Oops, I Did It Again with My Internalized Homophobia

“Let’s watch a DVD,” she says. “How about The Birdcage?”

Oh shit. Ugh, drag queens. Female impersonators. Why do they always show this side of gay life? This is certainly not helping the cause.

I pull myself together. “Sure, sounds fun,” I lie. “Let’s check it out.”

It’s late 1996. I’m 23 and visiting my new community-theater friend, Aileen. We’ve shared the stage together a few times.

I’m not out. Hell, I’m not even 100 percent sure I’m gay.

Sure, I had that one secret, four-month tryst with our male theater director, but thankfully we’d kept it under wraps. So far he’s been my first and only gay experience, and it’s left a bad taste in my mouth.

Female cast-mates are flirting again, so why limit myself and say I’m gay? Am I? The fling certainly felt dirty-wrong and he was a closeted, manipulative narcissist. I’m also not ready to be associated with these petty, mincing queens in drag, those extreme light-in-the-loafers pansies.

Aileen pops in the DVD. Within three minutes, I’m squirming and uncomfortable, trying to hide my internal monologue.

Ugh, here we go, lip-syncing gays dressed as women, sashaying all over the club, making their catty snipes. Why does Nathan Lane’s character have to be so freaking over the top, screaming like a woman at the top of his lungs? See, I’m not gay, this does not represent me.

Aileen is cracking up at the jokes. I’m feigning a good time.

Sure, there are some laugh-out-loud moments and Robin Williams is giving one of his most restrained performances, but why do they keep making those jibes at Republicans? What’s with all the negative Bob Dole jokes, why these digs at conservatives?

Oh, my tail feathers are ruffled, my panties are in the proverbial twist.

If this is what gay is, I may as well stay closeted, I scream to myself. Why is the extreme what’s always shown for gay? This movie was supposedly made for me, but I’m hating it. Maybe I’ve been kidding myself, maybe I’m not gay after all!

And then Dan Futterman walks onto the screen.

Whoosh!

My eyes are dialed in. Fully focused. The nagging, incessant bickering in my head? Gone. I’m mesmerized and intrigued, and what follows is a full hour and a half where I can’t take my eyes off this cutie.

I take shallow breaths. I take him in.

Heh, if only Aileen had a clue of the 180-degree searching-for-sexuality mental crisis taking place on the love seat next to her.

I know it’s hard to believe, but this was the first time I’d ever “checked out” a guy in a movie. Before, it had been off limits; I’d never gone there. I’d effectively neutered myself while viewing pop culture.

This was different. I’d never been utterly driven to distraction before.

The reality smacked me across the face, punched me in the gut.

Ohhhh, Joe. You’ve just exerted all this angst about not being gay, followed by a full hour and a half mesmerized by this guy on screen — you can’t freakin’ take your eyes off of him. (Sigh) You’re attracted to dudes. You’ve never spent an entire movie sexually turned on by the leading lady. Ever.

Good old internalized self-hatred and homophobia had been in strong supply that evening on Aileen’s couch, combined with the fact I could no longer deny that my go-to — when my guard was down — was absolutely to check out or be interested in the cute-handsome young male.

You’ll be happy to know I no longer take myself so damn seriously.

I can sit and watch The Birdcage and chuckle along, appreciating the performances. I can view The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert without taking it as a projection onto myself, my kind. Drag still isn’t my cup of tea — at all — but its existence doesn’t define or threaten me.

In the mid-90’s though, gay characters in movies were few and far between, and those presented were either caricatures or to be pitied, usually dead by the end of the movie. Will & Grace hadn’t hit the air yet.

Anytime a gay character was presented, he therefore needed to fulfill a bucketload of purpose — he needed to represent all of us, she needed to show why we should be given love and attention. And more importantly, he needed to convince the straight audience that we were “normal,” that we were “just like them,” to aid in their acceptance of us.

Hence, my hatred of the extreme drag characters in The Birdcage.

How is this helping our cause? I’d wonder. They’ll never think we’re like them if they have to watch us parading around as female impersonators, always trying to get attention or a laugh.

Tragically, I came in with the same unfortunate filter when I sat down to watch Brokeback Mountain in the theater. Wow, a beautiful gay love story, gorgeously filmed, a real step forward in Hollywood cinema.

But in my head afterward?

Dammit, this isn’t going to help the cause. They’re both sneaking off and screwing around behind their wives’ backs. Straight people aren’t going to feel for them, straight people aren’t going to root for them if they’re being so deceptive.

Talk about too much sensitivity. Talk about an impossible framing.

And by the way, what “cause?”

Movies are there to tell good stories — not to right every wrong or move the needle. Sure, films have the power to change a viewer’s mind or perspective on a topic, but not when that viewer comes in predisposed and determined to be unmoved.

It was an inappropriate way for me to approach these gay films. I wanted them to solve all our problems, “to get the straights on our side.” That’s quite a tall order, even nowadays.

Again, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve come to appreciate Brokeback for its stellar presentation of men in a certain time and place in history and the lengths they had to go to in order to spend time together, to share their love. It can be such a gorgeous piece of film to experience and be pulled into now that I don’t need it to fulfill some agenda.

Some of the strongest homophobia can come from those of us still closeted, still trying to find our ways out. History is littered with self-loathing homosexuals like J. Edgar Hoover and Roy Cohn, who used their power and status as a weapon to destroy so many in the gay community. Or to deliberately not help them.

I think of the boy in college who shares a beautiful moment with a male lover and then in the harsh light of day turns vengeful and does everything in his power to denigrate gays, to try and hurt them.

The self-hatred is there and it’s real, visible today in so many closeted politicians and clergymen who make it their mission to publicly lobby against anything for the LGBTQ community, all while sneaking off for their naughty little trysts with male escorts, pool boys and the male interns of Washington D.C.

Sometimes the lady doth protest too much.

This lady was protesting too much as he watched The Birdcage in 1996.

He hated that part of himself he couldn’t quite love. He wasn’t ready to face the possible backlash from family and friends. He wanted clear answers on a way out of the closet and didn’t need or want to be associated with anything “too gay.” (Despite doing musical theater non-stop).

Internalized homophobia is strong and dangerous. I feel so fortunate to have finally eliminated mine. It’s so much more peaceful in the mind.

And so much more fun to proclaim my adoration of Dan Futterman (and now others), aloud.

Thanks for reading.