Christmas With the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus

I had wanted to hear the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus ever since I first joined the Salt Lake Men’s Choir in January of 2011. So when I discovered that their Christmas concert was to be performed the weekend we’d be in San Francisco, it was a no-brainer to plan to go. I’m so glad we did.

We’d had lunch in the Castro with Chris and Jason. Chris is from Utah and used to work at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake before moving to San Francisco. While at LDS, Mark (who was an ER physician there) had the privilege of mentoring Chris when he came out, and they’ve been close ever sense. We’ve made a point of seeing him, then him and Jason, ever since our first trip together to San Francisco in September 2011. After lunch, they accompanied us to the concert.

The message of the performance was, from start to finish, one of love, acceptance and inclusion. This is one of the reasons I love coming to San Francisco, where I feel as though I’m one of many, rather than one of a few and where differences are celebrated, rather than regarded with suspicion. Yet there was something more I felt during the concert: I felt the true spirit of Christmas – of love, of caring, of acceptance, shorn of the heavy trappings in which the holiday is often draped. 

There were a number of very funny moments throughout the concert featuring dancers as well as ensembles of singers. One of the most hilarious was a song about fruitcake that was accompanied by dances and four posters of “fruits.” The fourth was a picture of Donald Trump. The audience erupted into laughter. Another number featured an elf who wanted to be a Rockette. Another featured a member of the choir in drag. (He turned out to be the man that Mark and I had already agreed was the cutest guy in the choir.)

There were also a number of tender moments during the concert, three of which in particular stood out for me. The first came during a moment of humor, when the director told the story of a narrative/musical set that paid tribute to mothers. “All of us,” he said, “have mothers who at SOME point in their lives were tender, who at SOME point in their lives were loving.” The audience laughed, as did I, but in my case the laughter was followed by a wave of emotion as I thought about my own mother, who had been anything but tender and loving to me as a child. The director’s comment made me reach out in love to my deceased mother who, I thought, surely at some point in her early life was tender and loving.

The next tender moments occurred as the chorus performed a beautiful rendition of “Silent Night,” in which the men sang not only with their voices, but also with their hands, signing the words in perfect unity as they sang. Then, when the carol was completed, the choir continued the sign language in silence. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional whoosh of hands being raised in the air, particularly for the phrase, “sleep in heavenly peace.” Other than this sound, one could have heard a pin drop in that theatre. It was so incredibly beautiful; tears rolled down my cheeks.

Another emotional moment occurred as the artistic director spoke to the audience of how the chorus’s first public appearance was four weeks after its founding when they sang at the candlelight vigil following Harvey Milk’s assassination. He then spoke of the decimation that the chorus experienced in the 80’s as AIDS ravaged its ranks. He talked about a 1992 San Francisco Chronicle article that included a picture of what the chorus would have looked like had they not replenished their numbers. Over 300 members had died. To give us, the audience, a sense of that time and space, the director asked one group of men after another to turn their backs to the audience, each man representing one who had died. By the time the director was finished, there were only six men left facing the audience. It was an incredibly poignant moment as the spirits of those 300, as well as thousands of others, temporarily pervaded the theater. 

I felt privileged to be there.

San Francisco Vignettes

“You’d probably be dead.”

We were having dinner Friday night at an Italian restaurant in the Castro with George and Lee, new friends whom we had met on our Croatian gay cruise in September. They had invited us to have drinks in their stateroom and to join them for dinner with some of their friends. Mark and I had been feeling down that night, depressed about Mark’s cancer. Their invitation saved the evening for us, and we greatly enjoyed our time together. Before the cruise ended, they had asked us to contact them if we ever came to San Francisco, and we had arranged to have dinner together Friday night.

We had been talking about coming out, their stories and our stories. They’re both about my age, and it was fascinating for me to hear what life had been like for them when they were young, While I was working for my father’s company in Zanesville, Ohio, heavily closeted but desperate for friendships and relationships, George had arrived in San Francisco. He told us how one of his first jobs in the city before going on to dental school had been working as a dental assistant across the street from where we were eating.

“I started keeping a list of people I knew who had died of AIDS,” he explained. “but I stopped counting when the list reached 100 names. I was lucky. Chances are very good that if you’d come out as a young man, you’d probably be dead now.”

Mark and I had often said the same thing to each other, partly to ease the regret we sometimes felt at not living our life out loud during those youthful years. This was the first time we had heard it from someone else’s mouth, and it felt strangely comforting. 

