The Lesson of Ralph

When I was a pre-adolescent boy back in 1960-something-never-you-mind-bitch, I attended a somewhat fundamentalist church where one of the youth leaders was young man in his twenties named Ralph.

Ralph was nice-looking, could sing beautifully, was energetic and athletic and had a lovely, equally talented and charismatic wife named Bea. They were a couple beloved by the church. The movers and shakers in the congregation did everything they could to promote their stature --- jobs, responsibilities of trust within the church, friendship.

The church sponsored a summer camp in southeast Ohio every year and Ralph and Bea were key players among the camp counselors. It was considered a treat by the boys to have Ralph as the leader of their cabin and the girls --- of that giggly age that has made "Titanic" and the "Twilight" series so popular --- fantasized about Ralph as their first crush. He was a clean and nice and utterly safe fantasy. (Some of us boys fantasized about him in the same way.)

My older sister, who, I can see now, was as bitter and batshit crazy back then as she is today, did not like Ralph or his wife Bea. Never knew the reason for her animosity toward Bea, other than Bea was charming and popular and my sister was quirky and grumpy, but I do remember Sis saying she thought Ralph was "too nicey-nice." I just assumed that meant Sis was mad that Bea had a man and she didn't.

One day, when I was getting ready for school, I looked at the front page of the local Columbus, Ohio, morning newspaper and saw a short article: "Police Arrest Man for Soliciting in Public Restroom." The article said that a young man had been busted for making some kind of overture to another man --- a vice cop? I don't remember --- in a downtown establishment's men's room. The article named names: The perp was Ralph.

I hadn't a clue what the article was about and asked my parents what it meant. They exchanged a look and one of them asked, "When you were at summer camp. did Ralph ever ... TOUCH you?"

I didn't have a clue what they meant, but since I was never in the cabin that Ralph supervised, I said no. That was all that we discussed.

The rest of the story is pretty obvious: Ralph and Bea divorced, the church shunned him and he may have lost his job. I grew up, reached puberty, started to have "feelings" about other boys but suppressed them because I had learned the Lesson of Ralph: Homosexuality is perverted and must be suppressed. People who have same-sex attraction feelings should be ashamed of themselves and must never, never, never act on them or society will destroy you.

"Welcome to the Sixties," as the song from "Hairspray" goes. It was just as oppressive for gay men and lesbians (and the concepts of bisexuality and transsexualism didn't even occur to most people) as it was in the 1950s and before. Some U.S. states --- New York, for example --- had laws preventing gay people from congregating in bars, boys who didn't like sports or dream of the military were suspect and girls who didn't want a guy to take them to the prom were just hopeless.

(Digression: Nowadays, in most major cities, the arrest of a man in a restroom is seldom front page news, unless you're a dumbass like homophobic U.S. Senator Larry Craig, famed for his "wide stance," or rock star George Michael. In Craig's case, I can understand why he took the risk: When you're so obnoxious and unattractive that no one would have you, it's time to go back to the basics of tapping your toes in a tearoom. In Michael's case, he must just like to take risks; I think he could have just cruised any bar in West Hollywood and got what he wanted.)

Back to the story: I grew up determined to avoid ending up like Ralph. I dated girls, lots of them and even forced myself to have sex with a few of them (in my mind I was fucking young Kurt Russell or that pretty English actor, Leonard Whiting, who played the lead in the 1968 version of "Romeo and Juliet." I married more than once and became a father, sometimes not with the woman I was married to, butched myself up as best I could and felt guilty about enjoying my good singing voice and ability to play the piano and inability to really give a damn about the SuperBowl or the World Series. I watched the Miss America Pageant every year for the ugly dresses, bad hairdos and awful talent segments.

I became a Type A personality at work and liked to control everything that I was involved in. Eventually, around age 40, I had a meltdown and ended up in a psychiatrist's office in Des Moines, Iowa, with the lights down low and my legs tucked in a fetal position in his dark office, saying, in a whispered voice, "I am gay."

And the next thing I thought about was Ralph. No, that was the second thing --- the first thing I thought about was the shrink's crotch, because he was attractive and I wondered if he was gay. However, before I could get a straight (or gay) answer to that issue, he refocused me on my problems in a professional manner.

That was nearly two decades ago and the rest of my life has been centered around trying to identify what I had done wrong and spending the rest of it trying to get it right. With two ex-wives under my belt (which somehow doesn't suggest the image I want to create), I said, when I moved in with a wonderful man in Kentucky in 2006, "I think three's the charm when it comes to marriage. I think what I needed to change was my spouse's gender."

Well, maybe. But in any case, number three didn't work out any better than the first two, so I can honestly say it isn't just about making sure you get the right sexual orientation when you pick a mate.

A few years ago, my friend David, whom I had known since our days in Sunday School and church summer camp and whom I encountered in an online group for gay men married to women, reminisced about Ralph with me and what his arrest in the restroom meant to us. We agreed that it played a big part in us deciding to be closeted and that we didn't want to end up ostracized like Ralph. But, he added, when I wondered out loud what ever happened to Poor Old Ralph, "I heard he eventually ended up with a lifetime partner in Florida."

I hope so. David, who died a couple of years ago, spent his life in the closet with furtive hookups at truck stops and such. As I followed my path of gradually outing myself and becoming partnered, he often said he wished he could do that, but there was too much at stake in his life.

As I type this, single again and wondering what's going to happen when I get the courage to turn the page and start the next chapter in my Book of Life, I'm remembering Ralph and what David said he heard about him. If it's true, then Ralph, who would be in his late sixties now, may see the event that changed his life as a blessing that freed him to find his true self and happiness. I hope so, wherever he is. Because if it worked out OK for him, it could for some of the rest of us, too.