Martin and me on our wedding day - May 31st, 2014, Paris, France
“Wham-o!” Chris cried out.
Walking with a big grin on his face he surprised me as he sauntered into my bar, unexpected and unannounced. My dad had begun the surprise moments earlier. I was in the process of preparing everything after opening promptly at 3:00 in the afternoon that March day. From my perch behind the zinc countertop, I can see out onto the narrow rue Quincampoix through a series of mirrors, and all of a sudden I saw someone who looked remarkably like my father back in Houston come into the still empty bar.
In fact it was my dad, and within seconds are eyes were wet with tears of joy, since this completely out of character spontaneous event punctured our usual reserved mid-western, Protestant personalities. It was his birthday present to himself he explained after I yelped “what in the world are you doing here?!”
Recently retired and wanting to perhaps to do something on his yet undisclosed bucket list, he and I locked in a strong hug. I could feel my heart and chest heave as I tried my hardest not to cry.
Then behind me, I heard it.
“Wham-o!”
My brother and his wife, Rhonda, were the other half of this wonderful twist to an otherwise normal weekday. I was still a bit in shock when photos were taken, and my normal camera “red eye” was even more noticeably in effect.
This moment of tenderness, between father and two sons, was a relatively new phenomenon. We Jones’ just weren’t people that showed a lot of tearful emotion between each other. Dad had the reputation as a serious sort of character amongst our friends when Chris and I were growing up back in Iowa. We would warn our friends before they came over to not touch my dad’s car. To not make a mess. To not trample the grass or the chipped bark lining the bushes. In other words, to not have too much fun. All it would take was a look from my dad, a bit of a cross between disappointment and anger, for my heart to ball up into a rock and for whatever fun I was having with Todd Daly to come to a screeching halt.
To say that we grew up in a religious home does not really do justice to the term. It wasn’t until much later that I learned that our particular Christian sect was known as the Plymouth Brethren. We fancied ourselves as non-denominational (“we’re just Christians!” we thought), but in the larger secular world we were like the Baptists (believed in full immersion baptism), but more serious. If you can believe it. No dancing, smoking, swearing, drinking, gambling… all of the usual vices were standard fare as to what were sinful and not to be allowed.
We went to church Sunday mornings (of course), for both the Lord’s Supper (as Communion was called), as well as for Sunday School. Afterwards, we’d go out for Sunday lunch with our grandparents, usually either Long John Silver’s (if my Grandma Jones was choosing), or Bishop’s Cafeteria at the Duck Creek Mall (everyone else’s first choice). Then after naps in the afternoon back home, we’d go back to church (or, “chapel”, as they called it, since the “Church” was the body of Christ, all Christians, and not a building) for the evening service. This was a bit more informal, and the kids could all sit together in the back pews. Todd Daly, Tim Iverson, and me. Chris with his friend Brian Clark. Trying desperately not to giggle. But we were kids. And giggling happens. And then that stern look from my dad.
Wednesday nights were the weekly prayer meetings at the chapel. Thursday nights were for the kids – un-ironically called “Adventure Time!” And the in between times were spent at home, playing in the neighborhood (street baseball in the cul-de-sac, or touch football in front of our house). But the anchors to our lives were with the chapel. If the ‘70s were a period of soft rock and shag carpeting, for us it was even softer rock, shaggier carpeting, and wholesome television. Nothing too edgy. Certainly nothing that might come into direct conflict with a literal Biblical view of the world.
As for homosexuality, we didn’t really know anything about it. Oh sure, I watched “Hollywood Squares”, and for whatever reason loved Paul Lynde’s acerbic wit. But Chris and I were not allowed to watch “Three’s Company”, and certainly not “Soap.” I was never sure why, but I began to have some suspicions.
In the mid-1970’s Anita Bryant began a national campaign aimed squarely against homosexuals. She was a Christian activist, and apparently there were homosexuals who were teaching in Florida’s public schools. Her movement gained attention, and soon it morphed with the newly emergent religious right and the “I Found It!” bumper stickers, Jerry Falwell, and Moral Majority were in the newspapers and evening news seemingly every night denouncing the radical homosexual agenda and homosexual lifestyle.
I was a clever boy.
The “Village People.” “Soap.” “Three’s Company.” Bad.
Anita Bryant. Moral Marjority. Good.
Common thread? Homosexuality.
Hmmm.
I wasn’t sure what that was all about, but I had a sinking feeling it might be about me, too. I liked other boys, when my friends, they liked girls. Since my entire social and cultural universe existed on a taut axis encircling the chapel, I had never met a homosexual (knowingly), nor really understood what the fuss was about – but I knew it was bad. Really bad. Sinful. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t seem to unwrap it from around me.