*************

“Are you guys monogamous?”

We had finished dinner and had just said good-bye to Lee and George on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Across the street, several bars were full of Friday night customers. 

I turned toward the source of the question and saw a slightly overweight blond woman who appeared to be in her late 30’s or early 40’s. It was immediately obvious that she had been drinking rather heavily. I could have taken offense to her very forward question, but I had been drinking as well and was in a pleasant, warm mood.

“Yes,” replied Mark.

“Cuz I was over there,” pointing to the bar across the street,” and I was talking to guys who have been together for years, but they have sex with other men.”

“Not us,” said Mark.

“You know,” veering of onto another subject, “I’ve lived in San Francisco for years, but I’ve never been to the Castro. It’s amazing.”

At this point, Mark preoccupied with ordering an Uber, walked a few steps away into the street, leaning heavily upon his walking stick.

“Hey,” the woman called out, “how come you’re using a cane?” I think Mark had had enough by this point, and he ignored her walking a few more steps away.

Again, I could have taken offense, but I decided just to be honest. “He has cancer,” I said. The woman’s demeanor immediately changed. She looked directly at me, compassion in her eyes.

“I lost my husband to cancer,” she said, her gaze sliding down toward the payment before looking back up. “How long?” she asked.

“Four to six months,” I replied. 

She didn’t say anything, but she immediately reached out her arms, drawing me – a total stranger – into a warm, firm hug. We held each other for several seconds before she released me, drawing back and saying, “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Thank you.”

By then, Mark had walked back over. The Uber car was drawing up on the other side of the street. The woman turned toward him.

“This man loves you,” she said to Mark. He hadn’t heard the recent conversation and seemed irritated by her forwardness. “I know,” he muttered before turning around.

I started across the street before turning back toward the woman. “Thank you.” She was wiping tears from her cheek. I waved. She waved back. Then I stepped into the car and we drove off.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Bus and a Gay Jew

They were on the bus when we got on at 24th and Castro in Noe Valley. But I didn't want to associate the Castro or Noe Valley with these women. So I thought of choosing the name of the street toward the end of the bus ride: the Divisadero Ladies Society. But they weren't ladies. (No, they weren't men in drag, either.) So I settled on the name, the "Sisterhood of the Traveling Bus."

I'm about to describe the one unsavory experience that Mark and I had during our recent trip to San Francisco. There were a lot of people on the bus when we boarded, and - a first - a transit cop was on board. When we stepped on, he motioned for us to wave our pass card in front of the beeper, then turned aside. We had a paper pass, which I made an effort to extract, but he was by then engaged in other matters, clearly not interested in whether we "beeped" or not.

We moved to the back of the bus and sat down. It wasn't long before we realized our mistake, for we were sitting in the midst of a half-dozen or so African-American women - some, like the one in front of us, quite large. Now, ordinarily I wouldn't have thought that a problem at all. But these women immediately started exchanging some of the most vulgar and unbelievably coarse comments I've ever heard (and I don't use the word "vulgar" lightly). 

As soon as the bus moved away from the stop, the conversation - which was very loud - turned to male genitalia ...

Meanwhile, I had gotten out the paperback book I've been reading entitled, An Underground Life, Memoirs of a Gay Jew in Nazi Berlin, by Gad Beck. I'm not sure now how I was led to this book. Considering the subject matter, it is fairly light in tone. I am sure this is due to the nature of the man Gad Beck was. In his memoirs, he writes about how he accepted his homosexuality at a young age as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And despite the time - the 30's - and the environment - Nazi Berlin - he appears to have been pretty open about his sexuality and fairly, shall we say, randy.

Gad Beck (right) and his first love, Manfred Lewin, who perished in a death camp.

But I wonder how many people - heterosexual or homosexual - would have had the courage to do what he did when he was only 18 year old in a detention center on Rosenstrasse in Berlin. He and his father had been rounded up in late winter/early spring of 1943. (Goebbels initiated his Factory Operation to rid Berlin of the last of the Jews as a birthday present to Hitler.) Beck quickly found a young man with whom he was simpatico. But then the boy's father pulled some strings and got himself and his son out. Beck then writes:

"After my young friend and his father had been released, I looked around for someone else I liked. My eye caught a really tall guy! I always managed to get close to him at night. When the lights were turned off, easily, effortlessly, we slid closer together. With so many people in one room the nights were anything but quiet anyway ... I refined my method of making love when there are other people sleeping in the same room. No one should notice, but satisfaction should be possible nevertheless. Affection, gentleness and letting go are the key words ..."

