A Shining White City

In the early 20th century, Carl Fisher imagined the streets to be an all-white city—a sanitary, geometrical dream carved out of a mangrove swamp. The Art Deco district of South Miami Beach was built with an almost obsessive precision, but also with a specific social blueprint in mind. Fisher envisioned these buildings occupied by men in crisp linen suits and women in silk day-dresses, perhaps playing a quiet hand of bridge or sipping highballs while the Atlantic breeze stirred the palms.

But since the decaying, grit-slicked streets of 1970s New York and the Mariel boatlift, Fisher’s intent had been hijacked by a more vibrant, chaotic energy. The white canvas had been reclaimed by colorful "Birds of Paradise." The buildings—as well as their inhabitants—were no longer white; they were shades of bronze and mahogany, draped in lavender, turquoise, and dusty rose. It was a canvas painted by a community that didn't care so much about the geometry of shadows, but rather a celebration of the history of their cultures.

As I began my walk from the Swissvale toward the beach that morning, the air wasn't just humid; it was heavy with a barrage of new scents and sounds—o barista making espressos on the corner from his stainless steel cart, shielded by an umbrella, and the sweet, flaky crust of guava pastries wafting from the corner ventanitas. The light sea breeze was diminishing, the palm fronds were still rustling, and I could hear the soul-stirring brass of a Cuban radio station drifting from a second-story window as I passed.

When I walked by one of Fisher’s dreams—now painted pink with emerald trim—I saw a now-familiar "family" side by side on the porch: a mid-70s Bronx housewife sharing a nod with a "toasted honey" mixed-race model sipping café con leche and a brooding, muscled Latin man. Each occasionally, in turn, would close their eyes, looking up to bask in the early morning rising sun.

They were a living spectrum of human history—one fleeing the cold and crush of the North, another the heat of a revolution, a third searching for fame on the cover of a magazine—but all finding common sanctuary in the curve of an Art Deco, canvas-covered porch. To a boy from the Deep South, where the lines between people were often drawn in indelible ink and guarded by tradition, this friendly cultural integration was revolutionary—almost subversive.

Ahead of me, a car jerked to the curb, the window rolling down to release a yell: "¡Maria!" The man shouted at a pastel facade, pausing just long enough for the echo to hit before he peaked: "¡Vamos! ¡Llegaremos tarde al trabajo otra vez!" To my Southern ears, tuned to the slow, measured drawls of home, this staccato, pressured speech was an induction—a reminder that I was no longer an accidental tourist here, but a new wide-eyed white boy settling into the rhythms of this vibrant, other-worldly city that was finally, loudly, waking.

As I crossed Washington Avenue, the clock tower caught my eye. Rising high above 17th Street and Lincoln Road, the tower loomed as a landmark, but this particular morning the irony of it struck me. In any other city, it would be a beckoning authority, a reminder of schedules supporting well-structured and efficient lives. But here, in a culture with a famously loose relationship with time, the tower was merely a handsome ornament. It was a vertical ghost of Fisher’s orderly dream, standing watch over a neighborhood that moved only when the music changed, the ventanitas opened, or it hit 10, 2, and 4—the sacred ritual for café. The South Beach clock tower measured time only for tourists with mad itineraries.

As I reached the dunes, I paused at the edge of the sea grass to kick off my flip-flops, my toes sinking into the sand. It was a ritual I’d grown fond of: the surface was sun-toasted, dry, and forgiving, but just an inch beneath lay the cool, firm, and saturated layer that refused to stay dry. I trekked through the grass, feeling that shift from the warmth of the morning to the bracing wetness of the tide line.

I walked until the water licked at my feet, the waves breaking with a soft, shushing sound that seemed to clear the last of the clutter from my mind. Standing there in the 8:00 AM light, I felt a freedom I had never been permitted during my years in the South. I thought back to the countless mornings I had walked onto the sugar-white sands of Pensacola or Panama City Beach. Back then, the Gulf of Mexico felt like a comfortable, closed loop—a vast, salt-water lake where the horizon was a decorative border, not a destination. In those younger years, my imagination stopped at the water’s edge; I couldn't conceive of what or who lay beyond, and frankly, the culture of the South never required me to try.

But this was no lake—it was the Atlantic Ocean; it was a deep, blue-green engine of history. I wondered as I wandered, my mind leaping across years of history and lines of longitude and latitude. I began to calculate the distances I had memorized—235 miles to Cuba, 1,284 to the New York design district, and thousands more to Portugal, the Mediterranean and South America -- and the lives people lead there.

I looked at that sharp blue horizon and, for the first time, I didn't see a boundary; I saw a bridge. I found myself pondering nature and the state of society. Like Thoreau, I pondered a choice to live deliberately by simplifying my life to its essential needs and fostering independence from societal pressures—but then I reconsidered. I preferred jumping into the messiness of it - with both feet - and enjoying it!

South Beach, in those years, felt like a revolutionary experiment in global community and cooperation—a rare, sun-drenched moment where the frictions of language, class, history, and sexual orientation were being sanded down by the sheer force of shared experience and a common sun. And I felt a profound, deep gratitude for the global promise I was standing within. I was no longer just a boy from Alabama standing at the quiet edge of familiar waters; I was a man standing at the vibrant center of the world, watching the sun rise over the origins of everything my community—and I—were becoming.

So Be Gay

We lived at the Swissvale, but for the Winter Party weekend, our apartment felt less like a home and more like a backstage drag-queen dressing room. Little did I know I would soon learn that the real center of it was at the corner of Collins and Española Way - The Warsaw Ballroom. Our friends from New York—men who had seen it all in Manhattan, yet still found themselves seduced by this tropical, decaying glamour—were staying at one of the newly renovated boutique hotels diagonally across the street from this landmark.

Entering the lobby of those early renovated Art Deco gems was an experience in sensory overload. South Beach was renowned for the architecture of illusion. The 1930s elegance had chipped and rounded with age, but the icons were being spruced up with a frantic, fabulous urgency. Inside, minimalist furniture—too fragile to bear weight—sat against defiant, electric teal walls and trompe l’oeil murals. An overriding scent of cheap lavender soap and expensive European cologne competed with the sharp tang of industrial floor wax on marble and terrazzo. This was an era where everything was about the senses, illusion and performance, and the stage was being set for the night. The corner of Collins and Espanõla Way was center stage.

The main event on Saturday night was the Warsaw Ballroom. The building was a billboard of Miami history. By the time I walked through those doors in the early 90s, the interior of this historic landmark had been completely draped in the fresh black paint, strobe lights, and neon of a premier gay destination.

