It was the first time I got an apartment in my name. Even though I took over a lease in progress from a co-worker who was moving, it still had my name on it. I was feeling pretty good. $350 a month, all bills paid. I wasn't alone as I had taken up with a 34 year-old guy who managed half the expenses. We had an understanding--with parameters set by me--that I was too young to to be involved in a committed, monogamous relationship so we slept together but we often had additional guests in our bed. His name was Theo. He was the head cook at a cafeteria where I was then working, at the General Motors Assembly Plant in Arlington, Texas.
I wanted so much to be involved in something bigger than myself. I had big dreams. The reality was far from any achievement of big things or big things to come. Fact was--I dropped out of community college over a year before. I had a high school education, was working in a cafeteria and had no prospects regarding further education at the time. I got to know many of the blue-collar workers at this car factory. Even though it was the mid-1980s, this was still Texas...and my oftentimes orange hair and heavy eyeliner opened me to ridicule even though I was constantly telling myself I was new wave, not effeminate. Theo was an imposing black man who was generally working at the same time I was so I felt protected most of the time. Besides, the rednecks found amusements elsewhere so I was harassed very few times when it came right down to it. There was a lot of diversity in the plant, too. Aside from a large percentage of African-American men and women, there were Latinos and a few folks who would have been the 80s version of goths and geeks. There were also socialists. These workers proudly wore "FREE SOUTH AFRICA" t-shirts and buttons supporting unions and strikes. During the Reagan years, they weren't getting much traction but there were a few notable strikes going on. The socialists were never far from the front lines in those instances. They were on them. But...back to my libido...there was one guy who always came through my line named Alex. Alex was a young, swarthy Latino with a shock of jet-black hair and eyelashes for days. His body was taut and the way his FREE SOUTH AFRICA tee clung to it was quite impressive for this skinny punk ringing up his coffee and sandwich purchases. I was happy when Alex struck up brief conversations with me--especially when there was no line and we had a chance to talk. I asked him about his t-shirt and he went into an impressive list of all of the injustices the South African government had imposed on its citizens with the still intact system of apartheid. I could have cared less what he was talking about as I began swimming in those deep brown eyes framed by lashes for days.
Before I knew it, I was attending Socialist get-togethers in Dallas and spending less and less time with Theo. Despite the fact that Alex was, unfortunately, straight, I met lots of other new people. Young people. Older hippie types. I felt like I found a new tribe. They didn't just accept my being gay. They told me they were fighting for me too. The Socialist Workers were fighting for all our rights. And...they had a division just for people my age--under 30 members could become part of the Young Socialist Alliance. It sounded impressive. So I joined up. I joined the cafeteria workers union and started to wear my own FREE SOUTH AFRICA t-shirt. Workers of the world, unite! But...wait. There's more. Belief in God was really old-fashioned, out-of-style. It just wasn't cool to believe--not just in God but in any spirituality. That was the first thing that didn't sit well with me. Plus, there was pressure. They wanted me to start applying for assembly line jobs so that I could infiltrate other places, influence other workers. There was also a strict no drug use policy and I didn't like the idea that I'd have to give up weed or other stuff. But I wanted so much to be a part of something big.
There's no dramatic ending to this story. I finally just got sick of attending all those meetings and feeling pressured to do things I didn't want to do. It wasn't before I became a poster-boy of sorts and was interviewed for the newspaper published by the organization. I realized that I didn't want to be socialist after all. Capitalism was okay. South Africa, Nicaragua and hundreds of other places I had never been to would all be okay. Governments would change and I would change. Still, I have fond memories of that year. I'm still comfortable saying that I tried it. It just wasn't for me.
(Issue of "Young Socialist" which featured an interview on pg.2)
(Wearing my "FREE South Africa" tee shirt. Arlington, Texas. 1986)
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