Love Letters… Mark

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Posted On June 10, 2015 By chromedust And has 35 Comments

And your guitar just sounds so sweet and clear

But your not really here

It’s just the radio

-Leon Russell

Looking back at my youth I ask myself, when exactly did I begin building up walls in a desperate attempt to divide and separate myself into neat and solitary compartments? As a little boy my father told me he knew what I was and that I would never be happy being me. I see how the fact that I loved pretending to be Catwoman, having all my best friends be girls, were all “telltale signs” for my father. But the rigid confinement of masculine stereotypes terrified me. Sensitive and shy, I realized I could never achieve what my Father wanted. What I began to believe society expected. The perfect boy…

In sixth grade, at the zenith of my physical awkwardness, I met my cosmic opposite – a boy who was the epitome of confidence. His name was Mark. We sat next to each other in art class, a place where Mark’s creativity could flourish. He was not a “cool” kid in the traditional sense of the term, but I envied him because he didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought of him. He knew what he liked, what he was, and what he wanted. Being artsy and a little eccentric might have thrown people meeting him for the first time, but I was immediately drawn to him.

Maybe it wasn’t the rough-and-tumble male friendship of a football field or a hunting trip, but it was my first true friendship with a boy. It showed me that I could have a male friend. And it showed me that not all men were jocks or standard-issue Indiana guys – some were artists or just appreciators of art, and were no less ‘male’ for it. Although it would take me far longer to understand all the ways a man can be masculine, my friendship with Mark was a first glimpse into a different kind of maleness. My friendship with Mark helped me see that male friendships weren’t all defined by a slap on the back or a punch in the arm. Men could listen to music together, make art together, simply hang out together, and be physically at ease in each other’s presence.

I spent hours at Mark’s house and he introduced me to so many diverse musical styles. Just as it was for me, Mark’s bedroom was his sanctuary. His stereo and vinyl collection were treated like religious objects. Once the music started, without speaking, we would both nestle side-by-side on his twin bed. Bette Midler’s debut album, The Divine Miss M., was a favorite of Mark’s. The first time the vinyl spun, we would just sing along. But by the time we got to the second or third drop of the needle, we’d lower the volume and talk to each other while we stared at the ceiling. My right shoulder would press up tight against his left in that tiny twin bed. My physical preoccupations subsided during those hours in Mark’s room. I stopped worrying about my own awkwardness long enough to enjoy the emotional connection that I couldn’t have imagined sharing with anyone else. I think of him whenever I hear Bette Midler.

Later, I realized that Mark too longed for easy male friendship, and had his own secret identity, much like mine. In 1983 when I moved to Washington DC in hope of creating a new life for myself, Mark was doing the same in New York City. His dreams became a reality when he began working in the Museum of Natural History doing the dinosaur displays. I can’t help but think of the irony. All the old ways of thinking about masculinity and feeling ashamed were the real dinosaurs. I like to think that Mark made that connection too as he worked on those displays. That he was tearing down those walls of shame and embracing something that really mattered – authenticity.

I remember Mark as someone sensitive, but strong. He was never unkind; he loved animals, and had beautiful hands that could create something incredible from any art medium. Mark became fearlessly authentic before I could grasp what that meant. I realize now that Mark was brave, and that bravery wasn’t something men like my father had exclusive claim to. Courage is something that lives in all of us, and we find it in our own ways. I’m proud that he was my friend, and I miss him still.

I promised Mark’s mother I would never forget him. And how could I? He was and will forever be unforgettable.

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