A Weekend in Gay Jerusalem
I am a born-again gay. That’s what I
consider myself, though I rarely declare so
publicly. I grew up in a Pentecostal church.
I started experimenting with boys in junior
high and high school (experimentation be
came standard practice). Right after gradua
tion, I attended bible college, but got expelled
- (shocking). Following my short theological
stint, I came out to family; my friends (those
not lacking in powers of perception) knew
sooner. The caveat: my tiny bible college was
in Northern California, a short jaunt inland
from San Francisco. A closeted gay kid
journeys to a city near San Francisco to “get
straight.” Sweet irony.
-
My classmates and I often ventured into
San Francisco. Our college leaders preached
about the city’s sin and depravity, about lasciv
ious homosexuals freely roaming the Castro
(who were always recruiting). In my guarded,
closeted queer mind, I allowed brief fantasies
about joining. In large, insulated groups, we’d
saunter past gays on Castro, balking at their
openness, laughing at their flamboyance. I’d
crave contact, but stifle it, hoping rejection
would lead to reprogramming.
To celebrate my last birthday, my friends
and I spent a long weekend there. I’ve visited
San Francisco countless times since bible
college; I feel renewed every time. I’ve gone
with friends, boyfriends—even family. This
trip, however, felt different. As I arrived at the
LADY
ABOUT
TOWN
by D a n ie l B o rg e n
As new and old friends
merged. I considered the
strange ways life strives for
balance: life remains intent
on forcing you to tackle
/our demons.
airport and headed into the city, I wondered
why so many old memories surfaced. Why
were my ghosts of closet-case past still so
intent on haunting me?
We stayed with a dear friend—and Port
land native—in North Beach. Once settled,
we set out to conquer the city, basking in
the waning sunlight on Embarcadero before
exploring bars on Folsom and in the Castro.
I recalled similar treks during college, not
ing how wholly different life was. I noticed
countless (yes, countless) amazing men, but
romance and sex didn’t register on my ra
dar—a startling first. Instead, I pondered
my dramatic paradigm shift. What might
the old me think of the new one? How eas
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ily could I have become a George Rekers or ing peace with the past that still sometimes
Ted Haggard? No matter the extent of my shames me. I don’t have everything figured
deprogramming, no matter how fervently I out—absolutely not. But I do treasure brief,
dismantle indoctrination, I fear the lifelong fleeting epiphanies. My souvenir: realizing
that reconciliation comes when we bare all,
quandary—did it work?
Our second night there, an old friend everything, even if we fear the worst. The
from bible college—we’ve remained close, people still standing around you afterward?
he also made the great escape—met us in the Keep those.
One souvenir I didn’t bring back: a torrid,
city. After dinner, he and his wife joined us
for a big gay night out. Folsom first, Castro brief love affair. When in New York last fall,
second. I worried if they’d be comfortable at men swooned when I mentioned Portland—I
queer bars. Yes, I’m out, but they’d never seen felt like a celebrity. In SF, many recoiled,
me and my friends in full-fledged gay action. acting as if I ordered them to go face down
Here lam , I thought. All this time, I'm still ter in Betty W hite’s dusty muffin. One friend
emphatically observed throughout the trip,
rified to mix past with present.
Together, we traversed the gay scene. We “No one’s talking to me!” “No one likes me!”
started at a club night we dubbed “Night of Despite my weekend-long obsession with
a Thousand Bears.” Driving down Folsom, we chasing ghosts, I noticed, too. San Francisco
witnessed an inconspicuous, live sex act on a is decidedly California. They own the sun
Honda Accord. Horrifying, yes—of course no and have a monopoly on aesthetics. The trip
one actually wants (or hopes) to watch that. certainly inspired me to want to renew my
Still, I marveled. I imagined my younger self gym membership. But, for all of its forgivable
haranguing, with my friend from bible college, shortcomings, that city will remain my first,
about the sin. Oh, the sin! Yet here we were true, complicated love.
this time, circling back around again, laugh
And like most firsts, it helped make me
ing, mesmerized for very different reasons.
who I am, decidedly un-Rekers. The anti-
As new and old friends merged, I consid Haggard. Completely Lady. J W
ered the strange ways life strives for balance;
life remains intent on forcing you to tackle
Daniel wishes Pentecostals would stop leav
your demons. While young, I sprinted away ing church literature on his doorstep and his car.
from the gay, intent on escape. And there I Reach him at danielborgen@gmail.com—unless
was, essentially back where I started, mak you're sending church literature.
01 Im m ié n m i • tai («nafcag in i
Josh Gibbs
The Broadway Plaza »2121 SW Broadway, Suite 130
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John McVea
Member: Oregon Bar, OTLA, OCDLA, MBA
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