Normal This
Normal This
— By David Eugene Perry
When I was a boy growing up in Richmond, Virginia, steps away from the Confederate White House, the main shopping thoroughfare downtown was Broad Street. Well, the “right side” of Broad Street meaning where Miller & Rhoades & Thalhimers were: the WHITE side. The other side was where “Colored Folks” shopped — generally.
Officially segregation was over, but in reality not so much. Occasionally a Black patron — usually a well dressed middle aged woman — would venture across. No one would say anything but I knew what people were thinking:
“She’s one of the good ones.” — a Nice Negro: clean, respectful, NORMAL.
Our late friend, Joseph J. O’Donohue IV was a wealthy “queer” in the 1920s and ‘30s.
“That’s what we called ourselves then,” he would opine in his wickedly upper-crust Manhattanese. “Queer.”
This queer child of privilege partied stateside in Harlem and in Berlin Germany to which he sailed for the 1936 Olympics: the so-called Nazi Games. Evidently he had a ball: several. When queried as to if he had ever slept with a Nazi, his reply:
“God yes. LOTS of them.”
According to Josie (who became a dear friend) all the previously shuttered gay and Jewish clubs (for which Berlin was famous) were wide open for the Olympiad. You know: your kinder, gentler Fascism. Some of the clubs featured Jewish singers who had been dubbed “Honorary Aryans” because of their talent. Look it up.
Within two years, Joe had repudiated Hitler’s regime publicly in the press and was working to help Jewish and gay friends escape Hitler’s new “Normal”German Reich. One of his lovers died in the camps.
I was reminded of both these stories today reading about the planned “Normal Gay” event originally planned to take place at Tropicale by the Log Cabin Republicans for April 4.
Good One. Honorary Aryan. Normal Gay. Despicable.
Donald Trump and his twisted troglodyte minions are worse than the schoolyard bullies that called me “fairy Perry” on the playground or burned my wrists with cigarettes during military school hazing. I’ve spoken with some of those boys in years hence, and they have grown, grown out of it, learned and evolved.
The owners of Tropicale and the Log Cabin (sorry, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”) Republicans are all (and I think they’d approve of this descriptor) free, white and 21. They know what they’re doing and they should know better. They’ve drunk the MAGA Koolaid. They make me nauseated. They are nauseous.
My husband and I have transgender friends, family and clients. We certainly didn’t know until the Trumpian Rapture that drag queens were a threat to our nation’s youth or to the cultural calendar at the Kennedy Center.
This attempt to divide the LGBTQ alphabet between “us” and “them” has nothing to do with pronouns and everything to do with power.
I’ve never been a big fan of “cancel culture.” During COVID when the owners of Tropicale played fast and loose with pandemic restrictions I chalked it up to the crazy, frightening time that it was. We’ve been back several times since.
This, is different. The fact that Tropicale has backed down from hosting is beside the point and too little too late. They have shown their faces: both of them.
As my Grandma used to say “the best way to kill a plant isn’t to cut it down. It’s to stop watering it.”
Sadly, for the foreseeable future, Tropicale will not be on our list of watering holes. Too bad, they make a mean martini. Now they have shown the capacity to just be mean. I will not judge nor shun you if you choose to imbibe there. However, I won’t be joining you. We will take Dionne Warwick’s advice and walk on by.
Bye Felicia.