TM-256: What do you hope for?
What do you hope for?
There was a meme, a little while back, that asked you to post a picture of yourself before age 5. Yesterday, I was sorting through my old Army footlocker and found this, so I thought I’d share:
I don’t remember having that picture taken; I couldn’t have been more than three years old. But my mother told me I squirmed like anything, waiting for the flashbulb. I’ve had a lot more pictures taken of me in the years since, but I’ve never been all that comfortable with them. I much prefer looking at photos of others - or, better yet, sketches and paintings. Still, it’s nice to have this piece of my history.
*private*
I’ve been thinking about my history a lot lately. It’s only natural, I suppose. I’m getting married in a few weeks’ time, and a life step that important is bound to make a man think about those who won’t be able to be a part of it. Like, for instance, my parents.
I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that my parents wouldn’t have lived this long either way. Both of them were born around the turn of the century, and they never could have made it to a wedding in 2008. But I didn’t lose them to old age. My father died when I was six, my mother when I was fourteen. They never saw me grow up. They never saw me as Captain America, or even as an adult. And because of that, I can’t even fathom what they would think of me, as a man, much less of my marriage.
I like to think my mother would have been happy for me. I don’t think she ever fully realized that her own father - my Grandpa Jack - had been as good as married to my Uncle David, who helped raise her. It’s something I didn’t even realize until Wanda’s other world made my subconscious put the pieces together. But my mother certainly saw how they cared about each other, and I think, if I told her how I felt about Tony, she’d find it in her heart to look past the strangeness and see how important this is to me. I know she loved me. I was her “sunshine boy.” I like to think that she’d want me to be happy, however I found that happiness. And if she put all the pieces together - how shy and sensitive I was as a boy, how uncomfortable I was with girls - she might not even have been all that surprised.
And yet, I think she’d have concerns. She’d be worried for me. She’d be worried about me revealing something about myself that would make people hate me just for being who I am. I think that would have been her concern just from knowing I was Captain America, throwing myself into the line of fire daily, but this would have made her even more worried.
And, as much as I hate to say it, I think she would have been worried about Tony, too. She loved my father, but she couldn’t deny that he had… problems with alcohol. He was never abusive, and he was always a hard worker and a good father, but he tended to get himself in trouble, he wasted what little money we had, and, in the end, it was the drink that killed him. Tony hasn’t had a drink in years, but I can’t help thinking that my mother would look at his history and sigh at the thought of her son following the same path she did. I don’t know quite what to make of that connection, but the fact is that I trust Tony, I believe in Tony, and I would never let his history of addiction get in the way of our relationship.
As for my father… I don’t know how he’d react. I’ve only realized in recent years just how little I know about him. I have very strong, clear memories of him, and I do think he had an influence on the man I grew up to be. But I was only a small child when he passed away. I never truly got to know him. I want to believe that he’d be happy for me, too, but then I think about the times he would avoid visiting his father-in-law, or make comments under his breath that I couldn’t fully hear when my grandfather and uncle were the topic of discussion, and I have to consider the idea that he wouldn’t be as accepting as I’d hope for him to be. He carried me on his shoulders at the market and taught me how to write my ABCs and hung up my drawings on the wall of the factory where he worked, but I don’t know if he would have been able to shake my hand before I walk down the aisle to become Tony Stark’s husband.
The thought circulates, much as I try not to let it haunt me. I think of my parents constantly.
And then - even more, now, in the days since the election - I think of someone else who won’t be at my wedding: my childhood best friend, Arnie Roth.
Arnie was a very good person, and a very good friend. He spent half of the 1920s and 30s helping me fend off bullies on the streets of New York. He was quick with a joke and a smile, and he always had my back. When we found each other again, decades later, it was like coming home. We got to catch up on old times, remind each other of our youth, and spend quality time with each other - until he died of cancer just a few years ago. I learned a lot about Arnie, then. I learned about the gambling problem he’d overcome. I learned about the many jobs he’d worked and adventures he’d had. And I also learned that he was gay.
I wish Arnie could have lived long enough to be around when I came to my own realizations. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to, someone who I’d known for that long who could intimately understand what I was going through. And yet, when I’m honest with myself, I know that it wouldn’t have been a case of true commiseration. Arnie, living as he did through almost all of the 20th century, knew oppression that I will never know.