Beck's first love had been Manfred Lewin. He had been taken one day, along with Manfred's parents. Beck writes of an extraordinary scene when he learned what had happened. Manfred's two brothers, Schlomo and Rudi, having been at work during the round up were at the Lewin home and greeted Gad. They told him they planned to voluntarily join their parents in the morning. Beck wrote:

"The atmosphere within the Lewins' four empty walls was strangely mixed. I was in absolute despair, almost panic-stricken ... It was one of many goodbyes, and for me it was without a doubt the hardest of all ... I screamed and cried, and they couldn't calm me down. I hardly even registered that they were there until Schlomo took me in his arms to comfort me. He started to cry, too. What happened then was not all that surprising; we made love ... [H]e was facing an uncertain fate, and this was perhaps his last chance to experience closeness, unguarded and without danger. For me it was like a farewell from Manfred, a goodbye I never had the chance to say ... The graveness of the moment aroused a desperate passion in Schlomo and me."

Extraordinary. Powerful. Moving. And it involves two men.

I had read the above passages before getting on that bus in San Francisco. What I was trying to read while we were graced with the company of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Bus, came a few pages later, as their coarse comments about oral sex and ensuing laughter continued. Once we were actually down in the Castro and approaching Market Street, the subject shifted to gay men, or "little muscle boys" as one woman said. But their other comments were far, far worse, some of which involved "midgets." At length, the transit cop (who was also African American) turned to them and said, "Man, you ladies are vulgar!" (as in VULL-ger). They laughed even harder. Somewhat poignantly, one of the women said, "What do you expect? We don't have a life."

Meanwhile, my eyes bored into my book. The contrast between what I was reading and what I was hearing could not have been more surreal. 

Some time after he lost Manfred, Gad formed a relationship with another Jew in hiding, Zwi Abrahamssohn, pictured left. He too, was eventually rounded up, handed over by Jewish snatchers and tortured for information. Beck explains:

"When Zwi got arrested, I nearly lost my mind ... Little by little the noose was tightening around our necks. We had to find new hideouts, new ways to get food ... Berlin was getting increasingly dangerous for all of us, since the Gestapo was installing more and more Jewish snatchers. [Having read Harry Potter 7, I wondered if this is where J.K. Rowling got the inspiration for the snatchers in her novel.] One of the most notorious was ... Stella Goldschlag ... [who was] blackmailed [by the Gestapo] into working for them by threatening to send her parents ... to a concentration camp ... Stella quickly became a merciless perpetrator ... as she hunted down illegals and had them arrested, usually accompanied by her fellow snatcher Rolf Isaaksohn."

By then, we had crossed Market, gone over the hill and had veered onto Divisadero. I kept hoping that the women would get off the bus. They didn't. I kept hoping they would, frankly, shut up. They didn't. I kept wondering if we should get off and walk. We didn't. I didn't personally dislike those women. I did, however, strongly dislike hearing what they were saying. It wasn't a matter of "disapproval" in any way remotely relating to religion or "morality," though I have to admit that did briefly arise like bile. I felt sorry for them. I felt sorry that they, by their own admission, didn't "have a life." And I felt sorry that everyone else on the bus had to listen to them.

What made that experience more bearable for me was what I was reading. Despite the degrading atmosphere of that bus and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Bus, I felt inspired. I thought of how Gad and his groups of friends, despite the degrading and degraded world in which they lived, found love, courage and hope. They, in spite of everything, "had a life."

Of Ballgames, Athleticism and Self-Perception

I hadn't been to a professional baseball game since about 1968, when I went with my dad, my brother and some friends to a Cardinals game in the old (then new) Busch Stadium in St. Louis. So when our friends Chris and Jason invited us to a Giants game in San Francisco on Sunday, it might as well have been my first time.

My relationship with baseball when I was growing up was only slightly warmer than was my aversion to basketball and football. I was a boy, and I was expected to be involved in at least one sport. So I tried Little League.* The picture below is the only one of me in some time of sports-related uniform. I think my parents probably sensed this unique opportunity; thus the photograph.

(* I was also on a swim team for several years in 4th-6th grade. I enjoyed that partly because it was an individual sport, and I didn't have to worry about not catching a baseball that was hurtling toward me in the outfield.)

