
At 22 I had one night a week of gay. It took place every Sunday at Velvet, a two-story Hartford superclub that opened its doors four sweet evenings a month to central Connecticut’s party fags, disco dykes, and underwriter drag queens. Hours were spent getting ready, listening to the Go soundtrack as I picked out the perfect pair of wide-flaring raver pants and YMLA Lycra top. I just couldn’t wait to get beyond Velvet’s doors, to dance with guys without fear of being on the receiving end of gay panic. It was wonderful, but it wasn’t enough.
That summer of 2000 I didn’t miss a Sunday at Velvet, partly because I knew it was coming to an end -- I was moving to Los Angeles in August. Days after my 23rd birthday, I packed up my Mitsubishi Galant in hopes of finding an accepting home that allowed me a more permanent sense of freedom than Velvet could provide. I thought my chances might be better in California.
I’m now struck with the irony that the place I ran from has loudly declared I’m worthy of equality, while the place I fled to has stated I’m not. Not only did the Connecticut supreme court rule that same-sex marriage is a constitutional right, but the state’s voters rejected a constitutional convention that could have snatched marriage equality away. And a majority of Californians, seen by many as the most liberal and freethinking people in the world, has caved into religious-based hate and fear tactics.
The Knights of Columbus -- the Catholic fraternal organization that helped bankroll Proposition 8 -- call my birth state home. Growing up in Catholic Connecticut, I was more derided for not having a Christmas tree -- I was raised Jewish -- than for not having a girlfriend. The Knights’ homophobia wasn’t explicit in the '90s, maybe because gays were just as covert.
In Connecticut, post-college, I was certainly an oddity. Not a chased-into-the-woods-with-pitchforks-and-torches freak, but a lonely anomaly. As far as I knew, there were no gays filing copy around me at the Hartford Courant newspaper, or marrying ketchup bottles at Denny’s, my other gig. Everyone knew I was gay -- my bosses, my roommate, my parents -- and viewed me as a curious little creature. I traveled in circles that didn’t sling "fag" around, but my friends didn’t go to gay bars or know what The Advocate was.
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