Kellen Kaiser - Queerspawn in Love

Queerspawn in Love

Copyright 2016 by Kellen Kaiser

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Published 2016
Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-020-4
e-ISBN: 978-1-63152-021-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016930021

For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

To my mothers,
especially to Helen,
who insisted I finish this book
while she was still living.

H ome in California for winter break during my sophomore year of college, Id spent the past three semesters at NYU trying to slough off any remaining high school navet through a formula of one-night stands, student poverty, and poor decision making.

My borrowed ID didnt fly in the Bay Area, which meant I was confined to house parties. Luckily, those had become novel again, since they didnt exist in my New York life. I was invited by an acquaintance to a shindig up in the Berkeley Hills at a craftsman house on a tree-lined streetan unassuming home for which the owners had probably paid the equivalent of what someone outside of Northern California would pay for a mansion, thanks to inflated local real estate costs.

Someones parents home, the wood-shingled bungalow spoke ambivalently of wealth. In the driveway, a forest-green, 1970s Volvo shared space with a lightly used Honda Civic sporting a Sierra Club sticker. From the look of the yard, the owners had told the gardeners that they wanted to preserve the natural beauty of the space.

Inside the house there was antique furniture, hardwood floors that creaked, loads of books, well used but pricey appliances in a remodeled kitchen, and ethnic art in each room. It was a house full of pieces that didnt really fit, an unplanned shabby chic in which nothing matched.

Walking in, I recognized almost everyone as a member of my tribe. We were upper-middle-class Jews in thrift-store clothing, overachievers, whod gone to Hebrew school together through high school, despite the overhanging drifts of pot smoke we hung out beneath. What might have served as masks of rebellion else-wherethe weed, the hip-hophere were aped echoes of our parents tastes. We stole from their stashes to get high, and our rap music was our equivalent of the African masks the hosts mother had carefully placed on her walls. Here, if you really wanted to freak your parents out, you voted Republican.

Heading into the living room, I approached a wooden table strewn with handles of cheap liquor where people were milling about. Red plastic cupshow nostalgic and quaint, I thought as I took one. I scanned the room, priming myself for some good gossip.

In one cluster, kids in sweaters were talking about what theyd been up to at college, sharing about life outside of Berkeley. We were, as a group, arriving at an awareness of the bubble, aka the noticeable difference between the Bay Area and the rest of the world.

Its kind of amazing to see how quickly you can give into the prevailing apathy and ethos. I never thought Id shop at Walmart, but three semesters into U of M and Im beat, said one liberal refugee with a hyphenated last name.

I cocked my head toward the conversation on the other side of me.

Isaac and Rachel B. broke up, I heardthat sucks, huh? But I guess being that far away at school and all... they had to drive sooooo far back and forth to see each other, so it kind of makes sense.

The gossip-bearing girl sipped from her drink and tucked her hair behind her ear. A boy in a plaid shirt passed her a blunt, which she passed to the person next to her. I took my place in the circle.

The subject turned to the war gearing up in Iraq and Afghanistan, and unlike in New York, where even hipsters were taking comfort in the flag, here there was a liberal uniformity to the discussion. No one supported going into Iraq, no one believed there were weapons of mass destruction.

I bragged that I had been out protesting the war not three days after 9/11. They printed a photo of me and my roommate wearing big black signs that said, OUR GRIEF IS NOT A CRY FOR WAR in the British Marie Claire, I boasted. You can tell its us, even though the photo was taken from behind, because of our backpacks.

Whoa, you were there, huh? A guy in an As hat whod stayed in state for school looked at me with curiosity. What was that like?

September 11, 2001, is our generations Kennedy assassinationour Where were you when it happened? moment.

Uh... fine, I guess. I shrugged. Weird. We had school off for like a month.

I recounted that back in New York, vigiling had become, for a time, the hip social activity. People gathered spontaneously with candles and pictures in public places and mourned, en masse. The fever-pitched emotion scared me, and I couldnt stand the immediate war mongeringthe calls for revenge and instant security, the promises made to get those who did this.

Here people understood what I was talking about. Here we were all the children of progressive intellectuals. We grew up attending communist party meetings, eating tofu, and boycotting grapes in solidarity with the farm workers. If not quite that radical, our parents were at least university professors. We were the children of those who rode the revolutions wave until it broke on the shores and they set up camp there. It was a comfortable homogeny.

You know we are going to hella hooride Iraq for all their oil. Their janky-ass tanks wont stand a chance, contributed another Jew with a forty-ounce bottle of Olde English malt liquor in hand.

Then, an interruption: Speaking of wars. Did you hear Lior Gold is in town?

Alicia Feldmans mention of that name made my insides light up like a pinball machine.

You dont say?

My mind conjured up Lior Gold, whose leg I used to rub under the table as a distraction from Torah study. Lior Gold, who, during text analysis of the Old Testament and Talmud, our holy books in front of us on the shared table, watched me steal sideways glances at him. Lior Gold, whose response was to raise his eyebrows in a gesture that was part surprise, part mischievous suggestion. Lior Gold, whod skipped a grade and used the extra time to move away and join the Israeli Army.

I heard hes part of an elite combat unit, Alicia continued, her eyes twinkling as she said it.

Not many Berkeley boys joined the army. When Lior did, the synagogue started including his protection in their weekly prayers.

Not that everyone thought Israel was behaving well. In the Bay, the old adage of two Jews, three opinions definitely applied, especially where Israel was involved. Former draft dodgers and pacifists almost came to blows outside shul during debates. With our collective ambivalent pride over Lior being a soldier, was it a case of hate the sin, love the sinner? Im not sure.

Here is what do I know: When Alicia said that Lior was in town, none of this was on my mind. For all my antiwar posturing, the facts remained the same. My uniform fetish had kicked in. And thanks to being raised in the gay community, I knew what that was. All those poor ladies with firemen calendars have no idea. I wonder if they have ever given thought to what their attraction is about, as maybe I should have.