Oh. There was one other picture that is baseball-related. When I was in second or third grade, a father-son banquet was held at our Catholic elementary school. (My dad was out of town, so somebody else took me.) Somehow, through some connection or another, our parish priest had arranged for Lou Brock, the famous Cardinals' player, to come to our banquet. Thus the picture below of me getting an autograph from him. I'm in a sports coat. I think that is my older brother Danny partially hidden behind me. Notice he was handing Brock his baseball, whereas I had a piece of paper. Somehow that seems significant to me.

But I digress. Back to Sunday afternoon. The weather was beautiful, the views were gorgeous, the company was excellent. But the Giants sucked. They lost the game 5-1, and the most exciting part of the whole game was when an Arizona Diamondback player got caught between the third baseman and the catcher. Apparently, that is called a hot box. I may have known that at one point in my life.

Mark, Chris and Jason. We attended their wedding last month.

Then there was the entertainment provided by the gravelly-voiced older gentleman a row behind us and (thankfully) a half-dozen seats down. He quite often expressed his opinion of the game through a powerful voice that had obviously had some practice at this activity. A fierce Giants fan, he was growing alarmed after the Razorbacks had scored five runs in the first three innings. At the beginning of the bottom of the fourth, he yelled, "Somebody DO something!" Later, he pinned his hopes on a Giants batter: "I may be a crotchety old fart, but I like this kid!" The player struck out.

After the game, we made our way across town to the Castro for dinner with Jason and Chris. The food was good, the wine - a Pinot Noir from the northern coast of California - was delicious and the company excellent. I suppose because all the other diners in the restaurant were gay men, we felt free to talk and laugh about subjects that we would not have felt free to do in another setting.

Monday was our last full day in San Francisco. We topped off our activities with a dinner with one of our cycling friends, Kathy, whom we had first met in Corsica in the fall of 2012. In the photo below, she is in the midst of all of us on the concluding night of that tour. (Mark is seated behind her and I am seated to her left.) We were also together last fall on our tour in France and we will meet again this September on our tour in Italy.

In Annecy last fall: Jim (tour leader), Kathy and Bob

I have thoroughly enjoyed cycling these past three years, and I have particularly enjoyed our cycling trips. Kathy recently shared with me what one of our mutual friends wrote of these tours we take: “It ends up being so much more than just biking on little roads through incredible scenery racking up the elevation and the miles. It’s the challenge of putting yourself out there day after day, physically, emotionally, and socially with almost complete strangers who end up feeling like best friends.” That's the way we feel about Kathy and others such as Tom, Michelle and Malcolm. We can't wait to see them again this fall.

I started off writing this post about how sports was not a big part of my early life. It continued not to be until relatively recently. In 1999, I started walking, then moved into running most days. I ran two marathons in 2002 (that cured me of ever attempting another one). 

But it was only after I came out that I started going to the gym and only three years ago that I started cycling. I capped that first season with our cycling trip to Corsica. When word got out in the group that it was my first season, people couldn't believe it. They thought I'd been cycling for years. 

Mark helped me to discover something in myself that I never knew I had. He actually told me - with a straight face - that I was/am a natural athlete. No one had ever told me that before (with perhaps good reason). It wasn't until I was in my 50's that I began to perceive of myself differently, that I allowed myself to belief something about myself that I had always been told - by myself and others - was not true. I'm thankful for that opportunity and for all the other opportunities I have had during these past five years to learn that I'm not what other people have told me I am and that I am what other people have long told me I'm not.

Breakfast in Noe Valley

If I had three or four months to spare from responsibilities, commitments and life in Utah, I think I'd move to San Francisco and blog about breakfast restaurants all over the city and the perambulations I made to reach them. I don't have three or four months to spare, but I have spent the last week doing just that, and I've loved it - both the experience and the food.

On Saturday and again on Sunday morning, we walked down to a restaurant called Savor at 24th and Sanchez. We went back because there was so much on the menu we wanted to try after our first visit.

On Saturday, I had the "Baja Scramble," featuring chicken apple sausage, mushrooms, spinach, onions, chipotle peppers with roasted jalapeno, cheddar cheese & salsa fresca. Delicious. (I've had chicken apple sausage in several forms since being here and am definitely going to have to check my gourmet food store (Costco) when we get back home.) Mark and I also shared Savor's French toast "Parisienne" (pictured in the lead photo above), made from raisin walnut cinnamon bread. This became Mark's favorite French toast of the trip, but mine remains the Cinnamon croissant at Chloe's, topped with strawberries and maple syrup, pictured below.

