Gay Men Singing

The other thing I did last night was see the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus perform at Carnegie Hall in a joint concert with the Boston Gay Men’s Chorus and the Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington, DC.

I’d never seen any of them perform before, and my biggest comment is that the Velveeta was practically erupting from the walls and ceilings. The cheese factor was off the charts. I sang in a men’s chorus in college, but most of the stuff we did was either classical-oriented or very masculine: anything from a Renaissance motet, to a drinking song, to a big choral piece by Mozart (performed with a women’s chorus from a New England college), to a spiritual. And of course, our chorus was 90 percent straight, so any homoerotic impulses were carefully sublimated beneath the ideals of brotherhood and alcohol and song and the occasional trips to women’s colleges. We were in many ways a fraternity that sang: we had a house, and we threw wild keg parties, and sometimes we even had mixers with sororities. Except for the fact that it wound up giving me lots of crushes on straight guys, the group was a blast. Actually, the whole thing was a blast; that beloved group was one of my defining college experiences.

But this concert last night was different. Lots of showtunes, lots of “jazz hands,” big rainbow flags, choreography, songs with unbridled inspirational lyrics and unabashed appeals to emotionalism, even a song from the gay musical Falsettos. I was unprepared for the level of schmaltz. But it was more than schmaltz; it was a cheesefest of Streisandian proportions. These were drag queens in reverse-drag. The tuxedos were all an act. Also, most of the members were middle-aged; from the nosebleed seats — and my friend actually got a nosebleed — I could see many bald spots, beards and paunches. Nary an Abercrombie boy in sight.

They lived out the 70’s and the 80’s in one evening: 180 guys in tuxedos sing “It’s Raining Men” while waving their arms around, and later, another chorus sings of transcending our shared tragedy so we can go on living and being happy.

And it was then that I looked at this stage filled with middle-aged gay men, and I realized, these are the ones who survived.

I found myself getting past the cheesiness and feeling moved and inspired.

It was Gay Pride on the stage of Carnegie Hall: gay men, rainbow flags, corporate sponsorship. The CEO of Fleet Boston (a major sponsor of the concert) gave a short speech at the beginning of the second half, and a representative of the Names Project (they make the AIDS quilt) came onstage to accept a check from the three combined choruses. At the end of the evening, all three choruses gathered on stage and sang a big patriotic piece by Stephen Flaherty, composer of Ragtime. There was nothing quite like seeing 500 gay men together on a stage, singing their hearts out, singing of liberty and equality and the American way.

Hallelujah

I tested negative. Whew! Yippee!!

It’s what I was expecting, but it was good to have it confirmed. I hadn’t been thinking about it much during the past two weeks, in order to preserve my sanity, but I had trouble sleeping last night, and I was antsy all day today. My appointment was after work; I should have just made it in the morning and got it over with. To be honest, I don’t know if I was more scared of getting the results or of returning to the area where I got mugged. A little of both.

The whole appointment was a blur. I think part of my brain had gone into dream-mode beforehand in order to protect itself. The woman who gave me my results was different from the woman who’d taken the test; this was a well-dressed black woman. I was in the waiting room, the only person there. I saw her pick up a manila folder and she said, “Let’s go into my office.” I started to panic slightly, because I thought, why is she making this so serious? What does this mean? We went into the office and she said, “It’s kinda smelly in here,” so I followed her into a different office. What’s with the small talk? Just give me my results!

She had me sit in a chair next to the desk, then she sat down, and then she said, “Okay… Your test came back negative.” I let out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank god,” I said. All the tension drained from my body instantly, and suddenly I wanted to give her a hug. I said, “I feel like giving you a hug… can I give you a hug?” She smiled and said sure, so I did. Then we talked for another five minutes, and for some reason I switched into journalism mode and asked her why she was in this field, although I didn’t much listen to her answer because I just wanted to get out of there. I mentioned I’d been mugged last time on my way back to the train station, and I asked if they could call me a cab. She said that they could, but that if I went outside and waited on the corner, the bus would come pretty soon. Since it was still light out (yay, Daylight Savings Time), I figured that was okay.

So I left the building, waited nervously for the bus while eyeing everyone nearby, the bus came, and I rode it back to the train station. Went into the station and vowed never to get off at that PATH stop again if I can avoid doing so.

In a strange way this has even eased the aftermath of being mugged. For the last two weeks, in the back of my mind, I’ve known I’d have to return to that area. Now I can leave it behind me.

And now that my two-week wait is over, I can start focusing more earnestly again on something more ordinary, more complicated: living.

The Naked City

Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood is many things: a bird’s-eye view of Manhattan, an anthology of stories and poems, a showcase for obscure talent, a portrait of a city. Take a look.