The signature Saturday of Winter Party Weekend was less of a club night and more of a tribal gathering. Our friends knew someone who told someone to list us, so we skirted the long line and headed straight to the front. We were greeted by a towering, beautiful, Black drag queen—bald and bejeweled—backed by a jacked, menacing bouncer in a black t-shirt and jeans. One of our friends gave our hostess the secret word and we were waved in, one by one, only to have the glamour halted by reality: someone’s grandmother was seated at a counter with a register. Without looking up, she simply muttered, "That’ll be thirty." From three people back in the line, I raised my voice in Southern disbelief. "Thirty? Dollars?!" She didn’t even turn her head, but Tom shot me a glare that said everything. I begrudgingly pulled out my money clip and paid my way into the underworld.

I walked into this iconic space as a wide-eyed Southern spectator, emerging from the crisp, beautiful South Florida spring night and into a dark, hell-like world of theater. The humidity and heat struck me like a brick wall. The air was suddenly thick, smothering me with the scent of musk and pheromones, while the muffled thump-thump-thumping of the music pulled me deeper in.

We emerged into a cavernous room, a massive dance floor pulsing with the most extraordinarily—shockingly—good-looking men that anyone would ever see anywhere. It was like a global (gay) micro-state, a sea of tanned and muscled perfection. I scanned the room to gauge which of the bars looked the least mobbed and caught the eye of a bartender who was just setting up his register. He was a clean-cut, corn-fed Midwestern-looking man, and he gave me a wholesome "up-nod" as if we were back in the heartland. But when he spoke, the illusion of the farm boy dissolved into a slightly sweet, high-pitched, 'Hey Baby. What can I getcha?” 

Pleased to have bypassed the surge, I placed my order and moved down the bar as a long, impatient line immediately materialized behind me. Standing at the bar, looking out over that sea of bronze, my mind drifted to the friends I’d reconnected with earlier that day. On the beach, under a relentless sun, I had spoken to men who—years earlier—simply vanished from Birmingham, Atlanta, and New Orleans. They had performed a silent 'Irish exit' from their old lives, leaving behind no forwarding addresses and no explanations.

It turned out they had emptied their savings accounts and moved to South Florida with a mission: to party and die on the dance floor. As we lay in our lounges on the sand, catching up on old times, one of them looked at me and said, "You know, John - the secret of life is just knowing when to stop." It struck me as unexpectedly profound - a confession of dark truth cutting through the light, celebratory mood of the weekend. Looking back now, I realize the true irony: little did we know that many of them wouldn't die on schedule. They would remain, surviving into a future they hadn’t budgeted for, living as beautiful, unplanned relics of a war that has never truly ended.

Back in the club, the urge to explore took hold. I wanted to navigate the map of my new surroundings, to understand the geography of this celestial, other-worldly space. Three of the walls were anchored by massive bars, their lighted glass shelves towering ten feet high like illuminated altars, stocked with every libation imaginable that shimmered like liquid jewels in the dark.

In one corner, tucked behind a thick red velvet drape, I discovered a staircase leading up to a narrow, dimly lit mezzanine that hung over the dance floor like a private gallery. From that vantage point, the "darkness" of the club transformed; I looked down into a luminous sea of men and caught a glimpse of Tom in the center of the fray, his face upturned, waving for me to join the congregation.

As I descended and began to push through the crush of the dance floor, the crowd moved with a shared, singular and soaring hive-mind. They were no longer just men; they were a synchronized constellation rising and falling in rhythmic waves, perfectly mirroring the tide of the music. The further I pressed into the heart of the dance floor, the clearer the music became, so...I danced. And all the cares of the world outside fell away, replaced by the transcendent clarity of the joyful dance anthem raining down from above.

So many men… And all donning carefully curated costumes. They were tanned and muscled, a sea of bronze flesh draped in denim and lycra, cinched in leather, or floating in translucent, flowing blouses. Every man was a dedicated participant in their performance, having arrived in South Beach from every corner of the globe to parade like peacocks in search of a mate.

I stepped off the dance floor and found my way to the line for the men’s room. Once inside, a dozen of us were queued against the back wall like an audience in a darkened theater. After the roar of the club, the room was strikingly quiet, forcing my senses to recalibrate. Harsh pin-spots shone from the soffit, illuminating each urinal like a solo stage.

The only break in the silence came from the stalls to the right. They were packed tight—couples and small groups of guys pressed together in a frantic, giggling huddle. There was a constant soundtrack of hushed chatting punctuated by a rhythmic, communal sniffing of runny noses.

Under the pin-lights, the rest of the men stood in a row of self-conscious frozen poses, caught in the universal internal monologue of the public restroom: Can I look at the guy next to me? Should I say hello? No, that’s weird. To compensate, they’d gazed with a desperate, monastic intensity at a spot on the wall inches in front of their faces. 

Everyone, that is, except for one.

At the center urinal, a young blond man approached his "mark." Rather than simply opening his fly and staring forward like the others, he unbuttoned his 501s and dropped them completely to the floor around his ankles to expose his entire smooth backside to the room. The guy next to me let out a,"Woof!"

As if fully aware of the spectacle he had created, the young man turned his head over his shoulder. He looked back at his "audience" with a perfectly curated, innocent "surprised" face—wide eyes, pursed lips, and a hand half-covering his mouth like the little girl in the old Coppertone ads caught by the spaniel pulling at her trunks. It was a masterpiece of curated vulnerability, a playful subversion of modesty. Only in South Beach could a urinal break become a moment of performative art.

I grabbed another drink and retreated to the mezzanine to watch the tide of the room. But soon the high-energy NYC house beat suddenly cut, replaced by a slow, soulful Cuban brass line that swelled into a cinematic crescendo. The club lights plunged into darkness, and a single theater spot found a bare-chested performer clutching a stage drape in one hand and a microphone in the other.

The crowd pivoted. All at once, the sea of men turned from the dance floor to a grand, elevated stage that had been invisible only moments before. A striking, scantily-clad Spanish siren stepped into the light.  Her performance was mad and mesmerizing, with a flair that felt like a decadent tip of the hat to the Cuban big bands of Desi Arnaz. She moved with an artistry that entranced the room, her hair pulled back into a tight bun under a red lace cap, her long legs draped in black fishnets with stilettos -  and a g-string with draped red satin panels on each side. She vamped with a seductive, sweat-drenched power that left me gobsmacked; from my perch in the mezzanine, all of my Southern pre-conceived notions of gender evaporated in the heat.

