What Made Sandy a #10

When I was an undergraduate at Augustana College (1978-82), boy-girl dating was pushed even more dramatically than in high school.

It was no longer a way of achieving prestige; it was serious business.  Men needed wives for career success, to escort to office parties and demonstrate their "family man" stability.  Women needed husbands to finance their club activities and to give them children. And we had to seal the deal before graduation.

So every conversation with peers, parents, and professors involved "what girl are you interested in?", and every Tuesday night brought a flurry of phone calls as boys asked girls for weekend dates, with the subtext: "I want to evaluate you as a potential wife."

I had figured "it" out just after my high school graduation, and had a live-in boyfriend during my sophomore year, but, still, I was in no way excused.  I heard a constant "What girl do you like?", and every Tuesday night, "What girl will you call?"

I didn't want to date any girl, but I really had no choice.  You did not come out to anyone in small-town Illinois in the 1980s, ever.

Unfortunately, girls were evaluated solely on their physical attractiveness.  I knew a few basic rules: fat or short hair should elicit "Ugh!  Gross!", and slim with long hair "Wow, she's hot!"  Blonde should garner more enthusiasm than other hair colors.    But I simply could not distinguish between, say, the attractiveness of Barbara and Julie on One Day at a Time,  or Sabrina and Kelly on Charlie's Angels.  

Boys at Augustana were evaluated on the basis of their future wealth, power, and prestige.

10:  Fratboys were always "10," taking absolute precedence over everyone else.  It didn't matter what they looked like or whether they had the personality of an ass.  Any girl would drop a long-term boyfriend instantly just for the prospect of getting a coke in the Student Union with a fratboy.

7 to 9: Gold mine majors, like business and computer science, which would lead to mega-buck jobs.

4 to 6: Practical majors, like social work or psychology, which would lead to good, stable jobs. Dateable if no gold mine majors or  fratboys had asked you out for several weeks in a row.

1 to 3: Head case majors, fit only for lunatics who wanted to starve to death, like English and history.  Dateable if no one higher up had asked you out for several months in a row.






You could move up for one or more of: a car, an off-campus apartment, disco skill, a wild--and-crazy personality, an arrest record, a Robert Redford smile, a Sylvester Stallone physique,  an awe-inspiring penis, or if you were Jewish (I don't know why).

But you would move down for one or more of:  a part-time job, an interest in science fiction or fantasy, goody-goody morals, a clock-stopping face, a shy-and-quiet personality, a fat belly, facial hair, glasses, or a "Danish dick" (pipsqueak-sized).

And during your senior year, when you were getting desperate, everyone moved up a level.

I was majoring in English (head case) and Modern Languages (practical), I had a part-time job, an interest in science fiction, and goody-goody morals (I didn't drink or use drugs), but also a car, a physique, and a penis.  So I figured that I was a #5.

One day a female friend pointed out a boy who rated #10: Sandy, who I knew from my Renaissance history class.

Wait -- he was a history major (head case), tall and hulking, with black hair, a nondescript face, and a nondescript physique.  A little belly.  Wearing glasses.  He should be down around #1, undatable.  What pushed him up to #10?

She wouldn't tell me.

So I asked Sandy to "hang out" and did some sleuthing.

I had to pick him up at the dorm.

No car.  No apartment.

We got pizza at Alfano's, where getting him to talk was like pulling teeth.

No wild-and-crazy personality.

 Then he insisted that we go to the Cave to "look for girls."  I hated dancing and "looking for girls," but I agreed.

No John Travolta disco moves.

A bad boy with an arrest record?

No.

He got a little tipsy -- ok, a lot tipsy -- which put him around #1 in my book (I hate drunks)!

Our quest "to meet girls" proved fruitless, so he asked me to take him home.  I had to actually help him up to his dorm room!

I hate drunks, but this might prove fruitful.  I might get a blow job out of it, or at least a grope.

I helped Sandy undress and lie down on bed.  When I moved to climb into bed with him, he brushed me away.  But I managed to slide down his underwear and take a peek before leaving.

