Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross

Better Orgasms. Better World.

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When I was maybe 16, or 17 years of age, my father knew this single father by the name of Chet. He was a rough and tough weathered guy used to lots hard work. He had been injured years earlier and had an artificial arm, which, in spite of that had hardly slowed him down. He was indomitable, for lack of a better word! Anyway, Chet had a son a few years older than I who eventually became a highly accomplished ballet dancer with the Joffery Ballet company in Canada; he was also openly gay.

I mention this detail (of Chet's son's sexual orientation) to observe how his tough-as-nails ("redneck", working-class) father responded to it. Chet never seemed to let his son's obvious homosexuality get in the way of his love for his son. I know my father, and several other men who knew Chet found Chet's situation slightly amusing. Here was this strong-as-an-ox, one-armed jack-of-all-trades, wind and sunburned redneck, single father, valiantly struggling to raise his only son, and the boy had turned out to be "a queer!" I know that Chet was the butt of more than a few rude jokes about it (but never to his face, of course!). I had a feeling that Chet would have kicked some ass for it; one-armed, or not!

Anyway, a few years later, my father was given two tickets by Chet to go see his son perform with the ballet company he was currently part of at the time; and I was asked if I'd want to go. I eventually did, even though I knew absolutely nothing about ballet. I went because Chet seemed to really want my father and I to go! Afterwords, Chet had us go back stage with him in order to meet his son. I'd known Chet for a few years through dealings my father occasionally had with him, but I never seen him so, well, exuberant! That was a side of Chet I had never seen before.

As Chet introduced us to his son, it was absolutely clear that he was "gay." I remember (and I do so now with a certain sense of shame) feeling slightly uncomfortable as I shook his hand. Neither he, nor my father, or Chet, knew that I, too, had "experimented" with gay sex, and meeting his son brought that all up for me from where I usually tried to keep it locked-up. Anyway, the meeting was brief, and my father and I smiled and said goodbye. That would be the first and last time I would ever see Chet's son.

As my father and I drove home from the performance, my father made several digs at "Queers." I remember feeling distinctly uncomfortable with this. Of course, as a closeted one, myself, I think I managed to pretend that I agreed with him. Duplicity becomes almost second-nature to you when you're hiding your Queerness. I remember that my father found it inescapably bizarre that a man like Chet would end up with such Queer for a son. I found myself wanting to change the subject, and this eventually occurred to my great relief.

A few years later, my father told me that Chet's son had recently died of AIDS. AIDS was just beginning to emerge onto the world stage at that time. My father didn't gloat over the fact, but he did indicate that such an outcome might have been part of some divine judgment. After all, he indicated, any man that liked having sex with other men could expect nothing else! Had my father known that he and Chet had sons (and only sons, at that!) who were Queer, he might have seen things a little differently. Then again,perhaps not!

I mention Chet because I realize that he was actually a fairly remarkable man, considering the redneck, working-class background he had come from, and spent his entire life being a part of. Simply put: Chet LOVED his son. Period. I doubt that he was exactly thrilled by the fact that his son was gay, but he still loved him!

There were other young gay men I knew about through school! In those days they were referred to as "sissies." Bobby was one such boy who I knew from Elementary all the way to High School. He was raised by a single mother (just as Chet had raised his son). He was persecuted a lot by the bullies in the playground. I looked on, silently, feeling bad for him, but, not wishing to be targeted as a "queer-bait", myself, I stayed out of it. To have been classed as a "queer" was tantamount to social suicide! I watched Bobby all through the years I knew of him with a feeling of dread. I knew his mother was something of a social outcast, as well, and tended to stay to herself. Bobby was her entire world, and she his.

Anyway, I didn't see Bobby after we went to different High Schools, except to see him, occasionally, at a movie or some other social gathering. By then he was openly gay. So, too, were his friends! I know he recognized me, but I never made any attempt to in gage in conversation with him. Eventually, I found a newspaper article that announced his suicide. He had shot himself in his bath tub. The brief story reported that he had been diagnosed with AIDS a few years earlier. By then, his mother had been dead for a few years, and I felt terrible to think of Bobby dying alone like that. No doubt, some slime-ball like Fred Phelps would have been gleeful at Bobby's demise, but, for me, I felt sad. I also felt like a hypocrite!

So, I guess that I'm writing about these three different people as an homage'. I wanted to share their stories with a wider audience, and to try and illuminate their private sufferings. Homophobia is such a terrible thing. It's nothing short of poison. Chet seemed to have transcended it in his own way, and ignored the jeering contempt he had to have guessed existed beneath the thin facade of friendly politeness. Bobby's mother wasn't able to accomplish that, and so retreated to the privacy (and loneliness) of social ostracizing.

We all exist in a complex continuum. The neat little boxes that we are told we have to fit into, doesn't really exist. At last, society seems to be realizing this!