That did not stop me, however, from ordering it again on Sunday morning (to split, of course). To go along with this, I ordered their Rio Grande scramble, comprised of eggs, grilled chicken breast, mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes, spinach and goat cheese. Again, delicious, and a protein extravaganza. Couldn't get to the potatoes.

And then there was the walking part of the experience. Here are some of the photos I took as we wended our way through the streets of Noe Valley:

A poinsettia bush, the first I've ever seen. It was gorgeous.

Yesterday morning, we ate at another place on 24th: Griddle Fresh. It was the lemon ricotta pancakes that caught Mark's eye and lured us in. We shared those, and I had the garden scramble featuring "garlic, tomato, fennel, eggplant, Kalamata olive, basil pesto, grilled asparagus, and Grana Padano sprinkle." I couldn't eat it all, but it was good.

Japanese Tea Gardens: Of Seeing and Seeking

Mark and I took a long loop walk on Saturday through Golden Gate Park, just about from one end to the other. Neither one of us had ever been there before. The most satisfying part of the walk for me was being able to now better picture scenes from one of Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City novels. That is, until we arrived at the Japanese Tea Garden.

My "serious" pose looking over Ocean Beach (which seems somehow like an oxymoron). 

Flora in the park

They don't grow rhododendrons like this back in Utah.

When we entered the Japanese garden, we both felt like we were back in Japan (where we trekked for three weeks on our honeymoon back in September 2013). For me, to walk into a Japanese garden is to be transported into a place that exudes peace and the invitation to contemplate and appreciate beauty that is mindfully created. Almost every square foot exudes meaning - sometimes hidden from unappreciating and/or uncomprehending eyes. 

A sign with a hidden, metaphorical meaning. Stay on the path that leads to enlightenment. Self. Community. World.

I like the imagery of the path. It brings to mind a dirt trail, hard-packed from the passage of many feet, but in the forest and its periphery, removed from the much more heavily-traveled highways. It also brings to mind pilgrims, wanderers and wonderers, who seeking, see, and who seeing, seek. May I always be counted among such numbers.

San Francisco: Out and About

One of the reasons I love coming to San Francisco is because I am able to experience what it feels like to be just another gay man among many. Wherever we have gone in the city, there are other gay men, gay couples, trans people and lesbians (not to mention, I'm sure, bisexuals). Not just in the Castro, but everywhere. That is not something one experiences in Salt Lake City ... although that is changing somewhat.

On this trip, we're staying at a VRBO in Noe Valley. These are some of the views from near our place.

Another reason I like coming to San Francisco: friends and food. I wrote a bit about the food yesterday. We spent Thursday and Friday evenings with a couple we met in January on Little Beach in Maui. One of the highlights of this trip for me will be the memory of watching Mark holding Rob and David's little girl, Kimaya, on his lap as Rob and her (and Mark) "read" books. Both Rob and Kimaya had the lines memorized, and it was like watching a dance of love between the two of them. Precious.

On Friday night, we had dinner with Rob and David and another gay couple - Eric and Doug - who are friends of theirs. That was so much fun. There was an instant rapport among all of us, but especially between Eric and myself, due partly to the fact that we were both Mormon - he coming from a large multi-generation Mormon family (and I an adult convert). Among other things, we exchanged stories of what it was like to be a closeted missionary, which will have to be a subject for another post. Today, we are going to a Giants game with friends - another gay couple and some of their friends; and tomorrow, we are having dinner with a woman we met on our cycling tours. We will have done more socializing in a week than we normally due in several months back home.

We also love coming to San Francisco because, well, it's San Francisco. We've enjoyed - for the most part - doing a lot of walking since being here, averaging about six-seven miles per day. Fortunately, the weather's been wonderful. (We were even able to walk around in T-shirts one day, it was so warm.) We're definitely sore from walking up and down hills, but we've enjoyed ambulations through various neighborhoods, taking in the architecture, the flora and ordinary San Franciscans going about their day.

 View from the top of Dolores Park

A neighborhood garden we walked by on our way to Cole Valley on Wednesday.

The man in the blue sweatshirt told us that the garden had been the creation of the man sitting next to him over the course of a number of years. Their doggie walked over for a pet.

Sunrise from our balcony

The best part about being here, however, is the time that Mark and I have spent together. As he said last night as we had cocktails in our condo, he writing in his journal, me reading:

"Everything about this moment is appropriate."