Looking back now at my childhood I realize that I over-compensated. To hide this terrible secret, I needed to be the best son – good grades, try really hard to please mom and dad, and hopefully, just maybe, they wouldn’t see this awfulness that I had deep in me. I retreated into my imagination, creating vast alternate histories of the world, with me as the all-loving benevolent ruler of a perfect kingdom, with handsome generals and princes dressed in masculine Edwardian uniforms, stunning architecture, vibrant economies. I lived my afternoons and long winter evenings drawing, writing, reading, and hoping to escape to a place where the world looked more like me. A world of grand boulevards, domed buildings and guards on horseback.
But Chris wanted to play football. They needed just one more person to round out the wiffle-ball game being organized in front of the Ulrich’s house.
Twenty years passed. Chris and I were both living in Los Angeles in various degrees of depression and despair. I was just out of graduate school, having finished my International Finance degree and my internship in Paris was a freshly minted memory. Chris had just graduated from the Savannah College of Art and Design, and had begun working as a graphic designer. We were both in Los Angeles, not far from our parents’ home in Glendale. Or was it Irvine. They seemed to move every two years or so. Dad had risen the ranks of his career and was now the president of a small manufacturing company. He was a serious success. We were miserable, however. The economy was difficult. We didn’t really know anybody in Los Angeles. And we hated our jobs. The future looked bleak.
I rarely wanted to spend time with my parents and Chris. What life I had living on my own in Los Angeles, I wanted to do it on my own terms – my own gay terms. My parents apparently were worried about me. I seemed resentful. I wasn’t much fun to be around. All I could think about was going to West Hollywood and being around “my kind.”
Finally, one night, Chris suggested we meet for drinks and a movie. We were both Howard Stern fans at the time, and his movie had just come out. Chris was working in Venice Beach at a graphic design company that was putting out monthly music magazines. He drove a BMW Z3. He was cool. I was driving a BMW 318i that was always a crap shoot whether it was going to start up. I lived in The Valley. My job was stressful. I said “sure, let’s meet up on 3rd Street in Santa Monica.”
We met up for drinks and soon the conversation drifted to me and my unhappiness. Reflexively, defensively, I said “No, I’m not unhappy!”
“You’re using drugs! I’m certain of it!” he said.
I laughed.
“No, I’m definitely not using drugs!”
“Well, what is it? You’ve definitely not been yourself since you got back from Paris.”
I sat there. This was it. The moment I’d been dreading. I took a long sip of my red wine and sighed.
“I’m gay, Chris.”
I didn’t want to look at him, but I sneaked a look.
He was grinning.
“Let’s get another round… we’re going to need it!”
And then he hugged me.
The rest was a blur of emotion as the years of protective façade crumbled away in front of my brother. He asked a lot of questions, and I didn’t hold back in answering. For the first time since we were kids I was honest with him. I wasn’t hiding in my bedroom designing my secret kingdom, or avoiding answering my phone while at The Abbey in West Hollywood. I was having a real conversation with my brother.
Slouched over my white birch desk, drawing a Versailles inspired palace for my imaginary kingdom, in our split level house back on Harrison Street, I never could have dreamed that someday Chris would be one of my witnesses as I married the man of my dreams. Now he stood there, in his new suit and tie, raising his glass of French Rose…
“For those of you who don't me - my name is Chris - and Buck has spent the better part of his life being my brother except for those first 3 years and that small bout of amnesia.
I'm not much of a public speaker or one to make speeches and upon reflection have much regret about not joining toastmasters back in 93.
I'm here today graciously to thank all of you for coming here to help celebrate and honor the union of Buck and Martin.
Growing up with Buck was not an easy matter. Being the younger brother (at least for this story) I was always in his business and wanting his time and camaraderie and attention. We had most of our bonding time in front of the TV and quoting funny movies - But we had different interests and Buck was infinitely smarter and more focused on his endeavors than the business of brothering. I think we only came to a point of liking each other once we hit our 20s and were both living in LA.
A few years later when I had moved to Texas to get married Buck and Martin
came to visit. I knew right then, like I know now, that Martin was great for my brother. I'm still trying to figure out how my brother is good for Martin but I've got time to work on that one. And I knew then, like I know now that we could never imagine not having Martin in our lives because he is family.
Last night Buck asked my wife if she would have had to wait 12 years to marry me would she have. We both have the same answer. A sad and unfortunate, "No". Just dating with no anchor of marriage or without the hope offered in that ultimate commitment would have been our demise. In the end for us, the commitment offered through the bond of marriage is what gives us our strength and is the foundation that our love for each other is rooted to and grows from. It also allows love to move from a feeling to an ability - and I think Buck and Martin know that kind of love from their many years together and from enduring a business marriage already with Imprevu.
As I close I offer up a toast that is biblical in nature but reliable in its intrinsic Truth:
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
May your love for each other always trust, hope, and persevere.”