Bodyguard.
The Curtis Stigers version.
Oh,
hell
no.
Listen: you can condescend to me. You can cut me off and treat me like an injured baby bird when I try to start a dialogue with you. But don’t you dare think you have anything to teach me if you don’t know who Elvis Costello is.
I gave the high sign, and Clemson and UVA were headed for the door before my finger could complete a full rotation.
By our second round, the blue drinks started doing their job and our tongues were loosened, to the point where Clemson leaned forward and asked a question I’d waited a lifetime to hear: “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, no. Yeah,” I answered, out of habit. “I’m fine.”
And then I took a deep breath. “No. You know what, guys? I’m not okay. That was bullshit.” My new friends nodded. “We spent three days talking about sensitivity and diversity, when I am right here being diverse and needing some sensitivity and nobody’s letting me say anything. I am about to come out to my fucking family, which is scary, and I would love it if just one person in my fucking life would listen to me.” People started to look over, because I was loud, and I didn’t care. “I cannot be the only person in this world who’s gone through this fucking problem. I do not need to be told how brave I am, I do not need the head at the 45-degree angle.” Clemson and UVA gave a puzzled look, but chose to let me continue releasing steam. “I need what you and you and everyone I know has always had, and has never had to worry about not having, and that’s someone they respect who has been through what they’re going through, who can sit them down and tell them they’re okay, and listen to what they have to say, and
tell them what to fucking do.
I am alone, and I am
furious,
and I am
scared to fucking death,
and I just want someone who isn’t an idiot who’s gone through this to
Tell.
Me.
What.
To.
Do.”
We are now at the part of the story that you are not going to believe, but again: this actually happened.
I sat back in my wrought-iron patio seat, wiped my eyes, and lit a Marlboro Light. “That’s it,” I exhaled. “I just want someone to tell me what to do.”
These words left my mouth, and in the very next second the door opened, and out onto the patio of the Applebee’s across from Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia, walked the Indigo Girls.
The.
Indigo.
Girls.
And not the Indigo Girls and their friends. Not the Indigo Girls and their manager and publicist. Just the Indigo Girls. Just Amy and Emily, taking time out to enjoy some boneless wings with their choice of sauce.
It was as though they had seen some kind of gay distress signal in the Atlanta skies and reported for duty. They sat down at the table next to us. My jaw did not so much drop as unhinge. The Blue Curaçao was really pumping through my bloodstream, so I did not hesitate to turn to my left and start in:
“Um…Amy? Yeah, hi, my name’s Dave and I’m gay just like you and I’m sort of about to come out to my family and see I’m here for this conference and I tried to talk but they do the angle and they don’t know who Elvis Costello is and…”
“You know what,” she stopped me, “I’m Emily.”
“Sorry!” I gritted my teeth and sucked in air. “That happens a lot probably, right?”
“Not really,” said Emily. “But I get you. Been there. Coming out is hard, and it’s something you have to do on your own. You gotta trust yourself.” She patted my knee. “You’re okay. Just trust yourself.” And then she turned to Amy and got down to the business of choosing an Appeteaser, her work having been done.
And I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the best advice I’d ever gotten. I flew home to St. Louis the next day and stood face-to-face with my parents and took a deep breath and immediately waited a couple more weeks and then came out to them. It was awful, and it took some time for things to be okay, but they were, eventually.
The Curtis Stigers version.
Oh,
hell
no.
Listen: you can condescend to me. You can cut me off and treat me like an injured baby bird when I try to start a dialogue with you. But don’t you dare think you have anything to teach me if you don’t know who Elvis Costello is.
I gave the high sign, and Clemson and UVA were headed for the door before my finger could complete a full rotation.
By our second round, the blue drinks started doing their job and our tongues were loosened, to the point where Clemson leaned forward and asked a question I’d waited a lifetime to hear: “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, no. Yeah,” I answered, out of habit. “I’m fine.”
And then I took a deep breath. “No. You know what, guys? I’m not okay. That was bullshit.” My new friends nodded. “We spent three days talking about sensitivity and diversity, when I am right here being diverse and needing some sensitivity and nobody’s letting me say anything. I am about to come out to my fucking family, which is scary, and I would love it if just one person in my fucking life would listen to me.” People started to look over, because I was loud, and I didn’t care. “I cannot be the only person in this world who’s gone through this fucking problem. I do not need to be told how brave I am, I do not need the head at the 45-degree angle.” Clemson and UVA gave a puzzled look, but chose to let me continue releasing steam. “I need what you and you and everyone I know has always had, and has never had to worry about not having, and that’s someone they respect who has been through what they’re going through, who can sit them down and tell them they’re okay, and listen to what they have to say, and
tell them what to fucking do.
I am alone, and I am
furious,
and I am
scared to fucking death,
and I just want someone who isn’t an idiot who’s gone through this to
Tell.
Me.
What.
To.
Do.”
We are now at the part of the story that you are not going to believe, but again: this actually happened.
I sat back in my wrought-iron patio seat, wiped my eyes, and lit a Marlboro Light. “That’s it,” I exhaled. “I just want someone to tell me what to do.”
These words left my mouth, and in the very next second the door opened, and out onto the patio of the Applebee’s across from Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia, walked the Indigo Girls.
The.
Indigo.
Girls.
And not the Indigo Girls and their friends. Not the Indigo Girls and their manager and publicist. Just the Indigo Girls. Just Amy and Emily, taking time out to enjoy some boneless wings with their choice of sauce.
It was as though they had seen some kind of gay distress signal in the Atlanta skies and reported for duty. They sat down at the table next to us. My jaw did not so much drop as unhinge. The Blue Curaçao was really pumping through my bloodstream, so I did not hesitate to turn to my left and start in:
“Um…Amy? Yeah, hi, my name’s Dave and I’m gay just like you and I’m sort of about to come out to my family and see I’m here for this conference and I tried to talk but they do the angle and they don’t know who Elvis Costello is and…”
“You know what,” she stopped me, “I’m Emily.”
“Sorry!” I gritted my teeth and sucked in air. “That happens a lot probably, right?”
“Not really,” said Emily. “But I get you. Been there. Coming out is hard, and it’s something you have to do on your own. You gotta trust yourself.” She patted my knee. “You’re okay. Just trust yourself.” And then she turned to Amy and got down to the business of choosing an Appeteaser, her work having been done.
And I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the best advice I’d ever gotten. I flew home to St. Louis the next day and stood face-to-face with my parents and took a deep breath and immediately waited a couple more weeks and then came out to them. It was awful, and it took some time for things to be okay, but they were, eventually.
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