As the song reached its finale, her dance shifted as she rushed to the edge of the stage. The sea of men instinctively pushed back, unsure if she was about to leap into their midst. The roar of the room shifted into a tense, collective silence as she sat at the very lip of the stage, still singing and dangling her feet. Then on the final, crashing beat of the music, she snapped her head back and threw her legs into a perfect, high-arching spread-eagle.

As two or three men awkwardly attempted to applaud, the music began again and a second spotlight cut through the dark, illuminating a commanding Latin man on the opposite side of the dance floor. In response, the crowd of men parted and there he stood, in a classic bullfighter’s stance, one hand raised, eyes fixed on the floor. Our siren pointed at him, slowly turned her hand over to perform an unmistakable "come-hither" curl with her index finger, making the gesture into a private, irresistible invitation.

The Matador moved with theatrical gravity toward her, his eyes locked on the apex of her parted legs. As he reached her, a drum roll exploded from the speakers. He pressed his face into the center of her legs, and for a few profound seconds, gasps and uncomfortable twitters engulfed the crowd.

Then, the real suspense began.

He started to back away—one step, then two, then five. At fifteen feet, the whispers of disbelief grew into a roar. From the mezzanine, I could see that he had taken a tail of red yarn from between her legs into his teeth. As he backed away, bowing deeply with his arms outstretched and fingers waving in a flamenco flourish, he began unfurling the string from her.

As the realization hit, these paragons of masculinity—the "buff and the brave"—began squealing and retching, the sounds of genuine disgust intensifying by the second. The Matador continued his retreat until the yarn finally grew taut. At the peak of the tension, with the room teetering on the edge of collective panic, he gave one sharp, theatrical tug of his head - and a small, red ball popped from the siren’s legs, hitting the dance floor five feet below and bouncing in the silent spotlight.

The music flared back into a frantic, triumphant crescendo, and for three minutes, the room erupted in a frenzy of ovations—a celebration of the theatrical genius of the performance - and a collective release of tension. It was the sound of a thousand men exhaling in unison, relieved that this "grotesque" hetero pantomime had ended.

Sunday morning, I sat at the Front Porch in the 10:00 AM sun, nursing a coffee while the bacchanalia of the night before attempted to recalibrate. At the table across from me sat four men, their shirts off, their speech quick and pressured by forty-eight hours of indulgence and sleep deprivation.

When my waiter set down my breakfast plate, one of the men at the table recoiled, pointing a manicured finger as if I’d brought a plague to the porch.

"Oh my God!" he shouted, his eyes wide as saucers. "Is that bacon? Bad Gay! Don’t you know?! That's so unhealthy for you!"

It was one of the ultimate, glittering ironies of South Beach: Heavenly bodies sustained by little more than chemicals and sheer willpower, yet absolutely terrified of the "impurity" of a cured meat.

Drama Latino

On Monday afternoon, around 5:00 PM, we often sat outside at News Café, perched above the promenade to watch the daily ritual: the strut of the gym-goers. Each day, under the roar of low-flying jets that shook the cracked pavement, a literal manifestation of the complex Latin caste system would unfurl—a silent hierarchy that existed almost without thought in the very heart of the "loving diversity" we believed we had created. Even in our little utopia, the old-world ghosts of beauty and status were still walking the line.

The Cubans seemed to lead, as self-anointed royalty of Miami, followed by a vibrant, rhythmic surge of Brazilians, Colombians, Venezuelans, and the occasional Puerto Rican Papi. But the most fascinating to me were the Argentines. Not wanting to be left out of the aesthetic arms race, they would join the parade in their finest designer gym wear—a high-priced costume for a workout they had no intention of performing.

They would stop to talk and pose - their proportions always slightly off, like clay statues that hadn’t quite cured before being wheeled out of the studio. There were plenty of impressive pecs and glutes, but they were often "purchased" additions rather than products of the iron. As one friend explained with a shrug of absolute certainty, "You know, Yohn," he said, "a gay Argentinian man of my status would never actually darken the door of a gym to sweat. We simply arrive already built." 

I often walked up and down to the gym among them - not as a native or a Latino, but as the new, "Poppito blanco" To most of my latin friends, I was a welcome, albeit incidental, interloper, a witness to a human drama I wasn’t quite cast in. I realized very early on that in this gilded parade—from the bars like Twist to the high theater of the Warsaw Ballroom—everything in South Beach was a living, breathing Latin telenovela. The plot was secondary; it was always, relentlessly, about the performance.

Even now, decades removed, the wonder of those years remains. Whenever the soul-stirring brass and dusty, rhythmic grace of the Buena Vista Social Club drifts through my speakers, the world slows to that sacred, sauntering South Beach pace. I am instantly transported back to the feeling of the water on my feet, the shushing sound of the waves, the scent of those guava pastries and the vibrant, kaleidoscopic 'Birds of Paradise' who taught a boy from Alabama that the lines drawn between us could be erased by something as simple as a shared love for the warmth of a rising sun.

My fondness for this era isn't a memory of the parties; it is a lingering, undying belief in new experience and expanding horizons. It is a hope that we might once again find ourselves in a similar period of revolution: subversively dedicated to diversity and inclusion—a place where every race, nationality, and sexual orientation will find sanctuary. All of us basking in the rising sun - looking out at the same horizon in a shared state of wonder.

On Openness and Curiosity

 

“ In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.

Shunryu Suzuki, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind: Informal Talks on Zen Meditation and Practice

A View From the Claridge

Part 1

1982. The move. I arrived in Birmingham for UAB, attempting the tentative role of ‘young gay man.’ I wasn't sure what drew me to Southside, but it was inevitable that I would settle into The Claridge. The building had once been grand; by the time I took up residence, it was merely old—a comfortable, aging repository for retired women, but also a rising tide of gay men and artists. A fitting stage, perhaps, for that first, dizzying exploration.

But my idealistic excitement was quickly met by a very loud reality. I was 18, naive and - frankly, exhausted. I spent my Friday night glaring at the ceiling. The girl upstairs was throwing a party and by 3:00 AM it sounded like a Vaudeville comedy show crossed with a New York discotek. I’d stand in the claw-foot tub showering the next morning, nursing a grudge, watching through the six-foot paned window as a buxom young blond in a 1950s one-piece swimsuit shook martinis for a group of beautiful, scantily-clad, sunbathing boys on the quad below.

