the portrait of the two young men struck me. Initially, I could not quite place why, but then it dawned on me. In the summer of 1980, I was a reservist in the Canadian Army. I served in the 30th Field Artillery Regiment based in Ottawa. It was the summer following my graduation from high school and before my enrollment at Queen’s University in Kingston. I went to Canadian Forces Base Petawawa to work as a driver in a transportation company through July and August. I worked with young men from other regiments who were posted there, too–we were in our late teens and early twenties.
I am watching a Spanish Netflix series called Merli: Sapere Aude, and it is excellent. It is a dramedy, and the plot revolves around the protagonist, a young man named Pol Rubio, played by a fine young Spanish actor named Carlos Cuevas. Pol is a young man in his first year of studies in philosophy at a university in Barcelona. He has a bisexual orientation, and though he favours men, he does have dalliances with women occasionally. Pol is an anti-hero; while he generally strives to do good, he betrays a friend and his father when it serves his interests. He learns in the first episode of season two that he is HIV+. Pol is devastated by the news, despite the doctor’s assurance that the virus can be managed with treatment. He starts the regimen of taking the medication and tries to carry on. In a subsequent episode, Pol converses with a former co-worker who likely exposed him to the virus. His friend lost his job when the employer learned he was HIV+. The friend reminds Pol that people will feel sorry for you when you get cancer, but when you get HIV, you are viewed as a “dirty faggot.” Pol also converses with his employer, a mature gay man living with HIV. The employer lived through the AIDS crisis of the 1980s and 1990s and saw many gay men succumb to the disease. He recounted an incident where a friend was beaten to death for being queer. I bristled when I heard “queer” used to refer to a gay man, but I realized in the context of the anecdote that it was the attackers who called him a queer as they beat him to death. Queer is a slur, the last thing many gay men heard as they were beaten to death by gangs of thugs.
I hesitated on whether I was a homosexual or not through the 1980s. I experienced same-sex attraction, but the pressure to conform, to be heterosexual was pronounced. I was in university from the early to mid-1980s, and plenty of young women were around me. I dated a few and had sex with two, but nothing developed between us. Eventually, I had a short-lived love affair with another man, Mike, a fellow student. It ended badly, but undaunted, I continued dating men until I met a man, Fabio, and we moved into a two-bedroom apartment together. Yes, we had to keep up appearances to rent an apartment. As far as our landlords knew, we were two students sharing a flat. We lived together for a year and parted following our graduation. He became a flight attendant with Air Canada, and I went to graduate school. We maintained our relationship for several months this way until he left me for another man. The breakup was hard for me, and I decided that I would try to be heterosexual.
I met and befriended a handsome young man my age at work. Pierre and I spent a lot of time together. We went to nightclubs looking to meet women. One night, we met two young women, one of whom was quite drunk. Pierre and the drunken young lady hit it off. Her friend and chaperone and I had a pleasant conversation. At the night’s end, I offered the ladies a ride home with Pierre and me. They accepted. On the drive to their apartment building, Pierre and his date made out in the back seat. It made me jealous, and I drew her friend’s attention out of pettiness. She put a stop to it. Later, at Pierre’s flat, I stayed at his place often after these late nights out; as I settled into bed in his spare room, I reached out impulsively and touched his hand. He was startled and sat up abruptly and then retired to his room. I got the message, and we never mentioned the incident.
Still, I remember the morning we went for breakfast when he grinned shyly and told me he had something to say. My heart leapt as I imagined he would confess that he was gay and had feelings for me. Instead, he told me that he had his first sex with a woman the night before–oh, the disappointment. Thus, the moral of this anecdote is that whether you are a homosexual or heterosexual man, you can expect a bumpy ride in your affairs of the heart. But above all else, you should remain true to yourself. Deception is never the best policy, least of all in matters of the heart.
I lurk on the Facebook page of a Canadian queer activist. I never knew he existed until he appeared unexpectedly on my news feed. I am a liberal-minded man; I believe in liberalism, pluralism, and equality in law and opportunity instead of collectivism and diversity, equity and inclusion. I don’t like what he says, and I find his attitude and behaviour contemptible. He makes me think of my fieldwork when I studied the sociology of religion and religious studies at Queen’s University in the 1980s. I interacted with various Christian faith communities, Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Protestants. I met many people, some of whom were the worst hypocrites. The man in question is the archetypal example of a religious hypocrite. His smug self-righteousness is insufferable. He reminds me of Jerry Falwell’s unctuous self-righteousness; he is unbearable. What is worse is his bigotry. He does not listen to his critics. He dismisses them as anti-queer chauvinists and haters, promptly blocking them. If push came to shove, he would happily try to cancel them.
I watched a documentary in the 1990s. It was about the investigation into the molestation and murder of a prepubescent boy in England in the 1970s. It was in the 1970s, so suspicion immediately fell on gay men. The police opened an investigation and right away approached known homosexuals and entered gay bars, asking men to come to the station for questioning. The men were photographed, and detailed notes were taken of the interviews. At one point, a gay man was accused by another of the crime. Once the accused realized that he was under suspicion, he told the detectives interviewing him that he was saying nothing without his solicitor present. It turned out that the accusation was wrongful and levelled against him by another man who had a grudge. Eventually, the culprit was found and confessed when presented with evidence against him. He was not a gay man and had no previous suspicion of sexual interference with boys. He said that the boy struggled during and after the assault and that he had not meant to kill him. The man was convicted of the crimes of manslaughter and sexually assaulting the boy. He was imprisoned for his crimes. With the case closed, the police destroyed the evidence they collected in their investigation: the photos and notes from the interviews of the gay men.
This is what a gay high school boy looked like in 1979.
I like gay romance in print and on film. The positive portrayal of romance and intimacy between two men or high school boys is lovely. Gay youth and men exist and have the same need for love and companionship as the heterosexual majority. Especially given that in Western society, intimacy between men was criminalized for a long time–it was considered “gross indecency” and punishable by imprisonment. Beyond that, public prejudice was prevalent throughout the 20th century. I remember it well. Recently, I met up with a man I knew in high school. We had not seen each other since graduation in 1980. We met through a mutual friend and ex of mine. I had no idea that my high school buddy was gay. We are both in our sixties and retired. I am happily partnered, and he is single. It was good to see him again.
Geoffrey & Mika 