Enormous!  A fire hose.  A Swedish salami.  Big enough to push him up from #1 to #10.

And Jewish.

The Boyfriend of William the Conquerer

My ancestor was the boyfriend of William the Conqueror

Every schoolkid learns about the Battle of Hastings in 1066, when William, Duke of Normandy, defeated the English and became William I (Guillaume le Conquérant).  It was a pivotal moment in world history.

That's why over 30% of the words in the English language derive from French, often more elegant equivalents to Anglo-Saxon terms:

Ask/Demand
House/Mansion
Kitchen/Cuisine
Cook/Chef

William was born in 1028, the bastard son of Robert I, Duke of Normandy.  When he ascended to the throne in 1035, his youth and illegitimacy caused a great deal of dissent.  Various nobles sought to control the boy by becoming his guardian.  The first three were all murdered, one while in William's bedroom.

Other nobles tried to kill the young William and take over the throne.  On more than one occasion he had to flee the castle at Falaise and hide in the homes of his supporters.

I

In 1046, an army led by Guy of Burgundy stormed Falaise, and 18-year old William had to flee to England, where he stayed with Henry I.

He tried to return secretly in 1047, but shortly after he came ashore at Caen, he was accosted by an armed band, and almost killed.

He was rescued by Ralph (Ranulphus de Praers), the 18-year old son of Baron Hubert de Rie (1005-1086), who took him to his father's castle in Rie (or Rye).  Ralph and his two brothers, Hubert and Adam, then escorted William to Falaise, about 45 miles away.

Ralph remained William's constant companion for the next twenty years, as he consolidated his power and forced the dissenting dukes into exile.

In 1066, King Edward the Confessor of England died without an heir, leading to a power struggle between English, French, and Norwegian claimants.  King Harold defeated his brother Tostig Godwinson and the Norwegian King Harald Hadrada, but was weakened sufficiently to allow William and his allies to storm into England and take over.

Yeah, it wasn't really the "freedom from tyranny!" thing that we prefer in our heroes.

After the Battle of Hastings, Ralph and his brothers received lands in Nottingham, Derby, Norfolk, Suffolk, and Kent constituting about 5% of all Anglo-Saxon England.

Ralph was so loyal to William that he didn't marry until about 1080, when he was 58 years old, quite elderly for the Middle Ages.

His descendants were the De Praers.  About 1450, they started calling themselves Praters.  Thomas Prater moved to Virginia in 1622.  His descendants moved to Maryland, then Kentucky, then Indiana, where I was born in 1960.

My Grandpa Prater was descended from the boyfriend of William the Conqueror.

So, were they actually lovers?

It's impossible to say.  They were lifelong friends.  Harold gave him a ridiculously large share of the conquest.  He didn't marry until he was an old man.  But any more intimate relationship is lost to history.

The Castle Rie or Rye is lost, too, although the town of Ryes, population 500, is still there.  It's only a 15 minute drive from the Musée de la Tapisserie in Bayeux.

And a 30 minute drive from the Sauna Arc en Ciel in Caen.

The Catholic Boy's Bulge at My Niece's Wedding

Kankakee, Illinois, Summer 2008

When I was a kid, the Nazarene church taught us to:

1. Pity "heathens," the Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims who hadn't heard the Gospel.

2. Be suspicious of "liberal so-called Christians," the Methodists, Presbyterians, and Baptists.

3. Run in terror from Roman Catholics.  They drank, went to movies, and worshipped idols. Their Pope was the anti-Christ. They were probably demon-possessed.  We weren't supposed to make friends with them, set foot in one of their churches, or even walk on the sidewalk outside one of their houses, lest we be corrupted.

I left the Nazarene church around my freshman year of college, but my parents, brother, and sister are still active.






Ken is actually more devout than when we were kids.  He's ok with gay people, but he doesn't go to movies or the theater, doesn't shop or work on Sunday, and doesn't go to restaurants or stores with alcohol on sale.