I had already complained to management twice, so when I saw her walking toward the building, upending and twirling an empty liquor bottle, I seized the opportunity. I jumped out of the shower, threw on some shorts, flip-flops, and a loose T, and ran to confront the source of the noise on the stairs.

She didn't just walk up the steps; her character filled the grand staircase. I walked down and approached her, but before I could utter a word of my rehearsed grievance, she adjusted her headband, looked up at me, leaning in with a conspiratorial shimmy, and fixed me with a gaze that made me feel like the only person in the building.

"Honey..." she began, her voice a low, honeyed rasp. "You're a cute one," she said, patting my cheek. "A real Huckleberry Finn. Why aren't you out on the quad with us? I’m Gera,” she added with a kind smile. Then she waved an arm. “Come on and help me get some more vodka. The boys are gonna love you!"

She let out a laugh then - not a laugh that went out, but one that pulled the whole world in. It was a distinct, rhythmic, wheezing, nasal-voiced inhale that sounded like a cross between a Hollywood siren and Arnold Horshack. As she walked around me and continued ascending, I just stood blinking. My anger evaporated into pure confusion. I was so shy and awkward, but I followed close behind her.

That afternoon, I spent hours day-drinking on the quad with complete strangers - listening to their talk of music and boys. I soon realized I wasn't actually angry about the noise anymore; I was just heartbroken that I hadn't been invited sooner.

As the sun began to set behind the trees, she donned her big, floppy hat and movie-star sunglasses, looked at me, and said, "We’re heading out tonight and I’m gonna take the Belle sisters - Isa Belle and Anna Belle," gesturing grandly to each of her breasts with a shimmy. "Do you want to meet us?"

Birmingham in those days was a city with a split personality. High on the ridge, the elite looked down from The Club, their elegant dinner and "Saturday Night Fever" dance floor. But downtown, a different kind of creative class was flourishing. We had inherited the legacy of legendary dance halls like Tuxedo Junction. And by 1982, that energy of the night-life was fueling a similar vibrant, hidden world.

Before the lights got loud, we would congregate at Joe Bar, a beatnik sanctuary where the staff wore black turtlenecks, moving and acting with a quiet, practiced coolness. You’d find UAB and Birmingham Southern students mixing with artists, writers, doctors, and nurses, discussing poetry over vintage cocktails while Walter, who had once played piano for Cab Calloway, pounded out American Songbook standards on a battered upright in the corner.

But when the night truly began, the discoteks called. For the gay community, the discos were a rite of passage: Focus Phase IV, The Lighthouse, and the crown jewel, Belle Watlings.

I found them at Belle’s that night. It was a glamorous disco famously built into the bones of the old Dale’s Steakhouse. A massive fake oak tree - a leftover from the restaurant’s decor - still stood defiantly in the middle of the flashing lights and the sea of dancers. Gera was in her "Peg o’ My Heart" prime. She greeted me on the dance floor, surrounded by a crowd; she wore a short, low-cut dress and red lipstick, one arm raised to hug me, the other weighted by a massive white patent bag.

"Honey! You made it!" she screamed over the music.

Around 2:00 AM, she did a little "Pony" dance move across the floor toward me. "Let's blow this popsicle stand before it closes! You don't want to see these people once they turn on those fluorescents,” she said, pointing up. “Let’s go back to 802-with-a-view for a nightcap!"

As we were leaving, she tapped one of the boys and gestured. “Honey… would you get my wrap?” She pointed to the coat check just outside the main door. He returned with a full-length white mink stole - in JULY! She offered her shoulders, where it was set - and we were off. After hours more of drinking, the last thing I remember was her shouting, "Let’s all show Birmingham a thing or two! Let’s all go to brunch at Cobb Lane tomorrow!"

Sunday morning was silent. I tried calling - no answer. I knocked on her door - louder and louder. No answer. In its prime, the Claridge was the height of elegance, featuring "status" amenities like the porter’s door - a small kitchen cabinet opening to the hallway so a porter could whisk away trash unnoticed. I pried it open, pushing through a clattering waterfall of empty vodka bottles and cigarette butts to crawl into her kitchen.

I found her in the walk-in closet she’d converted into a bedroom. I knocked on the door. "Gera? It’s time for brunch."

The door flew open. She stood there, stark naked, holding the door frame for dear life as she shoved up her sleeping mask. "Huckleberry!" She didn’t seem the least bit surprised I was suddenly in her living room, having not been let in, but she did notice I was staring at her breasts. “Oh, Honey, these just hang like old tube socks when I don’t wear a bra.” Then, she snapped back into her signature party-girl voice, pointed to each in succession, and smiled. “This one’s the East and this one’s the West - and never the twain shall meet!” and gave me that signature laugh.

I stammered a second and said, "It’s 1:20 PM, Gera.

She looked dazed. "Is it Monday already?"

"No, Gera. It's Sunday. We were at your place last night. You told everyone we’d meet for brunch at 1:00 PM today."

She shrugged it off, pranced into the bathroom to start a tub, and then darted back to the kitchen. She grabbed a jar of Sanka, stirred it into a cup of hot tap water, and pranced back to the bath. She dunked herself completely, popped back up, wiped the hair from her face, and chugged the Sanka in one go while standing in the water.

A quick sundress, a headband, and sandals and she was ready. "Well, what are we waiting for?!" ...Then she paused for a beat. “Honey, can you drive?" she whispered. “I think I might still be a little tipsy." Part 2

After a few similar weekends, Gera asked if I was coming to her Christmas in July party. I reminded her I hadn’t been invited. She said, “Well, come on!” It was held in 802-with-a-view, and for my first big party at her apartment, I dressed for the occasion. My 18-year-old self had already discovered the specific alchemy of vintage stores; that night, I looked like I’d stepped out of an episode of “My Three Sons” in a sharp black suit and a narrow tie. I was less a "Huckleberry Finn" and more a study in curated cinematic detachment.

When I knocked, the door was pried open by a prominent local abstract artist, his eyes glazed with something beyond Christmas cheer. He looked me up and down, grumbled something inaudible, made a gesture and dissolved back into the density of the apartment, leaving me to step over the threshold. It appeared that the physical space of 802 had ceased to exist. In its place was a performance piece titled "A Christmas Memory at The Claridge."

The apartment felt like a living organism, breathing smoke and the sounds of Edith Piaf alternating with the Bee Gees. I navigated through a sea of affectations: the "irregulars" and beatniks mixing with socialites who were clearly just slumming it for curiosity. I even spotted a terse, disapproving lesbian couple huddled in a corner with a look of collective existential skepticism, providing the necessary moral anchor for the room.