I’m profoundly disappointed by the results of Proposition 8 in California, not to mention the gay marriage bans in Florida and Arizona and the adoption ban in Arkansas. I’m also disappointed - as much as I try to hide it - in the continued existence of the military policy that has made me a civilian for the first time since 1940. If I didn’t believe in this country with such boundless confidence, I’d probably find myself at despairing depths right now. I can’t be in the Army, I can’t get married where I’d hoped - and neither can millions of others. It’s enough to put a damper on even my famous optimism.
But when I think about what Arnie saw, in all the years he lived, I’m humbled. While I slept in an ice floe, Arnie lived through a world where being arrested for loving someone was entirely possible. He lived in a world where being open about who he was wasn’t even an option. A world where no one - and then, a small handful of people who slowly began to grow - was fighting for his rights. He lived in a world of fear. Marriage and adoption weren’t even fathomable hopes.
When we elected Barack Obama on Tuesday to the office of President, I was filled with a swell of pride. Much as I respect John McCain, particularly for his military heroism, a victory from him would not have matched the stunning excitement we all felt at seeing one of the biggest remaining racial walls in this country come crashing down. And yet, I know this was not my victory. It is a victory for America as a nation, certainly, but even more importantly it is a victory for every person in this country who has been a victim of the racism that still pervades our society. It is something that I have never experienced, and probably will never experience, and I can’t pretend I have any claim on the feeling.
In some ways, I feel the same about what’s going on now, with gay rights. Yes, in this case, I am encountering prejudice firsthand - for the first time in my life. But at the same time, I know I have not seen the worst of it. And when I hope for a better future - when I hope for a world where marriage is free and equal for all, where anyone with love in their heart can adopt a child, where employment discrimination is illegal in all 50 states - I’m not hoping for myself. I’m hoping for Arnie Roth, and for all the others who were victimized by, and fought against, the oppressions of the past.
We’ve come a long way, and we’ve still got a long way to go. But I do have hope, and I know I’ll keep fighting.
I’m not even sure what I’m talking about anymore. My thoughts are swimming and spinning, and these aren’t even half of them.
But no matter what, I’m going to get married. Very, very soon, I’m going to dedicate my life to another person. And despite all the setbacks and worries and disappointments I’ve experienced, that’s the joy that will sustain me.
There was a meme, a little while back, that asked you to post a picture of yourself before age 5. Yesterday, I was sorting through my old Army footlocker and found this, so I thought I’d share:
I don’t remember having that picture taken; I couldn’t have been more than three years old. But my mother told me I squirmed like anything, waiting for the flashbulb. I’ve had a lot more pictures taken of me in the years since, but I’ve never been all that comfortable with them. I much prefer looking at photos of others - or, better yet, sketches and paintings. Still, it’s nice to have this piece of my history.
*private*
I’ve been thinking about my history a lot lately. It’s only natural, I suppose. I’m getting married in a few weeks’ time, and a life step that important is bound to make a man think about those who won’t be able to be a part of it. Like, for instance, my parents.
I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that my parents wouldn’t have lived this long either way. Both of them were born around the turn of the century, and they never could have made it to a wedding in 2008. But I didn’t lose them to old age. My father died when I was six, my mother when I was fourteen. They never saw me grow up. They never saw me as Captain America, or even as an adult. And because of that, I can’t even fathom what they would think of me, as a man, much less of my marriage.
I like to think my mother would have been happy for me. I don’t think she ever fully realized that her own father - my Grandpa Jack - had been as good as married to my Uncle David, who helped raise her. It’s something I didn’t even realize until Wanda’s other world made my subconscious put the pieces together. But my mother certainly saw how they cared about each other, and I think, if I told her how I felt about Tony, she’d find it in her heart to look past the strangeness and see how important this is to me. I know she loved me. I was her “sunshine boy.” I like to think that she’d want me to be happy, however I found that happiness. And if she put all the pieces together - how shy and sensitive I was as a boy, how uncomfortable I was with girls - she might not even have been all that surprised.
And yet, I think she’d have concerns. She’d be worried for me. She’d be worried about me revealing something about myself that would make people hate me just for being who I am. I think that would have been her concern just from knowing I was Captain America, throwing myself into the line of fire daily, but this would have made her even more worried.
