The Last First Generation

On turning 43...

Arizona, 1999

I was always told I’d never make it to 40. 

Sex education, bullies and movies said I’d die of AIDS or loneliness. There were no sitcoms about older Gay men (a “special episode” if I was lucky). My script was written: I’d be cast as “angsty, closeted teen” then “addicted, suicidal hustler” then “sexless, funny, fashionable sidekick (no older than 35),” “white picket husband” or “creepy, flaming villain.” Then I vanished. 

Why would I argue or expect more? So many heroes died by 40. My addiction and suicide rates are so much higher than my straight counterparts. My own community’s ageism suspends youth and virility by any needle, pipe, or muscle-ripping regimen necessary. In this cultural eugenics, 40 was the other side of an action movie bridge, broken and perilous.

I am 43 today. My need for sexual validation has simmered (a little bit). The chips on my shoulder are melting off and the scars of gay bashings look kinda cool. I earned rights and built tools unimaginable to my ancestors. What I sacrificed and valued means the next generations will not need to start from scratch. Audiences will no longer forget they’ve seen us. I no longer need to buy or sell scripts about invisible men. In our fatherless culture, my elders call me baby and my children call me Daddy. 

I am the last First Generation.

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The Last First Generation is on page 80 of POST, my debut book of poems.