9:36 a.m. - 2007-01-23
And We'll All Come Praise the Infanta!
In the Austin Java Company Coffee Shop in, appropriately enough, Austin, Texas, there is a man who periodically takes out his phone, and flips it open. He looks at it, and a fatuous grin appears on his face. He starts twitching his nose, then shaking his head. His mouth opens into these gasping smiles. Occassionally, little noises escape from him, in tones far higher than appropriate for a grown man. These noises make no sense, and could best be described as burbling. If any of the other patrons looked up from their conversations or laptops, they would no doubt ask the management to remove the obvious psychopath.
It's good that they don't, because I haven't finished my granola pancake yet.
Yes, that man is me. A grown man, in his twenties, looking extremely good in his black ribbed sweater, burbling into a phone. That is because on this phone is a surprisingly well-composed shot of me holding Ellie, the 5 month old daughter of my friends Scotty and Stacy, founders and unofficial leaders (all anarchists are equal, some are just more equal than others) of the Rhizome Collective. I want to start a campaign to have Ellie named Empress Infanta of the Rhizome Collective, but that might not go over huge, although I only mean in to say that this girl has so much love around her that she's going to grow up feeling like royalty.
I am the worst, and I say worst because I am bad about my conduct around babies. It is very hard for me to carry on a normal conversation when there is a baby present, something that should not come as a shock seeing as I am burbling at a picture on my phone. For example, take the meeting of the Rhizome Collective that I went to last night in order to advertise an upcoming "masqueerave" (not my fault) party that I'm working on with my roommate and request the use of the backspace for a mask-making party as a lead up to the event. At the meeting, everyone was relatively serious, going through the agenda quickly, with a minimum of fuss. They were focused, which is somewhat surprising for anarchists. Except for me. Every time Ellie was up and looking around, I was vying for her attention, even though I was far enough across the room that I was probably a blur, matching her looks with open eyed, open mouthed stares, amusing no one except myself.
Then it came time for me to speak. "Hi, I'm Rudy, for those who don't know me. Camp Camp, the queer open-mike performance that happens once a month at Bouldin Creek Coffeehouse, is having a Masquerade--well, a "masqueerave"--on February 3rd, and yes, yes we are, yes we're gonna have a big party, yes, yes weoodaoodaoodayes! Sorry, we're having a masquerade ball, and you will all be receiving invitations, and it is going to be a fundraiser for Camp Camp, which the founders, Kai and Silky, have been paying for so far out of pocket, and also a fundraiser for Las Krudas, that's right, Las Krudas, like Wanda over there, do you see Wanda? Do you see Wanda? Do you want Wanda to give you a big ol' hugannakissannasquadgeabababa, again, sorry. So, we were wondering if we could use the backspace from 4-8pm on Saturday, January 27th, to make masks as were are requesting that all attendees wear masks. We wanted to have some masks for people who don't come in costume, but you're gonna come in costume aren't ya, cause you're wearing a bunny suit right now yes you're just the cutest bunnywunny in the wholewideworldyouyesyesdibudibudibuh, so, is the space available?"
I may have exaggerated for comic effect.
The fact that I love babies, and am good with kids, for the most part, is comforting to me, because for some reason I think that it means I am somehow a good person, which is stupid because a kid would love Adolf Hitler if he was giving out cookies. I know it drives me crazy when a kid doesn't like me. My brother's older daughter, for a long time, was one such child, who wanted NOTHING to do with me. Drove me nuts. It made me paranoid, convinced that someone was deliberately trying to get her to hate me, when it was obvious that she was just the type of kid who hated being away from her mother. I don't think I ever held her without her crying, even once, whereas my sister's daughter fell asleep in my arms, a moment which convinced me that I was already well on my way to being the best dad ever. After my brother's second daughter was born, and she proved as outgoing and eager for contact as her sister was shy and, when it came to being held, possessor of about the same level of tolerance as Stuart on Mad TV ("Do-ooooooont!"), I stopped being paranoid, and the last time my brother came over to the house, the unthinkable happened. Adriana--that's her name, by the way--asked me to play a game with her. Well, it was more that I intruded and she came to not only tolerate my presence, but enjoy it. See, she was playing a game where she would pretend to lift some heavy load, move it from one place to another, and then jump on the thing that she had just move. "What are you crushing?" I asked. "Robots." She was crushing robots. I don't know why. I don't know where she got this from. I wasn't aware that robots needed to be crushed. But they did, and so the next time she jumped on the imaginary robot, I made these crunching metal noises, complete with a couple of sproings to mimic the sound of gears coming loose, and as soon as she discovered that I could do sound effects, I was gold. When she started claiming that certain robots were a specific kind, such as a "cow robot" or a "cat robot," I started varying the noises, throwing in a moo or a meow as need be to her ever-increasing delight, although I confess I have no clue what sound a "leaf robot" would make. Then she attached herself to my leg, and I dragged her around for a while, something she found endlessly amusing, and which proved a good workout for my quads.