I began my slow search for Gera. I squeezed through the living room and found myself navigating around a cluster of women who were working their cigarettes like posh British socialites at a royal reception, their gestures high-arc and dramatic, punctuated by short, performative exhalations.

But as I reached the dining room, the cultural study was stopped cold by the centerpiece. It was the Christmas tree.

A magnificent, tinsel-covered tree, with "Christmas in July" as its theme. At first, the tinsel looked unusually stiff, perhaps a modern polymer. Then, as the light of a flashing red-and-green bulb caught it, I realized what I was seeing. It wasn't standard tinsel. The tree was festooned, limb after limb, with glitter-sprayed, medical-grade syringes, their needles glittering like tiny, sharp stars.

And above them, nested at the top of the tree, was the angel. But its hair seemed out of place - it was too curly, too coarse, and too… brown… to be synthetic. A cluster of people stood around, sniggering as they recognized it: clipping after clipping of Gera’s own "bush," curated and placed like a holy angel’s hair.

I was still staring at the "angel’s hair," trying to decide if I was horizontal or vertical in this new reality, when I heard her from behind me.

"Honey!"

Gera appeared like a fever dream. She was dressed in an oversized, vintage Santa suit top with a plush white fur collar that framed her face like a halo of winter clouds. On her, the heavy red felt transformed into a daringly short Christmas mini-skirt, held together by a prayer and a safety pin. With her signature red lipstick and one arm thrown skyward in a gesture that was half-benediction, half-summons, she didn't just hug me; she annexed me into her immediate orbit.

"You look divine, Huckleberry. Very... understated," she whispered, her eyes twinkling like we had a secret no one else knew. She didn't let me speak. Instead, she pivoted me toward a man standing near the record player. He was bald, strikingly angular, and dressed in a structural dark turtleneck that made him look like a piece of modern sculpture.

"Honey, you must meet Yul Ulu," she rasped, her voice dropping into a tone of mock-reverence. "Yul is the only architect in Birmingham who understands that a building shouldn't just stand there - it should swing."

Yul nodded slowly, his gaze fixed somewhere above my left shoulder as he began a low, rhythmic drone about mapping his design process to jazz music, letting "structural integrity riff off the light." Gera leaned in with intense, wide-eyed focus, as if the secrets of the universe were being revealed.

"HONEY! YOU MADE IT!"

The shift was instantaneous. One second, Gera was a scholar of jazz-architecture; the next, she was a heat-seeking missile of hospitality. She hadn't even waited for Yul to finish his sentence. She had spotted a new arrival and was already halfway across the rug, her arm back in the air, leaving Yul and I standing in the wake of her perfume.

I leaned against the doorframe, sipping a fresh martini snagged from a passing server, a silent witness in a black suit. I realized then that 802-with-a-view wasn't just a place to party; it was a solar system where the different 'Birminghams' were forced to collide, held together only by the gravitational pull of the woman currently screaming 'Honey!' in the kitchen—the bright, burning sun of a Birmingham that didn't know the night was almost over. Part 3

Ten years is a lifetime in Birmingham - especially these ten years. By 1992, the "rising tide of gay men and artists" had begun to recede, leaving the Claridge and Southside much quieter. The kinetic energy of the 80s had soured, leaving just the old architecture that now seemed derelict and frayed. I was no longer the starry-eyed 18-year-old in the vintage suit; I was a young man who had moved on from the increasingly conservative, hostile, and unwelcoming State of Alabama. Like so many others in the creative class, I had seen the writing on the wall - a swell of religious nationalism that made our vibrant, edgy world feel like a target. We fled to more accepting shores, leaving Birmingham to settle into a cultural desert.

I was back in the ‘Ham for a visit when I saw her - near the deli counter at the Western Supermarket.

The Mae West aura was still there, but it felt heavier, like a costume that had been dry-cleaned one too many times. The headband was slightly askew, and the red lipstick didn't quite hit the corners of her mouth with the same precision I remembered from the Belle Watlings days. ‘Peg o’ My Heart’ was now being played by a woman who had transitioned, perhaps unknowingly, into ‘Lady Macbeth.’

"Honey!" she screamed when she saw me.

The shout still echoed, but the inhale that followed had a slight rattle to it - a bit more "Horshack" and a bit less “Siren.” She clutched the handle of her grocery cart like it was the rail of a cruise ship.

"Huckleberry, you’ve grown up!" she rasped, patting my cheek with a hand that trembled just enough for me to notice. “How are you?”

“I’m great, Gera. How are you?”

“Well, Honey, you know how it is…” she said, her smile momentarily slipping into something weary. Then she snapped back, a forced brightness returning to her eyes. "But don't you worry about Gera. I'm just out here scouting. I'm looking for a man to marry, Honey. A real man."

She leaned in, the old conspiratorial shimmy now a slow, deliberate tilt of her shoulders.

"And he’s going to be filthy rich," she whispered, her eyes momentarily flashing with that same fire from the early days. "So rich he’s going to buy me a convertible Rolls-Royce. All white, Honey. Inside and out." She paused, visualizing it there between the produce and the frozen peas. "And right on that polished wooden dash, I’m going to tack a brass plaque. Do you know what it’s going to say? 'Honey, nouveau riche is better than no riche at all!'"

She threw her head back and let out that snort of a laugh, loud enough to make a woman in the cereal aisle turn and stare, but Gera didn't care. To her, the Western was just another stage, and I was her captive audience. We exchanged a few niceties, then she drifted toward the checkout, her smile fading faster than it used to - the performance exhausting her.

By the mid-90s, the Claridge itself was succumbing to a different kind of decay: gentrification. The beautiful decay we had loved was being scrubbed away. The porter doors were being sealed shut and patched over, the high ceilings partitioned, and the aging hallways were marketed to a new class that didn't know about thrift stores and make-shift beds. As the great old bones of the building were laminated by sheetrock, agreeable gray paint, and neutral carpet from Home Depot, its soul was evicted.

It wasn't just the Claridge; the neighborhood was being hollowed out. In the early eighties, Southside had been a playground of possibility - a dense, colorful grid of galleries, kitschy card shops, and new restaurants. Back then, you could lose yourself in any of twelve different gay bars, with three or four massive discos like Belle Watlings or Focus Phase IV anchoring the night.

