About the author: This is a new column presenting the perspectives of a gay man living homeless in Portland. As such, Pseudo Pink remains anonymous for his own protection. He can be reached through the Street Roots editorial office at streetrootsnews@gmail.com
The closet is dark, uncomfortably warm and very confined. It is the only room that I have. This room surrounds me, defines me and travels with me wherever I go; and it is oh so heavy.
The darkness is blinding and the air is stifling but the light from the outside world is painfully bright and I am drawn to it. Pouring into my darkness with a savage and alluring cruelty, the light promises love, companionship and peace and yet I dare not venture into the light for fear of being destroyed like a vampire or turned to stone like an ogre.
Those who would support me and love me and help me to find my way out instead reject me off hand, my pleas falling on deaf ears and faces filled with disdain, being homeless is just not fashionable enough. Then there are those who, if I did make it out, would destroy me: beat me, rape me, and kill me. Their taunts becoming the lesser of two evils, and sadly less painful than the rejection of my peers.
I am homeless and yet not without a closet. John Lennon and Paul McCartney sang about a nowhere man and more and more I feel like the embodiment of that nowhere man. I sit between worlds and dream of things that are not to be because it seems nobody wants to know a nowhere man. I feel like a double negative in that I have two strikes and no teammates who are willing to back me up: Homeless and gay and very very lonesome. Homeless and gay, a sad and dangerous combination. I read through the Rose City Resource looking for any kind of help but again I strike out. I don’t have HIV/AIDS, I’m no longer a “young” person, nor do I have an abusive spouse or partner.
I am not completely alone in my struggle with gay homelessness I know that. I speak to other homeless gay men, quietly, always looking over my shoulder; and I see the one openly gay couple that I am aware of, and others too. I am fairly certain that they see me too, however we know how this story goes. Between the junkies, tweakers, and homophobes, our jailers, we are kept hemmed in with their occasional acts of violence and their constant barrage of verbal assaults: faggot, queer, cocksucker.
“I don’t mind faggots as long as they stay away from me!” Their repeated refrain, the chorus of this particular Greek tragedy.
And then there are the gay guys outside the bars. These are the ones that would reject me without batting so much as an eyelash. Except, that is, for the ones who do eye me, assuming I’m just another homeless trick. This is frustrating and demoralizing because I had heard wonderful things about Portland and its residents. My rugby teammates all said that the GLBTQ community here was more open-minded and easier going than just about anywhere else in the country — God knows the straight people are — and less focused on the material aspects of life and love. However, I have found out that, if anything, they are just as false and closed off than I had originally thought. The majority that I have seen are just as frustrating as those I left in my home town.
How disappointing this is. I am not saying that the GLBTQ community here as a whole is like this, just the ones who are seen on a daily basis, much like any other city.
On any day as I sell Street Roots to my loyal and very appreciated customers, I see a handful of handsome young guys, constantly taking note of other homeless people who might catch me and expose me.
I am not truly angry with any one person or group of people, or even with my situation. Instead, I simply feel a dull, aching frustration which gnaws away at me slowly making my soul and heart weary, sapping my limited emotional strength and threatening to leave my heart mercifully numb; the sad part is that the soothing numbness never comes.