And, as much as I hate to say it, I think she would have been worried about Tony, too. She loved my father, but she couldn’t deny that he had… problems with alcohol. He was never abusive, and he was always a hard worker and a good father, but he tended to get himself in trouble, he wasted what little money we had, and, in the end, it was the drink that killed him. Tony hasn’t had a drink in years, but I can’t help thinking that my mother would look at his history and sigh at the thought of her son following the same path she did. I don’t know quite what to make of that connection, but the fact is that I trust Tony, I believe in Tony, and I would never let his history of addiction get in the way of our relationship.
As for my father… I don’t know how he’d react. I’ve only realized in recent years just how little I know about him. I have very strong, clear memories of him, and I do think he had an influence on the man I grew up to be. But I was only a small child when he passed away. I never truly got to know him. I want to believe that he’d be happy for me, too, but then I think about the times he would avoid visiting his father-in-law, or make comments under his breath that I couldn’t fully hear when my grandfather and uncle were the topic of discussion, and I have to consider the idea that he wouldn’t be as accepting as I’d hope for him to be. He carried me on his shoulders at the market and taught me how to write my ABCs and hung up my drawings on the wall of the factory where he worked, but I don’t know if he would have been able to shake my hand before I walk down the aisle to become Tony Stark’s husband.
The thought circulates, much as I try not to let it haunt me. I think of my parents constantly.
And then - even more, now, in the days since the election - I think of someone else who won’t be at my wedding: my childhood best friend, Arnie Roth.
Arnie was a very good person, and a very good friend. He spent half of the 1920s and 30s helping me fend off bullies on the streets of New York. He was quick with a joke and a smile, and he always had my back. When we found each other again, decades later, it was like coming home. We got to catch up on old times, remind each other of our youth, and spend quality time with each other - until he died of cancer just a few years ago. I learned a lot about Arnie, then. I learned about the gambling problem he’d overcome. I learned about the many jobs he’d worked and adventures he’d had. And I also learned that he was gay.
I wish Arnie could have lived long enough to be around when I came to my own realizations. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to, someone who I’d known for that long who could intimately understand what I was going through. And yet, when I’m honest with myself, I know that it wouldn’t have been a case of true commiseration. Arnie, living as he did through almost all of the 20th century, knew oppression that I will never know.
I’m profoundly disappointed by the results of Proposition 8 in California, not to mention the gay marriage bans in Florida and Arizona and the adoption ban in Arkansas. I’m also disappointed - as much as I try to hide it - in the continued existence of the military policy that has made me a civilian for the first time since 1940. If I didn’t believe in this country with such boundless confidence, I’d probably find myself at despairing depths right now. I can’t be in the Army, I can’t get married where I’d hoped - and neither can millions of others. It’s enough to put a damper on even my famous optimism.
But when I think about what Arnie saw, in all the years he lived, I’m humbled. While I slept in an ice floe, Arnie lived through a world where being arrested for loving someone was entirely possible. He lived in a world where being open about who he was wasn’t even an option. A world where no one - and then, a small handful of people who slowly began to grow - was fighting for his rights. He lived in a world of fear. Marriage and adoption weren’t even fathomable hopes.
When we elected Barack Obama on Tuesday to the office of President, I was filled with a swell of pride. Much as I respect John McCain, particularly for his military heroism, a victory from him would not have matched the stunning excitement we all felt at seeing one of the biggest remaining racial walls in this country come crashing down. And yet, I know this was not my victory. It is a victory for America as a nation, certainly, but even more importantly it is a victory for every person in this country who has been a victim of the racism that still pervades our society. It is something that I have never experienced, and probably will never experience, and I can’t pretend I have any claim on the feeling.
In some ways, I feel the same about what’s going on now, with gay rights. Yes, in this case, I am encountering prejudice firsthand - for the first time in my life. But at the same time, I know I have not seen the worst of it. And when I hope for a better future - when I hope for a world where marriage is free and equal for all, where anyone with love in their heart can adopt a child, where employment discrimination is illegal in all 50 states - I’m not hoping for myself. I’m hoping for Arnie Roth, and for all the others who were victimized by, and fought against, the oppressions of the past.
We’ve come a long way, and we’ve still got a long way to go. But I do have hope, and I know I’ll keep fighting.
I’m not even sure what I’m talking about anymore. My thoughts are swimming and spinning, and these aren’t even half of them.
But no matter what, I’m going to get married. Very, very soon, I’m going to dedicate my life to another person. And despite all the setbacks and worries and disappointments I’ve experienced, that’s the joy that will sustain me.