But by 1995, the map had folded in on itself. The galleries were gone, the fun shops had shuttered, and the twelve bars had dwindled to just three. Only one true nightclub remained - The Rage - its neon pulse a final, frantic act of raging against the dying of the light that was slowly consuming Southside.

The audience was disappearing. The "irregulars," the artists, and the boys from the quad had mostly grown up and moved on - or simply disappeared into the safety of larger cities. Gera was like a vaudeville star from the 1920s standing on a stage in the 1950s; the lights were still on, but the theater was nearly empty. Her act would end, followed by a long, echoing pause, and the sad sound of three people clapping out of obligation. Only a few remained - like the stylists who had built careers coiffing the blue-haired socialites of Mountain Brook - to witness the final curtains.

It was during this time, from the salt air of South Beach, that I heard through the fragments of long-distance gossip that Gera had finally found him. His name was Paul.

He wasn't the sugar-daddy of her fantasies; he was a good, solid man - a craftsman and woodworker. But most importantly, he was hers. They were engaged, and for a few months, it seemed the cracks in Gera’s facade might actually be mended. But as she moved into her late thirties, the drama shifted from campy vaudeville to something much darker.

The threats started almost immediately. Paul’s ex-girlfriend began stalking the edges of their lives, sending word that she was coming for Gera. She didn't want a conversation with Gera; she wanted to "hunt her down and slap her silly."

The most infamous close call happened at the Upside Down Plaza, that windowless cellar beneath the Western where the preppies clung to happy hour. One night, while Gera was in the back pool room with a couple of her remaining irregulars, the word came from the front: She’s here. And she’s looking for you.

Gera didn’t make a scene. She just scampered into the ladies' room, bolted the door, and faced the narrow, grime-streaked window. When the bartender finally unlocked the door to find the room empty and the window wide, Gera was already gone.

Our friends eventually found her at her new apartment - the "Pawnee Palace." But unlike a palace, this place felt smaller and more disheveled than 802-with-a-view. She was a mess of scratches and torn starched linen, her breathing still a series of ragged, terrified inhales.

"Honey..." she gasped as they walked in, her eyes wide behind a smudge of red lipstick. "That woman was gonna kill me. I've been diddlin' her man!"

She said it with a laugh, but the humor didn't reach her eyes. It was the first time the performance couldn't quite cover the cost of the drama following her. It was a frantic exit through a basement window that foreshadowed the day when there would be no window left to crawl out of. Part 4

2019. I had come full circle, back to Birmingham, living as roommates with one of those "beautiful boys" from the 1982 quad. The city around us was undergoing a miraculous resurrection - the grand old skyscrapers were being redeveloped into sleek lofts, and the warehouses were filling with art studios and high-end bistros. The creative class was returning, but Gera was no longer their sun. She was a fading moon in Irondale, a quiet, affordable suburb where she lived alone with two dogs and the ghosts of the Claridge. By then, Gera’s friends and "irregulars" had long since vanished, having traded the party for the challenges of their own aging.

"John! Honey!" she’d cry when I pulled into her driveway. "I'm so glad to see you! How long has it been?" The "Huckleberry" mask had finally slipped; she knew my name now, though the time between our visits was a sliding scale in her mind. I’d sit in my car and wait as she "pulled herself together." Ten minutes, twenty. Finally, she’d emerge, adjusting the brim of a big, floppy hat and straightening those movie-star sunglasses. "I had to iron this dress, Honey," she’d apologize, her voice a fragile echo of that old honeyed rasp. "Let’s go! We're gonna have some fun!"

At 65, she was a living Delta Dawn, still carrying the faded rose of her younger days. But the light in her eyes was different now. The diagnosis was FTD - Frontotemporal Dementia - a thief that was systematically dismantling the stage she had lived on for 45 years. There was a cruel, Shakespearean irony to the timing: her mother had recently passed, finally leaving Gera the inheritance she had waited decades for. The money was there, but the possibilities it could allow were now gone.

The decline had truly begun years earlier, on the night the ex-girlfriend’s threats turned from words to action. The murder of her fiancé, Paul, had been the blow that cracked the foundation. She was never the same after that; the campy Vaudeville act became a survival mechanism, an empty shell she inhabited because the bride-to-be reality was too painful to hold.

Back at our house, the afternoon would unfold in a rhythmic, looping ceremony. She’d sit with a vodka drink, taking careful, two-handed sips as if the glass might float away.

"What ever happened to Rodney?" she’d ask, digging endlessly through her purse for something she could never quite find. "He was always such fun."

"Gera," we’d say gently, for the third time that hour. "Rodney moved to Dallas fifteen years ago. We don't know what he's doing either."

"Oh," she’d say, the smile fading for a second before snapping back. "Well, let's watch a movie!"

We’d put on a classic, but she’d talk right over it, her mind unable to track the plot, preferring the performance of our conversation to the one on the screen.

Occasionally, we’d all fire on the same cylinders - someone would mention 802-with-a-view or Belle’s, and for a glorious, fleeting moment, we’d all be young and beautiful again, laughing until the air ran out. But then the fog would roll back in. She’d go back to searching her purse.

As evening fell, the exhaustion would take her. I remember looking over and seeing her slumped in the armchair. The red lipstick was smeared on the rim of her glass and a little across her cheek - a messy, tragic reminder of the Peg o' My Heart who once occupied the Claridge stairs with me. She had fallen asleep trying to watch "Now, Voyager."

I reached out and touched her arm to wake her for the drive back to Irondale. She blinked, looking up at me through the haze of 45 years, her eyes searching for a face she recognized.

"Huckleberry!" she whispered, a faint light returning to her face. "When did you get here?! How long has it been?"

In Loving Remembrance of Jeanie Morris Murphy

Top Me Off, Please

 

The Irish Goodbye

"The secret to life is knowing when to stop."

Quentin (played by Tom Hollander) in Season 2 of The White Lotus

YOLO

"You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough" ~ Mae West

A Misunderstanding of Assignment

Christmas, 1968. Country Club Lane, Atlanta GA.

The air was thick with it—not just the humidity of a Georgia winter, but the static of change. Or, to be more precise: the fear of it. The complexion of our southwest Atlanta neighborhood was shifting, a slow-motion tectonic plate movement that sent my parents retreating into the familiar bunkers of old cultural habits and familial biases. They were bracing for an invasion of those they thought were their enemy - simply because they were "different." And there I was, right in the middle of the living room: a precocious, effete five-year-old. I was the enemy within.

