Coming to grips with being ‘culturally gay’ – San Francisco Chronicle
Reading up on Ireland, I came across the phrase “culturally Catholic.” In Northern Ireland, the Catholics and the Protestants fought for a century, in what Yeats called “a terrible beauty.” It’s the reason why my ancestors, the Toals, left County Armagh. But in 2022, there are more people now who identify as Catholic than Protestant. But not like religious Catholic. Culturally Catholic.
What is culturally Catholic? Caffeine-free Christianity? A Pew Research Center study from September 2015 stated that 1 in 10 Americans consider themselves Catholic but don’t identify Catholicism as their religion. And while 1 out of 5 Americans is Catholic, 1 out of 10 sleep in on Sundays, even though we still like the smells and bells of the ritual. Some of us even remember the Latin. This 9% are not ex-Catholics, but we sure don’t say novenas.
The Paulsons are a microcosm of this dichotomy. Brother XX is a devout atheist who stood outside the church during my sister-in-law’s funeral, whereas even as I write this column, Brother X is visiting the Vatican.
As for me? Brian and I may own seven different nativity scenes, but we genuflect only on rare occasion. And we certainly don’t take the local archbishop seriously. Just like my brothers, though, if a friend’s in trouble, we help.
If showing up is the benchmark, then maybe I am “culturally gay” as well. When I admitted to Uncle Jon that I’d seen only one of the films nominated for best picture last year, he replied, “You’re not even gay anymore.” He was right, practically if not technically. I haven’t been to a gym or a gay bar in decades. I still give to causes, but it’s been 20 years since I protested in the streets.
Where did I go astray? Back in the ’80s I was as gay as it got. In 1982, Amanda and I set up an ironing board on Christopher Street and raised money for the first national AIDS switchboard, and we kept marching all through the ACT UP years.
LGBTQI2 is not a uniform culture. We cannot even agree on the initials. We’re a diaspora of boa feathers and leather. If there is an LGBTQ sensibility, it is this: Tragedy happens, so you might as well enjoy life.
When did I cross the line from actively gay to culturally gay? Anita Bryant got it wrong. The cure for the gay lifestyle is not conversion therapy. The cure for the gay lifestyle is children. We don’t convert them. They convert us.
My husband Brian and I are underachieving parents, but we’re still so busy building Mission Soledad out of cereal boxes that we don’t have time for Neil Patrick Harris’ “Uncoupled.”
Years ago, my son Zane’s kindergarten teacher said, “Now I know the difference between children of straight parents and of gays: Zane is the only 5-year-old who knows all the words to ‘I Will Survive.’”
When we gays choose to parent, we integrate. By the third time the athletic director at St. John school told me I was coaching soccer, I asked, “Did you run out of straight fathers?” But I agreed and went to the coaching clinic on Treasure Island while others of my generation attended “The Little Mermaid” sing-along at the Castro Theatre.
There’s a big difference between practicing parent and practicing gay. Another one of the gay uncles, David, who worked as a teacher for 30 years, said that if he ever had children, he would never let them have screen time. I told him that if it weren’t for Minecraft and Netflix, there wouldn’t be a clean sock in the house.
In assimilating we’ve won something else. Many of my straight friends have become culturally gay. They watch every episode of “RuPaul’s Drag Race.” They might not quote “All About Eve,” but they whistle show tunes as they jog. Within them beats a heart of disco.
How does this relate to the Outer, Outer, Outer, Outer Excelsior? Zane and Aidan are not just culturally straight, they’re really most sincerely straight. And for a long time, I didn’t think they got the Catholic thing either.
Zane stopped attending church when he went away, and hasn’t returned since he came back, but one afternoon last week, he said: “My friend got hurt playing football. Can we light a candle?”
The sun was just setting over the olive trees, and for a moment, it was quiet in the neighborhood. We stood on the porch. On his iPhone, Zane recorded the trembling match as it caught the wick of the St. Jude candle.
This, then, is our culture. In a time of crisis, he may not know where to go, but he sure knows who to go to.
Kevin Fisher-Paulson’s column appears Wednesdays in Datebook. Email: datebook@sfchronicle.com