The mostly positive comments and support concerning Caitlyn Jenner are encouraging. Seniors remember the different reception which greeted non-rich, non-celebrity Christine Jorgensen. The announcement in 1952 that she was now a woman and had been (gasp!) surgically altered stunned us all.
Not the first, but certainly the first one anyone had heard about. There she was in our movie news reels; a charming and attractive woman bravely exposing her personal history, transition and intimate feelings to the world. Oh, the jokes and insults that followed, but she endured them with grace.
All her life she shared her journey through countless interviews and speaking engagements. With poise and determination she presented a great example for the many who would follow in her footsteps. Few did so publicly until recently when Chaz Bono told his story and now Caitlyn who decided six decades of hiding was enough.
Not so long ago people thought they didn’t know any gays or lesbians and thus were unsupportive of their concerns, but once their family members, friends and co-workers came out of the closet, their attitude changed drastically. With all this publicity, I hope the same will occur this time as more people reveal and share their gender issues.
Some feel Caitlyn should have transitioned more privately. I disagree, with the ever-present paparazzi hounding her, it would have been impossible; furthermore, the good results coming from it will be enormous.
A new chapter awaits you, Caitlyn. As they say, “You go, girl. Let it all hang out.” Oops, I mean … oh, hell, you know what I mean.
May I have this dance?
I can’t stand those TV dance competitions in which kids and teams are tormented by heavy verbal abuse from aggressive, demonic teachers followed by the same from their badgering, relentless mothers all mouthing the sentiment, “Because we love them.” I’m aghast. I pray the winners get more than a party at Denny’s. As for the losers, practically catatonic with disgrace and fear of retribution, I hear it is a choice between self-immolation and a nunnery.
In junior high we went to Miss Mason’s School of Dance to learn the waltz, the foxtrot, etc. We lined up on opposite walls and the boys crossed over, bowed to a girl and requested the dance; the girls curtsied (!) and accepted. We watched and imitated Miss Mason and her, one might contend today, light-footed partner, the handsome, immaculately coifed Mr. Dumont with his year-round tan. He obviously didn’t realize how tight his pants fit in the front and back (I did). Couples danced six inches apart or, as the Catholic schools advised, left room for the Holy Ghost. The exception was the daring jitterbug.
When it was a ladies choice, Rhoda Levine would always grab me and proceed to “accidentally” crash into me and grope me. The bruises left on my chest hinted at falsies of granite.
For years now the young have given up holding or touching their partner, but now the rage is for the girl to grind her rear into the boy’s crotch. How does he hide his “excitement” or does he bother?
How I pine for the days when sweeping around the floor for a grand waltz was romantic, fun and oh, so gay. Imagine doing it today holding your same-sex partner. Maybe they will return. Here’s hoping.