For my second-grade project with Miss Duck, I composed my Wish List for Santa. It was a short list. A singular list. At the top—and the bottom, and the middle—was “A Crissy Doll.”

Crissy was a mod marvel in a mini-skirt, but her true allure was mechanical. She had a knob in the small of her back. Turn it, and her auburn hair retracted into her torso, wound around an internal spindle. Push a button on her stomach, and the hair grew again. I was fascinated!

I recall the adults attempting the "redirection." The subtle nudges toward the Tonka trucks or the GI Joes. But I was single-minded. I didn't want a soldier; I wanted the girl - or deep inside, did I secretly want to be the girl?

Looking back, I can only imagine the whispered negotiations between my parents. My father had become a ghost in his own house—mostly silent, largely indifferent to my existence. My mother, perhaps sensing the void he was carving into me, drew me closer. She became my protector, my curator. On Christmas morning, her sheer will won out. There, under the tree, was a Crissy Doll. I was overjoyed. I coiffed that doll’s hair, short and long, until the gears groaned. If there was a war of words between my parents or sneers from my older siblings, I didn't hear them. I was fulfilled.

It’s a curious word: sissy. At five, it isn't about sexuality; it’s about affectation. It was a series of signals broadcast to a world that didn't ask for them. And children were, of course, the cruelest of anthropologists. I wore a sports coat and a bow tie to elementary school—my favorite armor—and was greeted daily with sissy and weirdo.

But I had been blessed with an ego that rivaled my intellect. I would stand on the playground with Miss Duck, discussing the "silly behavior" of the other children as if I were a visiting dignitary observing the local primates.

The fascination with the feminine persisted. I once offered up an impromptu performance in a girdle, while family was visiting. I stumbled down the hallway and into the living room where my mother was serving coffee—wearing her black patent pumps and one of her foundational garments. There was a gasp, then that terrible, brittle laughter—the kind adults use to mask their horror. I was summarily dismissed. My mother learned to lock her closet before guests arrived; And I learned that in the theater of the living room, some costumes were considered... “transgressive.”

By the time my father died, the cruelty of the world had begun to weigh. I began a structural renovation. "I’m not Kelly," I proclaimed. "Kelly is a girl’s name. Dad was John. He’s gone, so now I’m John."

I spent the next few decades transforming myself into what I perceived my world wanted. I became the ideal: masculine, muscular, a "man’s man" in a gay world that had become as complex and discriminating as any European royal court.  I found that even in our community, we, like our parents, had brought bias into adulthood with us. On Saturday nights, I often heard my friends, dressed in their leather finery sneer at the drag performers - "Why do we have to ruin our high with this sissy theater?" 

The irony was delicious, if a bit acidic.

In 2002, when AID Atlanta needed a new fundraiser, I proposed the "Atlanta Cotillion." A traditional Southern ball, but with a twist: twelve debutantes, all cisgender men who had never "presented as female," stepping into gowns for charity. I wanted a celebration of the feminine within all of us—regardless of where we sat on the spectrum.

The community was baffled. "Can we come as men if the men are women?" the lesbians asked. Some gay men insisted on wearing tuxedos because "a man, dressed as a distinguished woman is only complete with the complement of a man."

I shook my head. "I’m sorry," I said, over and over in frustration and disappointment. "You’ve misunderstood the assignment."

And I leaned into my own inner female - I stepped out as the Grand Dame. It was my first time 'in face' as an adult, a quiet reconciliation with that little boy in his mother's patent pumps. It was a triumph of identity for sure, but also one of industry; over ten years, we raised $1.3 million for the cause.

Now, my friends and I are at retirement age. We sit around dinner tables, and the conversation turns to "the kids" and their "new gender spectrum." My friends, the ones who fought for marriage equality, now bemoan the "litany of letters." LGBTQ+ They are befuddled by pronouns, by the "addition" of gender identity to their fight.

We sometimes see our long-time friend Molly (she/her/hers)—beautiful, trans, and "grandfathered" into their affection. She occupies a "cherished category," the singular exception that allows them to maintain their biases against the rest. But eventually, the wine flows and someone gestures toward the horizon with a mix of pity and exhaustion: “Is that a ‘they’ now?”

They squint at the gender spectrum as if it were a foreign map they refuse to read, willfully forgetting that they once stood on that very border of identity—likely clutching a doll.

It is the same bunker our parents built for themselves in the 1960’s. We have simply swapped the fear of a changing neighborhood for the fear of a changing lexicon.

Sean, my No. 6, who is thirty years my junior, often rolls his eyes and leaves the room, weary of the stagnation. And I? I am left wondering how we retreated so far into our hard-won "masculinity" that we became the very gatekeepers we once fled.

I think of the lyrics Madonna whispered at the turn of the century:

“But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading / Cause you think being a girl is degrading...”

I fear we are still struggling with the assignment.

What It's Like For a Girl - Madonna

lyrics by Madonna and Guy Sigsworth

Atlanta Cotillion

The Comfort of Our Loving Chosen Family

I have, by some measure of recklessness or sheer geographic fidgeting, inhabited eight U.S. cities. Birmingham, New Orleans, Fort Lauderdale, even a brief, sun-drenched pause in West Hollywood—a restless itinerary born of work, longing, or my desperate, repeated need to "push the reset button." I am now, for the sixth time, back in Birmingham, where the cycle first began, a prodigal son without a parable, merely a habit.

This itinerancy - this compulsive crisscrossing of the American landscape also included countless fundraisers and the Sisyphean work of HIV/AIDS advocacy - has left me with a staggering collection of human contacts. Acquaintances, yes. Friends, certainly. But, most importantly, it has forged a chosen family of a size and tenacity that defies mere listing in a digital Rolodex.

My path has traced the dizzying heights of the acme and the devastating depths of the nadir. And through all of it, from the ecstasy to the sheer, unblinking horror, I have walked with these few, this steadfast, close chosen family.

The Birmingham Contingent

To return to this Southern city - to the origin point of my adult consciousness - is to settle, finally, into the loving bosom of men I have known for forty years. Forty years! It is a terrifying testament to human endurance, if nothing else. We are the brotherhood who traveled, absurdly, to Savannah in a Winnebago to watch the river succumb to a green dye job on St Patty's Day.