I've had much better luck, overall, with my cousins' children, particularly Jilly and Grant, my cousing Larry's kids. I have their picture in my wallet, although I do not burble at them; I just smile and show the photo to random strangers. Jilly and Grant are the two sweetest children I have ever encountered. I have never seen them throw a temper tantrum, which is much more than I can say for--well, let's just say I know a child whom I have nicknamed Angelica, after the girl from Rugrats, and leave it at that. Their parents can be strict sometimes, certainly stricter than my mother was with me, which had us worried for a bit, but the truth is that the parents have demonstrated that strict or lenient don't matter as much as loving, which they are, even if they joke all the time about giving the kids away. It has meant that the kids can take a joke.
I hadn't seen my cousins in a while, but I saw them at Christmas Eve. They showed me Santa being tracked by NORAD, which . . . I don't even know what to say about that, it just floored me, not to mention the fact that it made no sense. Christmas Eve happened at my Aunt Jo's house, which was unfortunate, because it meant that we'd have to deal with my Aunt Jo's cooking. My Aunt Jo is a famously bad cook, and like many bad cooks, she is convinced she is an excellent cook. Her food is not only frequently bad, it also looks horrifying. It looks like we are eating it for the second time, so to speak. This year, she did some strange cream-cheese, egg, and caviar concoction, which I would call a waste of good caviar if she had actually used good caviar. Not that I would know, really, what good caviar taste's like; I just know that a sturgeon should not have had to die to be sandwiched between cream cheese and a hard-boiled egg. There was something involving cheese and onions and pecans and tomatillo salsa which I don't even like thinking about, and as if that weren't enough she ruined a chunk of brie by also smothering THAT in tomatillo salsa. It was deeply tragic, all around. I felt even worse for the kids, and so at some point, I said to them, "Alright, guys, I'm going to sneak out of here and get some slushies and popcorn chicken at Sonic, you in?"
I believe their phrase was "Best Christmas ever."
I am now 27, which is horrifying. I'm much closer to 30 than I am to 20. It will only be a matter of months before I'm closer to 30 than 25. And aside from all the worries about my career, which I have, fear not, I worry about the passage of time in regards to my, if not child bearing, than certainly child rearing years. This was brought into sharp relief last semester. I was the only member of my grad school cohort that was single, which already felt FANTASTIC, and then two of my closest friends got pregnant. At the same time. Now I was not only the only single guy, but, as much as I love children and was eager to be the gay uncle to each of them, I was about to lose two of my best drinking buddies. I mean, I believe the occassional glass of wine while pregnant will not hurt a baby, but we can all agree that tequila slammers are crossing the line.
It made me think about a lot of things that I hadn't really thought about yet, that I didn't want to think about. It made me realize that there were certain things in life I would never go through. I want to have children, but I want to adopt, because I already have enough misgivings about bringing more children into the world in general, much less into a gay family, which I think is just as valid a form of family as any other, but which is one that will face discrimination, ostracism, and ridicule for years to come. I can, however, say that I know I can provide a better home for a child than a foster home or orphanage. Adoption, however, will be a lengthy process. It will be a process that will limit the places that I am going to live. I would happily live in Austin for the rest of my life, but Texas adoption laws have queers behind the 8-ball. I will never know what it's like to just discover one day that a baby is on its way. I was envious of their surprise, even, in some ways, of their trepidation. How wonderful would it be to be more worried about what will happen when the baby comes than whether a baby will come at all?
Then one of my friends miscarried, and I felt like an asshole. It also kicked what was already a slow downward spiral into high gear, and here I am in Austin.
When you're a gay man, having a husband and children on the list of things that you truly want in life is probably not the wisest decision. Gay relationships have it rough enough as it is without those added expectations. It is also something that most guys have to accept will come later in life than most other people, because we like to have our fun. I know I like to have my fun. I also think fun can, in some ways, continue after a baby is born, but I also don't want to leave the baby with the husband and the pool boy while I go blow half of America, which is what I hear a certain rather famous gay father does (his name rhymes with Man Mavage). A husband and children, however, is what I want, even more than I want fun, or at least the kind of fun that involves a quart of Astroglide with a pump dispenser. Some people have told me I want this because of my culture, because I am still indoctrinated in the dogma of heteronormativity. Yeah, probably, but that doesn't really change things for me, nor does it particularly make me want to change myself, at this age. Other people have said that I have to have children, because the kind of people that I would put into the world would make the world a better place. Those are good friends.
So, as soon as I figure out how to get it out of my phone, I am going to put the picture of me and Ellie on my various online profiles, for two reasons. One is in a SHAMELESS attempt to get my friend Theresa to return to Austin: Theresa, look, isn't Ellie so CUUUUUUUUTE!!! The second reason is that I look pretty cute in the picture as well. Ten years ago this October, I saw a guy playing with a baby at a gay burger joint (long story) and within a month I had lost my virginity to him. Who knows who might get inspired if they see me and Ellie, Empress Infanta of the Rhizome Collective. Such star power can never be denied.
