end of seventh grade, however, I somehow wangled the lead in the senior class show, Seventeen, and this gave me access to the group known as the “pseudos”: short for pseudo-intellectual and meant as a put-down, but in fact describing all the creative people at Friends.
The pseudos were considered radical. In some ways they truly were—Michael Hadden spent his weekend evenings at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem, an unthinkably daring diversion for a birthright member of the white bourgeoisie, and one that perhaps corresponds to my own metropolitan jaunts, for gosh knows the Apollo gave Michael Hadden a feeling for the richness of American civilization he could not have got in Locust Valley. I daresay he was one of the last whites to feel comfortable in Harlem before its politicization (or before its innate politicization became militant), and it certainly spunked up the yearbook, amid the drearily facetious Likes and Dislikes everyone else listed, to see his references to Harlem and the Apollo. He genuinely liked black music; that, for him, was an agent of what you could call straight coming out, learning what there is and what else you are.
But most pseudo-activity consisted of theatricals, assorted acts of arrogance (Sylvia Dawkins marched into English class, told Miss Blade she had set so much English homework Sylvia couldn’t do her geometry, and proceeded to do it, as Miss Blade cried out, “ Sylvia Dawkins! Sylvia Dawkins! ), and turning up in bizarre outfits on slave day. More typical of pseudo-style than Mike Hadden was Clodagh Millham, perversely silent with whimsical eyes. On her yearbook page, instead of the usual studio portrait and “personality candid” (a jock staring at the field of war; a pre-deb modeling a prom frock in the kitchen as the staff looks on in a bemused manner), Clodagh had nothing—nothing bearing the legend, “Draw your own pictures of Clodagh Millham here.” Given Friends Academy’s value system, Clodagh’s rejection of yearbook glamour was more shocking than Mike Hadden’s disdain for middle-class scruples. Mike Hadden wasn’t really a pseudo, anyway, for he was on the football team and led the debating club, whereas the true pseudo didn’t join things. Pseudos were nonconformists as a rule, and by the time I reached my seniority in this society and became a pseudo myself, I realized how much Being Different had to do with being gay. Half of it is being marked, being made different. The other half is acting marked, accepting the difference. To be pseudo (straight for “phony”) was to be creative (gay for “vital”). That is: given a drab environment, you either rebel or grow up drab.
Creative is often a euphemism for “neurotic.” But, boys and girls, you can be neurotic without creating anything. And lots of creative people have not been neurotic. (Name three, you say? John Updike, Lilo, and Jack Pumpkinhead of Oz. You say some of those on my list are imaginary? Well, who isn’t?) Anyway, I’d say that creativity is the route to travel, for all its awkward poignancy. It can be rough in childhood, but it gives one an intent sense of mission as an adult; and think of all the salons and brunches it makes available.
So, to the housewife in Sheboygan and others who ask why gay men have this vitality, I would say it’s because we steal from and pay back to the intensity of show biz. We adopt its tart glitter, and then, experimenting, develop our opulence, whimsy, intelligibility.
My records, for instance. A pleasantly unsavory amusement arcade halfway on to Wilkes-Barre called Playland had a recording machine. For fifty cents you could make a 45, and I made plenty. If Bernstein and Hellman could dare Voltaire, should I not tackle The Wizard of Oz, Treasure Island? The sixty-second side duration limited my scope somewhat, but I was ace in short forms, including parodies of television variety shows. One time I took my younger brothers into the booth with me—Mother had
The pseudos were considered radical. In some ways they truly were—Michael Hadden spent his weekend evenings at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem, an unthinkably daring diversion for a birthright member of the white bourgeoisie, and one that perhaps corresponds to my own metropolitan jaunts, for gosh knows the Apollo gave Michael Hadden a feeling for the richness of American civilization he could not have got in Locust Valley. I daresay he was one of the last whites to feel comfortable in Harlem before its politicization (or before its innate politicization became militant), and it certainly spunked up the yearbook, amid the drearily facetious Likes and Dislikes everyone else listed, to see his references to Harlem and the Apollo. He genuinely liked black music; that, for him, was an agent of what you could call straight coming out, learning what there is and what else you are.
But most pseudo-activity consisted of theatricals, assorted acts of arrogance (Sylvia Dawkins marched into English class, told Miss Blade she had set so much English homework Sylvia couldn’t do her geometry, and proceeded to do it, as Miss Blade cried out, “ Sylvia Dawkins! Sylvia Dawkins! ), and turning up in bizarre outfits on slave day. More typical of pseudo-style than Mike Hadden was Clodagh Millham, perversely silent with whimsical eyes. On her yearbook page, instead of the usual studio portrait and “personality candid” (a jock staring at the field of war; a pre-deb modeling a prom frock in the kitchen as the staff looks on in a bemused manner), Clodagh had nothing—nothing bearing the legend, “Draw your own pictures of Clodagh Millham here.” Given Friends Academy’s value system, Clodagh’s rejection of yearbook glamour was more shocking than Mike Hadden’s disdain for middle-class scruples. Mike Hadden wasn’t really a pseudo, anyway, for he was on the football team and led the debating club, whereas the true pseudo didn’t join things. Pseudos were nonconformists as a rule, and by the time I reached my seniority in this society and became a pseudo myself, I realized how much Being Different had to do with being gay. Half of it is being marked, being made different. The other half is acting marked, accepting the difference. To be pseudo (straight for “phony”) was to be creative (gay for “vital”). That is: given a drab environment, you either rebel or grow up drab.
Creative is often a euphemism for “neurotic.” But, boys and girls, you can be neurotic without creating anything. And lots of creative people have not been neurotic. (Name three, you say? John Updike, Lilo, and Jack Pumpkinhead of Oz. You say some of those on my list are imaginary? Well, who isn’t?) Anyway, I’d say that creativity is the route to travel, for all its awkward poignancy. It can be rough in childhood, but it gives one an intent sense of mission as an adult; and think of all the salons and brunches it makes available.
So, to the housewife in Sheboygan and others who ask why gay men have this vitality, I would say it’s because we steal from and pay back to the intensity of show biz. We adopt its tart glitter, and then, experimenting, develop our opulence, whimsy, intelligibility.
My records, for instance. A pleasantly unsavory amusement arcade halfway on to Wilkes-Barre called Playland had a recording machine. For fifty cents you could make a 45, and I made plenty. If Bernstein and Hellman could dare Voltaire, should I not tackle The Wizard of Oz, Treasure Island? The sixty-second side duration limited my scope somewhat, but I was ace in short forms, including parodies of television variety shows. One time I took my younger brothers into the booth with me—Mother had
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