BABY BOOM: Timing Is Everything
Academic publishing is notoriously slow. So it is that in my mid 30s I find myself confronted with the publication of a book that I wrote in my 20s. When the advance copy arrives in the mail, I rip open the package with both nervousness and, oddly, detachment. The youthfulness of the book mocks me. I can almost hear it whispering to me: "Are you ready to come back to Neverland with me? What's wrong?" "Oh, can't you see?" I ask. "I've grown up since you've been gone. I'm ever so much more than 20."
I am both relieved and saddened by my words. I look more closely at the cover. On it is a photograph of me, late 20s, dressed in drag in front of a gay male cruising strip in Moscow. The photograph winks at me. "No one's going to catch me and make me into a man" it says with a mischievous grin. "No," I answer, "you're about to become a woman." The young body shudders at the thought. It is still so slim. There are no signs of the breasts and hips and stretchmarks and children about to come. I turn away to see such youthful optimism shattered.
The person on the cover, that is, I, really did live in Neverland when I wrote the book. I had very few responsibilities. Oh sure, there was the occassional lost boy or girl to take care of, but basically I was free to go and do as I wished. And so I did. I flew between Moscow and New York, lived here and there, smoked, drank way too much vodka, and knew that nothing could hurt me. Being invincible, I often found myself in lifethreatening situations. Once in Moscow a few friends and I were held at gunpoint for being openly queer. Our captors reminded us that going to the police would be useless since homosexuality was illegal and besides who cared about a couple of perverts. As the night wore on, our captors became increasingly intoxicated. That's when I remembered that I was young and invincible. I walked away. Just like that. Daring the men with the guns to shoot me in the back, knowing that they could not kill me anymore than Captain Hook could kill Peter Pan.
My shield of protection extended to my New York life as well. I spent evenings exploring everything but love. My adventures often put me on a subway at 3 a.m. I remember the man in the nicely tailored suit, reading The Wall Street Journal, looking up and deciding that it was time to set me on fire. Then there was the gang shooting, the stabbing, and the murder by defenestration (if that's the correct term for throwing someone off a subway car).
But I'm no longer invincible. My shield disintegrated with my first child. I am cautious and careful. I am married and a homeowner. I never smoke, drink, or jay walk. Peter, I drive a minivan! I've grown up and I've grown up to be middleaged. And so the book, that record of my 20s, arrives to mock me, to make me feel old and boring and all soft around the edges. But I'm not really sorry that my 20s are over. Being invincible has its costs. The world only came in two shades, black and white. There was very little time for other people since work always came first. I was so light and thin that I could barely keep my feet on the ground. I often had the feeling that I was about to float away. And, being invincible, I never allowed myself to be vulnerable. Now the world comes in all different colors and is filled with people more important than me. The responsibilities of middleage weigh me down and force me to walk more slowly.
I'm not sorry I grew up. I feel happier and more rooted than I ever did in Neverland. But sometimes I wish Peter could come back for me, just for a little while. I wish I could be young and brave and invincible again. I'd smoke and drink and dance and fall in love every hour or two. Then the next morning I'd fly back in the window and take my place in the nursery, no longer the child, but the parent.
And when my Wendy wakes up and asks me why I look so tired, I'd smile and tell her that I've been in Neverland, but now I'm back.
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