To Then Know the Place
1982. The move. I arrived in Birmingham for UAB, attempting the tentative role of ‘young gay man,’ and by the gravitational pull of the inevitable, settled into The Clairidge in what was then simply Southside. 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.
Now, at 63, I am back. Diagonal across the street from that first perch, a full life's circle drawn. The district now prefers the grander title of Highland Park, better reflecting its historic roots.
The avenue itself, Highland Avenue, built to endure, wears its history with a crumbling dignity. Its canopy of trees—proud veterans of the closing years of the 19th century—are aflame now in the Fall of the year. Shimmering yellow, golden, and red, they catch the pink and orange exhale of the sunset, a spectacle thrown back at the mountain by the low setting sun. And in comparison, it is the fall of my years as well.
I am settling now into the curated quietude my new iteration, the well-dressed, somewhat erudite older gay man. My residence is a beautiful, if stark, Brutalist tower, a sharp vertical contrast to the aged boulevard. Yet, its community is a soft landing. It's filled with lovely, caring, and interesting retirees—many of them gay men I’ve known lo these many years, now rich with shared adventures and travels.
The sidewalks here—wide, once grand—are cracked and buckled. But my joints, too, are making their objections known. We are both showing the signs of age, Highland Park and I. But there is a beautiful patina to it, a rich wear that speaks not of defeat, but of having endured, of having seen things.
I sit now, where I began, filled with gratitude, really seeing and knowing Highland Park for the first time.
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