The history is untidy: there was the sleeping together, and the dating that curdled into something better. It was during this early time when I met my first partner, whom I quickly designated "Also John" - my No. 1. I first saw him at Basics, sitting at the bar in these cute orange gym shorts. I soon recognized he was also my cashier at the local Western Supermarket. Within a week, I mustered the courage to ask him on a date. “Wanta go to dinner on Monday?” “Sure!” he replied. I don’t recall where we ate, but he stayed over with me that first night - and never left. Two years later we still lived together. It was both our first try at a loving relationship. But because we lost many of the men just older than us - the couples that might have been role models for us - we used the only examples we had: our parents, straight couples. Unfortunately, both of us had come from very bumpy family origins, so… 

But three years after we met, we remained loving friends as he went off to Texas to get his Masters. To this day, "Also John" is the closest thing I have to a brother - and I have a biological brother, mind you. We’ll get to the topic of how biological families have often failed a generation of gay men.

"Also John" remains my stalwart constant.

Many of us who had early encounters took the best of the salvageable material - the friendship - and continued. And in that continuation, we stumbled upon a profound clarity. The confusion, the sexual possibility, was relegated to the past. What remained was a companionship that was more than friendship; it was a commitment, a deliberate act of loving companionship. We cooked, we gathered, we watched the comforting, synthetic glow of The Golden Girls, a strange, surrogate domesticity.

Intimacy Without Fear

Then there is Atlanta, where the 1996 Olympics seemed to inadvertently sow the seeds for another grouping, sixteen strong, constant companions. This was the moment, between the cautious cultural visibility of My So-Called Life and Ellen, and the seismic shift in medical progress, that the world, and we ourselves, dared to believe we could be comfortable again. 

We had, by this time, matured. We were comfortable with man-on-man intimacy - and I do not speak of sex, but of brotherly closeness. A gathering for a film meant bodies piled on a sofa - a casual, tactile acceptance. There was no fear that a head on a shoulder would be mistaken for a preamble. It was simply the evidence of the bond.

It was this very intimacy, this effortless being, that led to the farce we called Gays and Grays Mother’s Day Weekend. Eight of us, realizing we had become the collectively chosen child of a beloved mother (what a grotesque, beautiful trope!), coordinated the arrival of our matriarchs. A cocktail party, a dinner. The wine flowed - the great grease of truth - and the dam broke.

The Education of Mothers

One of the mothers, with a disarming directness, asked the necessary question: “So are you all one another’s ‘play things’?”

The collective eye-roll from the eight of us - the Oh, Mom - was immediate, instinctive. But another mother interrupted: “No. I truly want to know the answer to that question.”

Ever the educator, I took a stab at the defining. “We are all friends. Most of us have a ‘special friend’ in this group, but the rest of us are simply friends.”

A second mother cut through the semantic clutter. “My ‘friends’ and I do not routinely hug and kiss when we greet and when we part.”

A friend countered: “Point taken. But I suppose, in that way, we are merely a large Italian family. We love one another, and we love showing it.”

Then, the final, surgical question: “So none of you have ever slept together, except with your special friend?”

The silence was the kind you could bottle and sell as an existential threat. A shared, shamed look among the sons. Then, a sudden, thunderous laughter. “We are not saying some of us have not slept together over the years, but still…”

“Hmm,” a mother observed. “The man you bring home to me, you call ‘your friend.’ You call all of them ‘your friends.’ Pardon my confusion.”

I jumped in, offering a compromise: “Let us agree to use the designation ‘significant other’ - a term we grant men with whom we have lived and who we have managed to endure for more than a year.”

They nodded. They seemed to find relief in the structure. But if the mothers were to define us, it seemed only fair that we should test their accuracy. "Turnabout is fair play," I announced, turning to my own mother. "Given that designation, can you name my ‘significant others?’"

Once we reached eight or ten cries of “Mom, I never dated him!” or “Mom, do you recall me living with him?” - the volume rising with the wine - we all had to agree that communication had failed us all over the years.

Yet, I still break into a cold sweat when I imagine what my mother might have been thinking for all those years.

The Choice of Lifestyle

Years earlier, my mother had lamented, “I just can’t reconcile why you chose this lifestyle.” For years, I had diminished her, insisting this was no choice; one does not choose attraction. The argument, a well-worn piece of theater, flared up again during a twelve-hour drive to visit my lesbian sister.

Suddenly, she stopped the performance: “John, you’ve mistaken my meaning. Honey, I know you didn’t choose whether or not to be fey and attracted to men. That is ridiculous. You can’t choose that.”

She leaned into the silence of the car.

“The lifestyle I’m disappointed you chose was one of isolation—living apart from the family. You moved off to the City, spending time with those people we didn’t know - and in questionable places. You turned your back on your family - as if we were no longer good enough.”

She offered an example: “I had an uncle who ‘wasn’t the marrying kind.’ We all knew. He lived near my parents. He played his part in the family - babysitting, helping when someone was sick. Not doing that - not living as part of our family. That was the choice.”

I sat with it - disappointed that the misunderstanding had existed for so long.

“First,” I finally said, “I am sorry. You're right. I misunderstood you.” But then, the defense of a generation. “Mom, your uncle lived a lonely, isolated life. Would you have wished that on me? I had no interest in being cast in a supporting role. I would have been miserable.”

“So many men like me have made the same ‘choice’ I’ve made—because we can. Because our biological families couldn’t, or wouldn't, understand - or love us as we are. So, we sought out happiness - love - with like-minded people, in a community we built for ourselves. In that sense, yes, I chose this lifestyle. But it was the only chance I had to love and be loved.”

Our Clan of Handwavers

This was our mission. This was the fate of a generation, beginning in the mid-twentieth century and accelerated, execrated, by the AIDS pandemic. We were forced to create our own families. We made a large, caring brotherhood, within which we created smaller, essential, loving chosen families.

As we age, the peace of mind is immeasurable. We are there for one another. We know one another more deeply than many of us know our own family of origin. We accept, embrace, support. When I was homeless, I had a home. When I was hungry, I had a meal. When I found success, my chosen family was there, cheering me on. Unconditional. Loving.

The brotherhood is now an international scattering of Facebook feeds - the New York friends, the Philly friends, the New Orleans Boys. The intimacy of proximity is replaced by the necessary infrastructure of social media.

But most vital are the chosen families. The local, daily support system. Our rides or die—the grammar matters less than the conviction.

I think back to those fundraiser dance parties. Our little Atlanta family became known, affectionately, as “The Clan of the Handwavers.” You could spot us, on any crowded floor, amidst the sea of bare chests. We were dancing, only and always with our family, our hands thrown into the air, waving in time to the music - a gesture of pure, unadulterated celebration of our family, the deliberate, necessary family we built for ourselves.