He married in 1981, and had four kids.  Then he divorced his wife and married a woman who had three kids of her own, plus an elderly mother.  Ten people, four dogs, two cats, and a parrot all living together in a big, rambling house downtown.

Most of Ken's kids turned out less devoutly Nazarene than their parents.

The oldest spent time in prison for aggravated assault.

The second sang in a punk rock band.

The fourth got pregnant while still in high school.

But somehow the third, Katie, turned into a ultra-devout "Suzie Nazarene."

In high school, she was president of the NYPS and a delegate to the International Institute.

She enrolled at Olivet, the Nazarene college on the prairie, where girls generally majored in becoming a preacher's wife.

I wasn't out to her, or to any of my nieces and nephews, although some of them figured it out (my brother followed a  "don't ask, don't tell policy."  When I brought Lane or Yuri over for Christmas or a summer holiday, we stayed closeted.

I wasn't really close to them, anyway.  I didn't visit Rock Island much after my parents moved to Indiana in 1995, just an occasional Christmas, where they might or might not be present.  I sent them birthday cards with a check in it every year, but eventually I stopped that as well.

In the spring of 2008, when I was living in Dayton, I got Katie's wedding announcement in the mail.  I almost threw it out.  I usually boycott heterosexual weddings.

Then I saw that it was being held at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Kankakee, Illinois.

Katie was marrying a Roman Catholic boy named Steve!

I had to see this!  How would my Nazarene relatives react?  Would they grit their teeth and go into a Catholic church?  Would they wait outside?  Would they disown Katie and refuse to talk to her again?

I emailed Katie.

"That's one of the things that brought us together," she said.  "Arguing about religion.  We can get into some heated debates, let me tell you!  But we also have a lot in common.  Nazarenes and Catholics both have really strict rules."

"How did you meet?"

"He was the barista in the coffee shop I used to go to.  Af first I tried to save his soul, but then we started talking about the differences between Nazarene and Catholic beliefs.  Of course, he was cute in his uniform, too. "

A Nazarene and a Catholic -- two of the more homophobic denominations.  I wondered how welcome I would be at their wedding.


Time to out myself.

Two nights before the wedding, all of Katie's relatives had dinner at a restaurant in downtown Kankakee, so they could meet Steve.

Steve was in his 30s, tall, husky, bearded -- with a huge bulge in his jeans!

I made a point of hugging him "hello," and sitting next to him to tell stories of West Hollywood, Florida, and New York. Without using the g-word, of course.

"How is Yuri?" Katie asked.  "You haven't brought him around the house since I was a kid."

Now was my chance!  "Oh, he's fine.  He's been with Michael for several years now."

Don't ask, don't tell!  My sister-in-law, Ken's wife, glared at me.  "Boomer has always been liberal, with lots of different kinds of friends."

"Yes...um...it fits in very nicely with my research on gay communities."

Now my mother was glaring at me.  "Oh, Boomer is always doing some kind of research.  That's why he's never had time to get married and raise a family."

"That, and the fact that I can't get married in the State of Ohio.  It's illegal.  But I date a lot, and I've had my share of long-term..."

Don't ask, don't tell!  "Lots of pretty girls out there in Ohio," my brother said.  "Must be hard to stick to any one person."

Enraged, I excused myself and went to the bathroom.  Steve followed, and stood next to me at the urinal. I was too nervous to sneak a peek.

"Don't let it bother you," he said.  "My parents still insist on calling my brother's partner his 'roommate,' and they've been together for ten years.  But he's invited to all of the family functions.  That's something, right?"

I reddened.  No need to out myself -- Steve already knew.  Everyone already knew.  They may not use the g-word, but at least I was invited to all of the family functions.  And so were Lane and Yuri.  That's more than you can say for most fundamentalist relatives.

By the way, no one had a problem with Steve being Catholic.  I guess having a gay relative makes you tolerant.

And no, I never saw him like this.

See also;Yuri and I Teach My Nephew the Gay Facts of Life; Saving the Church Organist.; My Nephew Tries to Turn a Boy Gay