QUEER WINDOW

THE GAY '90s

by BYRON BECK
bbeck@wweek.com

Last night Byron Beck died. He was 93 years old. He was my grandfather.

That's why I'm racing up Interstate 84 today. I need to be near my family. And, at an hour and a half, the drive between Portland and The Dalles will give me plenty of time to think.

So what's hanging heavy on my heart? No, it's not Grandpa's death. He was very old and very sick. What's knocking around my noggin is the whole name thing.

You see, sometime during my lifetime I'm supposed to name my first-born son after my father, just like he did with his baby boy. It's a legacy thing. But as regular readers of this column might guess, there is one small problem: I'm gay.

I hear what you're saying. And I fully understand it, too. Hey, if I wanted a child so bad, my partner and I could adopt one, or donate to a willing pair
of ovaries.

And, hell, why not? Every lesbian's doin' it. But moi? I already have enough dogs and cats to fill my happy home. Besides, despite what you've seen in progressive-minded insurance commercials, having a baby is easier said than done.

Having the time to follow this thought process to its bittersweet end leads me to one of the harshest realizations of my entire life. Gay life doesn't have a road map--at least not one that's easy for me to navigate.

I've also come to realize, in comparing my grandpa's life to my own, that there really couldn't be two more different people on this planet. He worked hard, wasted nothing and seldom sweated the small stuff. I, on the other hand, work as little as possible, waste everything and spend most of my time worrying about the most trivial bullshit.

Well, maybe I'm not so different. After all, I've survived the gay culture's equivalent of a war (the AIDS crisis) as well as my own Great Depression (the Reagan years). But my grandpa gets to leave behind some pretty cool stuff: a wonderful wife, exceptional children and extra-special (and great) grandchildren. What will I leave behind? A stellar magazine collection, scribbles scrawled across the pages of a few publications and my uncanny knack for growing nose hair.

I'm not trying to belittle my existence. I'm just looking out at the homo-rizon and it scares me.

I don't want to be straight. And I don't want to be my grandfather. But I sure would love to live with the belief that, once I shove off this mortal coil, my life will mean something to someone other than myself.